by TA Moore
Baker snorted and rolled his eyes at him.
The text was from Nadine. It stuttered down the screen in strings of consonants, unbroken by full steps. A frown creased Clayton’s eyebrows as he pieced together familiar abbreviations and what looked like off-the-cuff shorthand.
“Something wrong?” Baker asked.
“Nadine,” Clayton said slowly. He scanned the message again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “She just repeats that she’s back with her husband. It was a mistake to try to divorce him, and that she wants me to stop work on it.”
“Not odd for some parents. We’ve all had clients who fought the bit out over a three-year-old Lexus before they even mentioned custody.”
“No. She loves her son,” Clayton said. “It wasn’t Jimmy hurting her that made her leave, it was that Harry saw it.”
Baker leaned back and crossed his legs. He absently tapped the case of his Kindle against his forearm.
“Maybe she thinks he’s better off without her?” he said.
“Or she’s under duress,” Clayton said. “She was already afraid of Jimmy, but maybe he’s decided she wasn’t afraid enough.”
“Or he just has her phone,” Baker said. “It’s a text message. She might have typed it out on her end, but there’s no fingerprint on ours. It’s also not a formal termination of your services.”
Clayton shot an irritated glance at Baker. “I’m aware of that.”
A registered letter would serve as formal termination. Clayton requested an in-person meeting instead. At least he’d be able to see that Nadine was all right and hopefully judge if she was under duress or not.
He hit Send and swiped through to Kelly’s message. The blunt statement on the screen made him frown.
“Kelly says she’s not with Jimmy,” he said.
“How does he know?”
“No idea.” Clayton stared at the message and then glanced at the time. “I need to get to court. Daniel, I know I’ve maxed out my favors, but could you get Larry to see if she can find any trace of Nadine? Credit card? Phone? Basic movements?”
Baker unfolded himself from the bench, tucked his Kindle into his jacket, and slid one button in.
“That’s five minutes out of my day. I can do it on the way to doggie day care. Well, I can tell Heather to do it for you. Still not a problem.” He slapped his hand on Clayton’s shoulder. “You know, you don’t have to be single to be a successful divorce lawyer.”
The phone went back in Clayton’s pocket, and he gave Baker a wry smile. “Yet somehow we all are,” he said. “Most people, even people like Nadine and Jimmy, get married with the expectation of forever. You and me, we know ten years is unfeasible. Today’s client didn’t even make a full month.” He shrugged and turned to go.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong. God knows, I’ve never made it work, although that could be my terrible taste,” Baker said. “But, ah, I wasn’t the one who brought up marriage.”
No, he hadn’t. Clayton grimaced to himself. That was why he didn’t get involved with people like Kelly—they were contagious. Two nights in Kelly’s bed, and suddenly the idea of dates and… more… didn’t seem so far-fetched.
But it still was.
“Just call Heather,” Clayton said over his shoulder. “And don’t give up the day job. You’re a better lawyer than you are an advice columnist.”
The last thing he heard from Baker was a chuckle.
ALL IT took to turn a quickie divorce ugly was one drunken confession the night before—in this case, an admission that Clayton’s client had hooked up with her wife’s bridesmaid during their wedding in Vegas. Now the bridesmaid had a clean conscience, Clayton’s client had a black eye, and Clayton had a suit full of bleach. Mostly bleach.
He parroted Baker’s advice to himself as he stalked into his office with a grunt for Heather on his way past. It could have been worse. Nobody cried and nobody died.
Clayton peeled off his tie. It had started the day a muted gasoline blue. Now it was blanched gray and yellow white. He stuffed it into the pocket of his suit and shrugged the jacket off, cautious of any still-wet drips. He folded it inside out and laid it over a chair.
The jacket had absorbed most of the mess, but his trousers were smeared with it too. Long stripes and splatters faded down to a muddy gray, and some of it had soaked through his shirt. It had dried on the drive back and glued the fabric to his stomach. Clayton grimaced as he fastidiously peeled it off.
“I’m sorry,” Heather blurted outside suddenly. “You can’t go in there just yet. Just a minute.”
“That’s okay. I can wait,” Kelly said. There was an uncharacteristic thread of tension in his voice. “Just let him know I’m—”
“It’s fine,” Clayton interrupted, his voice raised to carry. “Let him in, Heather.”
His stomach itched where the—he thought it was egg—and bleach had dried on his shin. He rubbed at the irritated patches of red as he turned to the door.
Kelly ducked through and paused as he caught sight of a half-naked Clayton. He cocked his head to the side and bit his lower lip as he gave Clayton a quick once-over. An appreciative smile lit up his face, but it faded quickly back to a serious expression.
It looked odd on Kelly’s face—as though it had a weight to it.
“What happened to you?” Kelly asked.
“A twenty-two-year-old who didn’t sober up in time to realize this was a bad idea to do in court,” he said. “Hazard of the job, although usually it’s paint.”
Kelly rubbed his thumb along his cheekbone. Blood had settled under his eye, and the bruise was a mottled blue and green that spread up onto his eyelid. “Want to swap for the hazards of my job?”
“Your face will heal,” Clayton said. He tossed the shirt over the chair with his jacket. “My suit is never going to be the same. Close the door?”
Kelly nudged it shut until it clicked and then leaned back against it. He shoved his hands into his pockets—at some point he’d gone home and changed into black jeans and a faded-to-gray band shirt—and watched Clayton strip out of his trousers. His eyes tracked a hot path down Clayton’s body from his shoulders to his fitted black boxer briefs.
Eye, Clayton supposed, although it was hard to remember. His spare suit was already hung on the filing cabinet, fresh from the dry cleaners. Heather had even left him a fresh, crisply starched shirt. It was pale pink—not his shade—but she said if she had to buy them, she got to pick the color. He really needed to up her Christmas bonus this year.
“What did you mean earlier,” he asked as he unfolded the shirt. The tension visibly settled back onto Kelly’s shoulders. “You texted that Nadine wasn’t with Jimmy? I agree that things are off, but what makes you think he’s not involved?”
Kelly started to say something, stopped, and then bit his lower lip. The sudden tactile memory of exactly what Kelly’s lip felt like between Clayton’s teeth—the taste and plush curve of it—made Clayton’s mouth go dry. He cleared his throat, pulled his attention out of his pants, and waited for an answer.
“I should have waited,” Kelly said finally, “until I’d talked to Harry, until I made sure that….”
“Made sure of what?”
Kelly grimaced and rubbed at his bruised eye. He pressed the heel of his hand down against the bony orbit hard enough that it had to hurt.
“I… it sounds crazy.”
Clayton pulled up his trousers and left the unfastened waistband slung low over his bony hips. Then he crossed the room to pull Kelly’s hand away from his face. He gave in to the impulse to lean down and kiss him while he was there.
The curve of Kelly’s mouth felt exactly like he remembered it. After a moment’s surprise, Kelly relaxed into it. His muscles loosened, and he twisted his hand to lace his fingers through Clayton’s.
“What was that for?” he asked. A smile still shadowed his mouth when Clayton finally leaned back.
“So far today I’ve lost a client I really be
lieved was going to divorce her abusive husband and had rotten eggs and bleach thrown on me,” Clayton said. “I wanted something to go my way.”
“Kissing me?” Kelly asked skeptically.
It wasn’t the whole truth. Clayton knew his own track record and Kelly’s. Sooner or later Clayton would kick the legs out from under… this, because he might as well get it over with. It would fall apart anyhow—that was the only useful thing his mother had taught him apart from how to make a grilled cheese sandwich—but at least if Clayton killed it himself, it wouldn’t hurt as much. And Kelly would find someone else, someone who wanted to be his Prince Charming. He wouldn’t not look back. “If we had time,” he said as he slid one hand over Kelly’s hip to cup his ass, “it wouldn’t be just a kiss.”
Kelly snorted out a laugh and then grimaced as whatever was on his mind caught up with him again. He braced his hand on Clayton’s shoulder and pushed him back a step.
“You might change your mind about that,” he said. At Clayton’s inquisitive look, Kelly apologetically shrugged one broad shoulder. “I don’t think I’m about to make your day any easier.”
He looked like he meant it, but kissing Kelly had never made Clayton’s life easier. It was just worth the trouble. But it did feel odd have this conversation in his stocking feet.
“Okay.” Clayton pointed to a chair. “Sit down and let me finish getting dressed. Then you can tell me what you found out this morning.”
Kelly slumped in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. He stared at the scuffed toes of his boots as Clayton zipped his pants over the ache in his balls and pulled his shoes back on. Clayton slid his arms into the sleeves of a fresh jacket. It felt like armor—a layer of lawyer between him and the world. Usually he appreciated that. The close stitches and tailored fit were a reminder to everyone, Clayton included, that he was what he’d made himself, not what his childhood had tried to make him.
For the first time it felt like a mask.
So what, he thought sharply as he looped a fresh tie around his collar. It was a mask he needed. Or did he really want Kelly—perfect, happy Kelly with his sunny, lucky life—to know that his mom was in jail, he had a half brother in juvie, and his dad was still a no-show?
Kelly had signed up to fuck a lawyer in control of his life, who knew exactly what he wanted and for how long, not some damaged sad sack who desperately wanted to pretend, just for a while, that this relationship wouldn’t crash and burn.
Clayton tightened the knot precisely between his collarbones and slid behind his desk. He rested his elbows on the blotter and laced his fingers together.
“If Nadine isn’t with Jimmy, where is she?”
“I don’t know,” Kelly said. He didn’t look up as he spoke. His attention was on his bruised knuckles instead of Clayton. “I just know where Jimmy is—probably—and she’s not there.”
“And? Where’s Jimmy.”
Kelly shook his head. “If I’m wrong….”
“Are you?”
Finally Kelly looked up from his hands. “No,” he said slowly. There was a touch of real, unexpected bitterness in his voice as he added, “But that’s never mattered before.”
Clayton clenched his teeth on his frustration. The hairs on the back of his neck were on end with a mixture of worry for Kelly, who seemed more affected by whatever this was than he had been by the beating the other day, and a sharp prick of concern for Nadine that was growing by the minute.
“Just tell me,” he said. “Where’s Jimmy?”
“The hospital,” Kelly answered. He rubbed at his eye again. “That’s not it, though. The problem is who Jimmy is.”
“An informant,” Clayton said. “We know. I talked to Baker about it, and apparently his sources pretty much confirmed it.”
Kelly huffed out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah,” he said. “They were wrong. Jimmy Graham isn’t a police informant. He’s my brother. He is the police. And right now he’s with my mom. No sign of Nadine.”
A dozen different questions occurred to Clayton, each eager to jostle to the front of the crowd on his tongue. What the hell? Which brother? Why are you only telling me this now?
“Then who is Nadine with?” made it over his tongue first, as he stood up from behind the desk. “And why is she lying to me about it?”
The only answer Kelly had for him was a shrug.
Chapter Fourteen
HEATHER TUCKED the phone against her shoulder to muffle the handset as Clayton stalked out of his office. She’d gone au natural today, with a peach fuzz of curls freshly cropped close to her scalp and a simple shirt-and-pants outfit that looked more like a costume than anything else she wore.
There was concern in her voice as she said, “Mr. Baker isn’t in the office,” she said. “He’s in court until this afternoon. I’ve left a message for him to call you as soon as he can.”
“Keep trying,” Clayton told her. “If you get through to him before he calls me, fill him in. I have nothing scheduled for this afternoon, so send my files to my apartment. I’ll work on them tonight.”
Heather nodded her firm agreement and then widened her eyes at him. “It’s like something out of one of Grandmom’s shows,” she whispered. Then she lifted the phone back to her ear. “Yes. Sorry. Could you….”
Clayton left her to wrangle Baker’s service and headed for the elevator. He knew that Kelly was behind him, but he wasn’t quite ready to talk to him yet. His temper was knotted in his chest like a ball of hot wire, and barbs caught in his ribs every time he took a breath. He didn’t trust his temper or cope with it well, and angry as he was at Kelly, he didn’t want to say something cruel—or worse, do something cruel.
Kelly held his peace until they reached the elevator. “You need to talk to Harry first,” he said. “Make sure I’m right.”
“Do you think he hid her under the bed?” Clayton could taste his bad mood in the back of his throat as he snapped. He jabbed his thumb impatiently against the muted-gold call button and tried to choke it down. “I appreciate your loyalty to your brother—”
The words caught in the rough edges of his temper, and he couldn’t spit them out. He didn’t, and he didn’t understand it either. It felt like betrayal. Maybe he didn’t have the right to feel that way—he’d made it clear he didn’t want any promises—but Nadine and Harry deserved better. They trusted Kelly.
“Nadine’s my client,” he said. “My duty is to her, not to LAPD. Her safety isn’t going to be the collateral damage in protecting your brother’s cover. She deserves better than—”
“I didn’t—”
The elevator doors opened. An intern and one of the litigation lawyers—Janet, Clayton thought—stepped apart, blushed, and nodded their way awkwardly through the stiff silence. The elevator stank of cheap cologne, burnt coffee, and bad behavior as Clayton got on and hit the ground-floor button.
Kelly blocked the door with his foot before it could close.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
“He was your brother,” Clayton said scathingly. “You expect me to believe you didn’t recognize him? That he didn’t—at least—touch base with you once he knew I was Nadine’s lawyer?”
The doors bumped against Kelly’s foot for a second time, and he cursed under his breath and finally stepped through them. Free of interference, the doors bumped shut and the elevator purred its way down. Kelly pushed his hand through his hair, and the tug of his fingers left it stuck up in all directions.
“I sent you all the info I pulled up in my background search,” he said. “There were no pictures of him. What descriptions we had could have been for any midthirties asshole. Sure, I knew Byron worked undercover, but not that he had a whole other fucking family.”
The angry crack in his voice sounded real, but the actual words didn’t. Over the door the floors counted down one at a time.
“I’ve met your family,” Clayton said. “The close-knit Kelly boys, your sister-in-law, and then there’s the mo
m who texts you every hour. None of them knew about your brother’s secret life? Really?”
Kelly started to answer, then visibly swallowed the words and tried again.
“I don’t know,” he said. “My dad knew some. My brother Cole might have. He’s the one that Byron usually goes to help clean up the pieces.”
“Could Cole be the one with Nadine?”
“What? No!” Kelly shook his head. “It’s not like that. Cole’s a good guy, a good cop. He wouldn’t break the law. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. It’s just money usually, or sorting stuff out so nothing has to be made official. Just so my mom doesn’t find out.”
“I bet your mom would be thrilled to find out she had a daughter-in-law that used to work in Hooters,” Clayton said. “A grandson she’d never met, who was afraid of his dad. Would Cole want to keep that from her?”
Kelly couldn’t bring himself to answer that question. His silence was answer enough. It lasted until the elevator reached the lobby.
“You think there’s a chance you could be mistaken?” Clayton asked before the doors opened.
“I think Byron’s a very good liar,” Kelly said. “If you don’t have every box ticked, he’ll wriggle out of it somehow. He always does.”
“Fine.”
HARRY SAT on a mismatched chair in the shelter’s kitchen. An untouched chicken sandwich sat on the glass table in front of him, its cheap white bread curled at the corners. Clayton sat next to him and tried to ignore the presence of Kelly behind him in the doorway. They hadn’t talked on the way over. Well, Kelly had tried, but Clayton had shut him down.
He was still angry. He still didn’t trust himself with it.
“I don’t wanna go back to my dad,” Harry said. His hands were curled into white-knuckled fists under the table, pressed down hard against his knees. “He’s mean all the time, not just when he’s drunk or had to work late. All the time. It’s best when he’s away. Mom’s happy then. She doesn’t even miss him. I don’t know why she’d go back.”