Dirty Love (Dirty Girl Duet #2)

by Meghan March

  “I’m very sorry. It was an oversight, and it won’t happen again once your case is transferred. I’m not actually at the firm anymore, so you can see it makes sense that I shouldn’t continue to handle your case. All you need to do is sign this letter, and I’ll get the ball rolling to have another attorney assigned to you.” I pull the letter from the file on the table and a golf pencil.

  Shit. Should I even give him the pencil? They’re permissible, but couldn’t he still stab someone with it?

  Rather than reaching for the pencil, he leans back in his seat and rests his hands near his lap, as close as the shackles will let him get.

  “No.”

  What? He can’t say no. I mean, he obviously can, but that’s not how this is supposed to go.

  “Mr. Cardelli, I don’t think you’re considering this fully. Another much more senior attorney from the firm will be assigned to your case,” I say, crossing my fingers below the table because I honestly have no idea who will be working on the case. But if I know the firm, they should do damage control and not give it to a junior associate again. “This is a good thing. Actually, a great thing for you.”

  His chapped lips form a smirk that stirs up an icky feeling in my stomach. “You want off this case bad and you can’t get off without my say-so.” His words are mocking, almost triumphant.

  “The court may remove me anyway.” I cross my arms when I deliver the bluff.

  “I don’t know about that. But what I do know is that in here,” he jerks his head behind him toward the door, “and on the outside, you don’t get something for nothing.” He leans forward again, resting both forearms on the table. “So you’re gonna do something for me, and then we’ll see about getting you uninvolved.”

  I didn’t come here prepared to bargain with the guy. Actually, I didn’t expect him to put up any kind of resistance when offered a more senior and experienced lawyer. What can he possibly want from me?

  “What are you talking about?” I keep my tone firm and cool. I will not let him know that this has me rattled.

  “The Innocence Project. You’re going to lay out my case and send it to them so I can get out of here.”

  Shit. That’s what he wants. I stare at the man in shackles with dead eyes and a cruel mouth, knowing that there’s no way I can, in good conscience, help him get free.

  But the Innocence Project could take years to deal with his case. They’re absolutely inundated with requests, and besides, whatever this guy was locked up for, he probably did do it, so there would be no grounds for releasing him.

  “You give me an outline of the facts of your case and why you think you’ve been wrongfully convicted, and I’ll put it together in a way that’s logical and organized for you to submit. Right now, right here, and you sign this letter before I leave the room.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. We still have twelve minutes. How is it possible only three minutes have passed?

  “Then you better hurry and start writing, girl, because this is going to take the whole time. If we’re not done when time’s up, I’m not signing anything until you come back to finish the job. Then I’ll sign your shit so you can get off the case and go get your nails done, or whatever fancy broads like you spend your time doing.” He practically spits out those last words.

  I pull out a legal pad and retrieve the pencil from the table. “All right. You’ve got a deal. Let’s go.”

  He looks around the room, as if checking to see who might overhear. The guard is standing eight feet away, his thumbs tucked into the belt of his uniform.

  Finally, Cardelli starts. “Last time you were here, I probably woulda gotten shanked for even opening my mouth about this shit and naming names, but now that the gossip mill says that rat bastard Casso is going down for murder, shit is changing.”

  Everything in me stills when he says the name Casso.

  Once again I find myself standing before my father’s desk, but this time, I’m not here because of something I’ve done. I’m here to find out if my help is needed to get this fucking mess under control.

  “You think they have the balls to bring charges?”

  Dom, still looking every inch the indifferent king in his tall-backed leather chair, raises and lowers his shoulders in a shrug. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”

  “Would the charges stick if they brought them?” The question is one I wouldn’t have dared to ask years ago.

  “Fuck no. Not only because I didn’t kill the bastard, but because nothing ever sticks when they bring it. I’ve been clean for years. There’s nothing tying me to any of that shit.”

  This I believe because, like I told Greer, Dom Casso doesn’t get his hands dirty. I never figured he killed her uncle, but I assume he knows who did.

  “You sure they can’t tie you back to it?” Once again, I’m pushing the boundaries of what’s smart. Dom does not like to be questioned by anyone. And doubted? That’s grounds for a verbal flaying.

  “You think I’m an idiot, boy?”

  His tone and words take me back to being fifteen again for a second, but I’m not that kid. I’m a grown man and here to see if he needs help.

  “I think you’re a lot of things, Dom. And if you don’t need my help, I’ll be on my way.” I turn and head for the door where his two bodyguards are standing.

  “I’m not done talking to you.”

  I pause and turn. “What?” My tone carries my impatience across the room.

  Dom doesn’t miss it, and his voice is ripe with displeasure. “The Karas girl. You didn’t follow my orders. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? She’s not for you.”

  I’ve heard this all before, and hell, I’ve told myself the same thing.

  “Whether she’s for me or not, she’s mine and I won’t give her up.”

  He crosses his arms over his chest, and his lip curls. “And what do you think’s gonna happen if she ever finds out the real reason I kicked your ass out of this town and you ended up on a Greyhound to Hollywood?”

  My hands are nerveless, paralyzed into useless claws, and I’ve forgotten how to write. The pencil tumbles from my fingers as he speaks. But Cardelli is so caught up in his own story, he doesn’t notice the physical toll his words are taking on me. Ice crystals form in my lungs, and my fight for breath turns desperate. As I suck in small but precious gulps of oxygen, he keeps speaking, oblivious to the panic attack crashing into me across the table.

  Get it together, Greer. Before he notices.

  Curling my hands into fists, I stab my nails into my palms, and the sharp pain helps me derail the downward spiral. But not completely.

  Death.

  Murder.

  Unclenching my fists, I stretch my hands out, watching them shake for a moment before grabbing the white barrel of the pencil. It slides from my grip twice before I’m able to scrawl letters on the legal pad in front of me as Stephen Cardelli continues with the story of how Cavanaugh Casso framed him for a murder Cav committed.

  Cav is a murderer.

  The words hammer with unrelenting pressure into my temples as I struggle to keep breathing.

  In.

  Out.

  In.

  Out.

  “Donnigan carried out the hit, and when Casso’s bastard kid Cavanaugh found out, he took out Donnigan and they pinned it on me ’cause I pissed Casso off by slapping around one of the girls at his club. I’ve been rotting in here for three fucking years, keeping my mouth shut so I didn’t get shanked and end up bleeding out in the showers. But now that word on the block is that Casso’s going down, I’m done keeping quiet. I want out, and I know Casso paid off the cops who took me in and planted the piece they used to kill Donnigan in my shit. So tell that to your fuckin’ Innocence Project and get me the hell out of here.”

  My vision blurs when I look down at the notepad before me. I can’t read a single thing I’ve written. Tears, I realize. They’re gathering in my eyes but haven’t fallen. I blink them back. I will no
t cry in front of this man.

  When the guard strides over to the table, interrupting Cardelli’s monologue, I’m limp with relief. I don’t want to hear any more.

  “Time’s up.”

  “I ain’t done.”

  “Too fucking bad.”

  I could protest. This is an attorney-client meeting, but I barely have it together enough to stand, let alone put together a coherent argument for the guard. Not when all I want is to get as far away from this place as fast as humanly possible to tear apart Cardelli’s story in my head.

  It can’t be true. Can it?

  Following the guard, I return to the waiting area on shaky legs. Everything I thought I knew has been shredded into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.

  It can’t be true, my head argues again. Right?

  But Cardelli’s devastating accusations dog my steps, threatening to steal the future I was starting to believe I could have.

  Cav killed someone. In cold blood. Execution style. In an alley.

  Dom’s question follows me all the way home, but Greer isn’t there. Part of me wishes she was so I could tell her everything right now. Get it over with. Come clean. No more secrets.

  A bigger part of me is grateful for the empty apartment because I need time to figure out how.

  I stare at the floor where she sat with that file.

  Of all the fucking cases in the world, how did she end up with that one?

  I could have asked Dom to take care of the problem, but the words wouldn’t come.

  I’m not going to lose her.

  I just hope to hell I’m right.

  I tell the cabbie to take me to Banner’s. I can’t go home. I need to tell someone what I just learned so they can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do. I’m lost. Utterly and completely.

  Can my judgment really be that bad?

  I pay my outrageous cab fare and wave weakly to Banner’s doorman.

  “Ms. Karas. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” The rote greeting comes out automatically, and I hope he can’t tell that I’m anything but fine. He nods to me, and I head to the elevator.

  My mind is going in a million directions when the door opens onto her floor and I stumble out. Banner’s welcome mat reads GO THE FUCK AWAY, but I don’t take it personally. It doesn’t apply to me. Never has.

  I knock on the door, although pound might be more accurate. There’s no answer. No footsteps. Nothing.

  It’s Saturday. She’s gotta be here. I need her to be here.

  I pull out my phone and make the call. “Come on . . . come on . . .”

  From inside the apartment, I hear the unmistakable sounds of the Golden Girls theme song that Banner picked as my ringtone.

  Thank God she’s home.

  “What’s goin’ on, G?” Banner’s voice sounds huskier than normal.

  “Sorry. Did I wake you?”

  “Umm. Yeah. No biggie. What’s going on?”

  “I’m outside your door.”

  “Oh. Shit. Okay. Hold on.” And then she hangs up.

  The dead bolts slide back moments later and Banner opens the door partway. She’s dressed in a man’s white T-shirt and nothing else.

  “Oh. Shit.” I echo her words. “Am I interrupting?”

  Banner shakes her head but doesn’t open the door further. “No. Of course not. You’re never an interruption. What’s up?”

  The deep rumble of a voice coming from behind her means that if my best friend were wearing pants, they’d be liar, liar, pants on fire.

  The voice grows louder and the drawl strikes me as familiar. Banner’s face pales in color, but she’s pretending he’s not inside.

  That can’t be Logan Brantley. It’s not possible.

  Except it is him.

  Banner closes the door a fraction of an inch, but it’s too late. She adopts a casual mien, leaning against the doorjamb like there’s not a shirtless giant of a man standing in her living room, just within my range of vision.

  “What’s happening? You’re awfully dressed up for an unemployed Saturday morning. When did you get back? Did they give a cause of death? What’s happening?” Banner’s questions come at me rapid-fire, but that’s not the unusual part. It’s the bouncing of her leg.

  I don’t know what’s going on here, but whatever it is, my friend doesn’t want me to know yet. And right now, I can live with that.

  “Uh, yesterday. Not yet on the autopsy. I . . . just wanted to see if you were up for grabbing lunch. But we can do it tomorrow or whenever.”

  Banner nods enthusiastically. “Tomorrow’s good. I want all the details. Call me?”

  She’s already pushing the door shut when I agree and turn for the elevator.

  Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe today isn’t real. How can any of this be real?

  Banner’s doorman waves down a cab, and I climb in. Creighton’s address comes out of my mouth instinctively. When in doubt, I run to my big brother.

  Holly opens the door and draws me in for a hug over her huge belly.

  “How you doin’, girl? You okay?”

  I shake my head when Holly pulls back. “No. I—I’m not. Is Crey here?”

  “No, he’s at the office taking care of a few things. I expect him back in a few hours.”

  Hours. I don’t want to wait minutes to tell someone what’s bottled up in my head. I question the wisdom of laying this on a pregnant woman, but Holly’s one of the most grounded people I know.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “Of course. Anything. But if you need to hide a body, we’re gonna have to call your brother. I’m not allowed to lift anything heavy.”

  Choking out a laugh, I follow as she leads me into the living area and pulls me down onto the couch beside her. As soon as we’re seated, she pauses. “Should I have grabbed the moonshine? Because you look awfully serious, Greer.”

  I can’t contain it any longer. I blurt out the words. “Cav might have killed someone.”

  Both of Holly’s dark eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. “Come again?”

  “I think Cav killed someone. And framed someone else for the murder.”

  To her credit, Holly doesn’t freak out. “You’re gonna have to start from the beginning.”

  The story pours out of me. The prisoners’ rights case. Rikers. Dom Casso being taken in for questioning. And then what Stephen Cardelli told me. With every word, I fight to hold back the impending tears.

  Holly must hear it in my voice because she reaches for a box of tissues on the side table and sets them between us. “Well, hell, that’s a lot to take in on decaf coffee.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t know what to believe.” I feel like I’m fighting for every breath.

  Holly lays a hand on my knee. “It’s going to be okay, Greer. If I learned anything over the last year, it’s not to jump to conclusions. If you’re thinking of running, don’t. You need to know the truth first.”

  A vision of that iconic scene in A Few Good Men runs through my head. The one where Jack Nicholson is yelling about Tom Cruise not being able to handle the truth.

  Can I handle the truth? I squeeze my eyes shut and bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to put the possibility out into the universe, but the words come anyway.

  “What if Cardelli is telling the truth?”

  Holly nods, as if lining up what she’s going to say in her own head. “So what if he is? Can you live with it?”

  My stomach revolts, twisting into knots and flipping in a double back handspring. Good to know one part of my body is capable of that.

  Could I live with that?

  “I don’t know. I mean . . . could you?” My voice sounds hoarse and shredded, like I gargled a mouthful of broken glass on the way up here.

  “I’d be surprised if your brother hasn’t killed someone. Maybe even be a little disappointed,” Holly deadpans.

  “Oh my God.” A wave of giggles escapes me. It’s like someone cued the comic relief.


  Holly waits until I’m holding my gut and using the tissues to wipe away the tears of laughter.

  “Seriously, though, you have to be able to answer that question for yourself. If by some chance what that guy said is true, you need to walk into that conversation with Cav knowing what you can and can’t live with. You love him.”

  The last part is a statement rather than a question, but I reply anyway.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think he’s capable of something like this?”

  That one I don’t have an answer to. “I don’t know.”

  “In your heart of hearts, you have to have a sense of him.”

  I lace my fingers together and squeeze. “He’s a good man. I don’t care what Creighton says about him. I know that to my soul.”

  “Then go with your gut on this. Do you think you’d fall in love with a cold-blooded killer?”

  The weight of her question presses me back into the cushions of the leather sectional. Trusting my gut has had varying amounts of success. Okay, that’s a lie, mostly crap results. But with Cav, I don’t have anything else I can trust . . . except my heart.

  “I couldn’t. Could I?”

  Holly doesn’t answer me. At least, not right away. “I guess he’s the only one who can answer that question for you.”

  I reach out and clamp a hand over her knee. A little too hard, so we both jump.

  “Jesus, Greer. What the heck?”

  “Sorry, but I need you to promise that you’re not going to tell Creighton any of this. Not that I was here. Not about Cav. Or Cardelli. Nothing. I don’t want to come between you, but you can’t say anything. Swear to me that you won’t. Because if this is all a load of jailhouse bullshit, Creighton can’t ever know I considered it seriously. I need a sister-in-law oath in blood.”

  Holly draws in a breath and releases it. “If it’s true, he’s going to find out. He always finds out.”

  “I know.” I meet her gaze, more serious than I’ve ever seen it. “But it can’t be true. So he’s never going to find out, right?”