by TA Moore
“Of course,” he said. “You have to be sure.”
Nadine nodded and got gingerly to her feet. The habit of courtesy made Clayton’s muscles twitch to offer her a hand, but like his suit, that just made people here feel uncomfortable sometimes. He waited until she was on her feet and then followed suit.
“Before you go,” he said. She paused and looked at him warily. “Maureen said you asked for me by name. I don’t think we’ve met before, so I wondered how you’d heard of me?”
“From James,” Nadine said. A quick smile twitched over her face when Clayton raised his eyebrows. “Sort of. This guy Davy, someone he worked with, was gloating at a party that he had this shit-hot divorce lawyer and all his wife had was this pro-bono schmuck Reynolds from a shelter. Her name was Mia? Mia Avagyon?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but not enough to pull up a face and a marital history from Clayton’s memory. That didn’t mean anything. Clayton had been a lawyer long enough that only the very rich and the very terrible cases stood out to him without the prompt of a case file. but he nodded as though he remembered Mia.
“James laughed at him, right in the middle of the party. He said that Mia wasn’t just going to get the girls, she’d get Davy’s ball sac too. That you worked for this fancy firm that kept the best private investigators in the state on retainer, and they’d find out if Davy had ever even cursed at a kid before. These days Davy can’t see his children unsupervised anymore. So last night, after I left, I called Mia and she told me to come here. I thought she’d ask questions, but she didn’t.”
It was the first time that an abusive husband had ever referred anyone to Clayton. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but that was hardly Nadine’s fault.
“If you decide to go ahead with this, Nadine,” he said, “I will do my best for you and Harry.”
She nodded and didn’t move, as though her feet were glued to the floor.
“The thing is, I do love him,” Nadine said, her voice hopeless. She glanced around at the room again, at the walls in need of paint and the duct tape patches on the carpet hidden under carefully placed chairs and cheap rugs. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I suppose you hear that all the time.”
Clayton thought about those dark, old-man eyes in a wary kid’s face—not Harry’s, a skinnier face and dirtier, usually, but the eyes were the same.
“Every day of my life,” he said.
“YOU’RE LATE,” Heather, his assistant, chided him as he jogged past her and into his office. Her wig was black today, a severe bob around her peaches-and-cream pretty, round face. “You have a meeting with Mr. Baker in five minutes.”
Clayton snorted and set his briefcase on top of the desk. The oxblood leather of the briefcase was almost exactly the same color as the dark walnut wood it sat on.
“It’s coffee,” he said as he pulled the sweatshirt over his head. “Spare suit?”
She tutted at him and then clicked off to fetch the dry-cleaned Richard Bennett suit he kept in the office. One cup of piss thrown at you as you left court and you learned to be prepared. Clayton toed his sneakers off and then shoved them and the sweatshirt into a drawer.
“Here.” Heather passed the suit bag backward into the office through the door without looking. “And do you know what would happen if I turned around and saw you in your boxers?”
“I would wonder when I started wearing boxers.” Clayton took the bag off her and unzipped it. “Or underwear.”
Heather snorted and closed the door behind her, and Clayton skinned his jeans off down long legs and stepped into the suit pants. The gunmetal-gray fabric and narrow leg struck the careful balance between severe and stylish, although the gray shirt probably veered more to severe.
“Heather, I need you to run a request for a background check down to the PIs.” He shrugged the shirt on and let it hang unbuttoned as he reached to pop his briefcase open. It wasn’t hard to find Nadine’s file mixed in with the Redwelds the firm used for paying clients. “As a favor.”
Heather came back into the office to pluck the file out of his hands. She eyed it unhappily. “Any chance she’s just a ‘down on her luck’ lady who needs help to find her husband and hit him with divorce papers?”
“No.”
“They never are,” she sighed. “All right. I’ll get in touch with Larry and see what they can do.”
She turned to go and nearly walked face-first into Daniel Baker, as the senior partner of Talley, Baker, and Jenks let himself into the office.
“Sir,” she squeaked as she tucked the folder behind her back. “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Baker raised a sandy eyebrow at her. “That’s because the door was closed, Ms. Finnegan.”
With her back to him, Clayton couldn’t see her face, but on past performance, he knew her complexion had gone strawberry. Heather was unflappable 90 percent of the time—an ex-cop and weekend punk, two years part-time education away from a master’s degree—but 10 percent of the time there was Daniel.
That was pretty much how she described her sexuality too—90 percent pretty ladies and 10 percent inexplicable crushes.
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” she squeaked out. “Let me get out of your way.”
She edged around him, back into the main office. Daniel let her get halfway back to her desk, and then he cleared his throat. “Oh, and Ms. Finnegan?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t think I didn’t see that.” He held his hand out and waited. When nothing immediately happened, he sighed. “Ms. Finnegan, hand it over.”
Clayton buttoned his cuffs and sighed. “That’s fine, Heather. I’ll talk to the investigators later.”
The file dropped into Daniel’s hands, and he gave it back to Clayton. “No, you won’t,” he said. “You’ve billed your full quota of pro bono hours this year. If you want to volunteer more, that’s up to you, but no using company resources. Agreed?”
It was hard to argue with the man you owed 40 percent of your career to. Clayton nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I just wanted to chase up background details.”
Daniel sat down and flicked a bit of lint off his immaculately tailored knee. He’d been the one who told Clayton to spend his first paycheck on a good suit. “If you wear a $30 suit, your client will assume that’s what you’ll get them.” Of course he eschewed severe and just went with expensively stylish, from the dachshund-print lining to the cameo cufflinks.
“Make partner when it comes up,” he said. “Then you can do what you want.”
“Maybe I don’t want to.” Clayton caught Heather’s eye—she’d just cooled back down to flustered pink—and mouthed “Tea” at her. He straightened his collar and stepped behind the desk to sit down. “I have enough of a reputation now. I could start my own firm.”
Daniel looked amused but didn’t challenge the assertion. He just laced his fingers together and, as Heather put the order in with the coffee shop downstairs, changed the subject back to business.
“Justin Harris is getting married.”
“Again?”
“Again. I’m already working harder than I care for, so I want you to handle his prenuptial agreement. It’s straightforward. Same as the others.”
At the end of the meeting, one-third of Clayton’s month was blocked off, he’d agreed to a dinner party with Daniel and his latest protégé, and he’d dodged an attempt to set him up with someone Daniel’s ex had dated. He finished his second cup of tea and got up to show Daniel out.
They paused at the door as Daniel picked an imaginary crumb from his tie.
“Of course,” Daniel said. “I can hardly stop you asking someone a favor.”
It took a second for Clayton to realize what Daniel was referring to. The pro bono case had been filed away in his brain for later, and it took a second to unearth it.
“I don’t think Larry Jenkins likes me enough to do me favors.”
Daniel chuckled. “No, she does not,” he said. “However, Kelly
would, and Larry mentioned her partner has finally taken a leave of absence and is driving everyone mad by not actually absenting. So.”
“He’s an idiot,” Clayton protested.
Daniel rolled his eyes. He always seemed to enjoy Kelly, disasters and all. “He’s a romantic.”
“Same thing.” They both knew that. Clayton had just learned it earlier than Daniel.
“He’s at loose ends, is the point,” Daniel said. “Call him or not. It’s up to you.”
Not, then, Clayton thought pettily.
IT WAS seven o’clock in the evening before Clayton’s conscience wore his irritation down.
Kelly—he presumably had another name, but no one would admit to knowing it—was the bane of Clayton’s existence. The fact that he was completely unaware of that and would think it was a joke if he found out only made him more annoying. The man was always in a good mood, believed wholeheartedly in love—despite the fact he was about as good at picking a partner as Clayton’s mother—and genuinely believed that “things can only get better.” He was probably a perfectly fine idiot, but as December bore down on him, everything about Kelly made Clayton feel like the Grinch.
He was also, whatever mess he regularly made out of his personal life, good at his job, otherwise he wouldn’t be the firm’s go-to investigator. Under the circumstances he was Clayton’s best option, but he had taken some time off.
By the time Clayton came to that realization, it was too late to get Kelly’s personal number. All he had was the invitation to a housewarming party that he hadn’t attended earlier in the year. He preferred his socializing drunk, in the dark, and preferably debauched, but he’d accept polite, work-based, and shallow. A midsummer barbecue where the world’s most wholesome man held court with his newest ex-to-be was his idea of hell.
The house was an hour’s drive from the office, out in Santa Monica, where the housewives and children ran free.
Clayton parked his bike behind an old, beat-up Chevy and tugged his helmet off. He didn’t need to check the house numbers. The invitation claimed “you can’t miss it,” and the only house that fit that description was the old sunshine-yellow Victorian-style townhouse. It had a garden and a baseball hoop mounted over the garage.
Across the street, a door creaked open and an old woman peered out suspiciously. She probably kept an eye on Kelly’s place for him, probably made him cookies and tried to set him up with her nephew. Kelly was the sort of man people did that for.
Bile bubbled nicely in Clayton’s stomach as he stalked up to the sky-blue front door and pressed the doorbell. When no one answered, he clenched his jaw and pressed it again. He could hear the bing-bong of it echo through the house, and a cat howled.
Fine. He had a cat instead of a dog. Close enough.
Clayton was just about to press the bell again when Kelly finally jerked the door open. He was bare-chested and half-asleep, with a baby cradled against one broad, tattooed shoulder as it cat-wailed and fussed.
Lust caught in the back of Clayton’s throat and dried his mouth out. But then, that was the thing that irritated Clayton most about Kelly. He wasn’t Clayton’s type—too short, too muscular, too cheerful, and currently too holding a baby—but he was still the hottest fucking man Clayton had ever seen. It was as though he did it on purpose. He wasn’t even that short, just close enough to average to make his self-deprecating short jokes funny instead of self-hating.
“I need a favor,” Clayton said through the sticky hunger on his tongue.
There was a pause as Kelly distractedly bounced the grizzling baby on his shoulder and looked baffled. If Kelly had turned up on Clayton’s doorstep at that time of night, Clayton would have told him to fuck off. So of course Kelly scratched his head, shrugged, and stepped back to wave Clayton into the hall.
“Sure,” he said as he patted the baby’s back. “Come in. Sorry about the mess.”
Asshole.
Chapter Two
INSIDE, KELLY’S house was all bright colors and clutter that covered scuffed-up wooden floors. One wall in the living room was half-painted, and a can of paint and a well-dried brush were left on a square of newspaper to wait for the next burst of enthusiasm.
It was a lived-in house, the sort of house a child could grow up happily in.
Clayton felt a sting of “dog in the manger” bitterness at the thought. He wasn’t father material, but his contrary strain of covetousness resented anyone who had something he didn’t have, want it or not.
“Did you adopt?” he asked stiffly.
“Huh?” Kelly padded back into the room, bare feet half-hidden under the frayed cuffs of his jeans. A sports bottle dangled from his fingers, and the baby was still screeching on his shoulder, its little body tight and pink with misery. “I’d made coffee, but it’s gone cold.”
“That’s fine,” Clayton said. He hadn’t come for hospitality, just for business… sort of. Despite himself, he repeated his question with a nod at the baby. “Did you adopt?”
It was hard to imagine Kelly doing undercover work. Every emotion spread over his face like a flag. Right then he looked confused, and then he glanced down at the baby, and realization flashed over his expression.
“Oh, Maxie?” he said. He patted the back again. “No, he’s my nephew.”
Covetousness couldn’t explain the relief that slipped through Clayton’s gut at that news. So he ignored it and took the sports bottle of vivid green liquid from Kelly.
“So you’re babysitting,” Clayton stated the obvious.
Kelly tilted his head and stared at him for a moment, then visibly shrugged off the banality of the comment. “Yes,” he agreed.
That said, Kelly sat down on the couch and folded one leg up under him. His jeans pulled tautly over his crotch, where the denim was faded down to white along the seam. The baby hiccuped and finally stopped the thin, miserable yowl it had been making. It still fussed miserably to itself as Kelly rubbed his hand over its back in slow petting motions.
Clayton was fairly sure there was something perverse in how distracted he was by that hand.
“You said you need a favor?” Kelly said. He braced his elbow against the back of the couch and propped his head on his fist. His eyes were pale blue, almost gray, and he watched Clayton curiously as he waited for an answer.
“I need a background check run on someone.” Clayton sat down on a battered old leather chair and twisted the top of the sports bottle. He took a drink that tasted like lime and flat water. “Just the basics.”
Kelly raised his eyebrow. A narrow scar bisected the straight bar just at the edge of his brow bone. Clayton had always wondered what caused it but never quite unbent enough to ask.
“Boyfriend?” Kelly asked with a crooked smirk that carved long lines into his cheeks.
Clayton gave him a flat, unamused look. “No.”
This time Kelly raised both eyebrows. “Girlfriend?”
“Fuck off.”
Kelly laughed—a low, rough purr of humor that made Clayton want to lean into it as though it were actual warmth. It was this open happy sound, with no edge or agenda, just amusement and an invitation to join in. Clayton first heard that laugh at the office, and his type or not, he’d planned to have the scruffy, dark-haired man under him if he was even slightly inclined that way.
But Kelly didn’t do casual, and Clayton didn’t do anything else. He still resented the universe for giving a laugh like that to someone he couldn’t have.
“It’s a client’s husband,” he said.
Kelly’s face settled into a curious expression. “Why are you here, then?” he asked. “If it’s work, you don’t need to ask for a favor. Just run it down to Larry and invoice it to the firm. You prefer to work with her anyhow.”
That was true, and under normal circumstances, Clayton would claim that preference with no shame. He had a good working relationship with Larry, who was a to-the-point, sharply suited lesbian who had only a bit more faith in matrimony than Clayton d
id.
“It’s a pro bono job,” he said. “Nothing to do with the firm. I’ll cover your fee personally.”
Kelly studied him thoughtfully over the baby’s crop of wispy brown hair. Finally, he gave a brisk nod and pushed himself up off the couch.
“Right, well, if this is work instead of a booty call, you’ll need to give me a minute.” He shoved his free hand through his hair and scratched the nape of his neck. “And a coffee. Would you….”
He made a move as though he were going to pass the baby to Clayton, and Clayton recoiled as far as the back of the chair would let him and warded the offer off with one hand. “I don’t do babies.”
Cradled in the crook of Kelly’s arm, Maxie squawked and thrashed his tiny red fists in the air as though to say he didn’t do Claytons either.
Kelly sighed. “Fine.”
He hooked a baby… thing… out from under the coffee table with one bare foot and crouched down to put Maxie in it. There were more straps involved than seemed necessary to Clayton. The child couldn’t even hold its own head up yet. Did it really need to be buckled in like a fighter pilot?
Still, it gave Clayton a chance to indulge his curiosity and discreetly study Kelly’s tattoo. It was the first time he’d seen it. The splash of bright colors were usually hidden under T-shirts and sweaters. If he had to guess what sort of tattoo Kelly would have, Clayton would have said something more stereotypically masculine—a dragon or wolf. Instead a stylized parrot draped over the shoulder, and the spray of blue and red feathers fluttered as heavy muscle moved and flexed under his skin.
“Can you at least watch the baby while I go clean up?” Kelly asked as he secured the last strap and sat back on his heels. “Make sure a wild dog doesn’t burst in and carry Maxie off?”
“Why?” Clayton asked as he shifted his attention away from the spread of Kelly’s shoulders. “Do you have many feral, baby-stealing dog packs roaming the neighborhood?”
Kelly gave him a lazy grin. “One would be enough, wouldn’t it?” He gave the baby seat a tap to set it rocking and pushed himself to his feet. “Give me ten minutes.”