Legally Yours (Spitfire Book 1)

by Nicole French

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s well after midnight. It’s not safe.”

  I frowned back at him. “Mr. Sterling—”

  “Brandon!” he interrupted with a groan. “Can you please just call me Brandon!”

  This time he couldn’t keep the note of equal parts desperation and frustration out of his voice. He ran both hands furiously through his hair, back to front, causing pieces to stick up around his ears. Charmingly disarrayed, he looked the farthest thing from some big-wheeling CEO, full of arrogance and bullshit. He looked like a normal guy trying to figure out how to talk to girl he liked, flubbing it every chance he got. It was…charming.

  “Okay. Brandon,” I repeated calmly, although I refused to meet his eyes when I said it. I needed to hold onto my resolve. “Please listen. I’ve been taking the subway by myself since I was ten. I’ve lived in this city practically my whole life. And I can tell you, without a doubt, most of New York is safer at any time of night than half of Boston.”

  He stared at me, dumbfounded. “You’re really going to refuse a ride?”

  “Yes,” I said adamantly, defiantly pulling my beanie further over my ears. The wind coming off the East River ran down Canal Street like a funnel.

  “Try to do the right thing, what do you get?” he grumbled to himself. “Well, I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Guess not.”

  But as I started down the steps into the subway entrance, I found him matching each footstep with one of his.

  “What are you doing now?” I demanded.

  “I’m seeing you home. No—” he held a hand up while the other fished into his interior jacket pocket for a small billfold. “I won’t make any more inappropriate comments, I promise. I’m not an asshole, Skylar, and I’ll prove it to you. But seeing you home—that’s not up for discussion. You’re not walking around by yourself this late at night. I can be stubborn too, Red.”

  Several retorts rose to my lips, but all were cut off by the adorable perseverance on his face. In a moment, the arrogant shithead was completely gone, leaving only the man I had met that first night—the confident, if slightly shy man who followed me into a blizzard and took me into his home to make sure I was safe. Maybe—just maybe—he really was worried about me.

  “Are you going to leave me alone after this?” I asked as I pointed an accusatory finger. “Or am I going to find you lurking outside my family’s house?”

  Brandon held up two hands in surrender. “You’ll never see me again if that’s what you want. I just can’t handle letting you walk around on dark streets past midnight. Soon as you’re home safe, I’m gone.”

  I squinted at him, considering. He blinked, no sign of guile or mischief left in his eyes, now a pale blue. I blew a long breath between pursed lips. Maybe I should have said no. But the fact was…I didn’t really want to.

  “Fine,” I said, and continued walking with him down to the train.

  It wasn’t until I had already run my MetroCard through the reader that I realized he hadn’t accompanied me through the turn stall.

  “You need to get a card over there,” I said, nodding at a pod of dispensers where a few people were lined up to purchase their cards. His face fell.

  “No tokens anymore?”

  I bit back a laugh. “How long has it been since you took the train?”

  A faint flush of embarrassment rose in his cheeks, which made me want to pull him toward me and hug him. Shit.

  “I’ll get a card,” he muttered, and trudged back to purchase one of the flimsy pieces of plastic for his very own.

  ~

  “It’s a good thing I came with you,” Brandon said once we were comfortably aboard the train and well on our way across the East River. He spoke loudly so he could be heard over the roar of the tracks. “Maybe the people aren’t so dangerous, but I saw two rats on the tracks who would eat you for dinner. I think they actually carried machetes.”

  I smiled. “Oh, that’s nothing. My dad’s seen some in dumpsters he swore were as big as terriers.”

  Brandon chuckled with me, but his face paled visibly. “That’s disgusting,” he pronounced.

  At that point, I laughed out loud, startling the other few passengers in the car. “You haven’t spent time around normal people in a while, have you?”

  He narrowed his eyes down at me, though they were still full of mirth.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I take the T to work every day.”

  “You mean to the office that is literally ten blocks from your immense house on the Commons?” I asked.

  He faked a double-take. “You mean I can walk there? And here I’ve been going to Dorchester and back every morning. This is going to do wonders to my morning commute!”

  I giggled. I couldn’t help it. It was increasingly evident that when Brandon wasn’t trying to put the moves on me, he was actually quite charming.

  As the train stopped in Williamsburg, an obviously inebriated pair staggered their way into our car and collapsed on the bench seat next to Brandon. They were a young couple, probably a few years younger than me. They were also clearly dressed for a night out and not for the weather: the girl wore an extremely short leather skirt paired with thigh-high black boots, while her date had on fashionably skinny jeans and a button down shirt under his leather jacket. As soon as they landed on the seat, they were all over each other, shoving their tongues into each other’s mouths and pawing at the hems of their garments.

  Brandon and I sat awkwardly next to them, suddenly finding things like the subway map and the Spanish ads for laser hair removal incredibly interesting. We looked everywhere but at the couple and each other—I knew that one glance would make me giggle.

  The girl kicked one leg in her passion, hitting Brandon hard enough that he knocked into me too. He looked down at me and mouthed, “Ouch!”, forcing me to bite my lip to keep from laughing aloud. When she kicked him again, he scooted several inches closer to me, allowing the couple to position themselves almost horizontally beside us.

  “Skylar,” Brandon whispered loudly in my ear.

  I looked up at his laughing eyes. “What?” I whispered back.

  “Do you think they need a condom? Maybe some assistance?”

  I stifled a giggle and shook my head.

  “Then do you think you could move down a little bit so I don’t have an accidental threesome?”

  I chuckled into my mittens and nodded before sliding farther down the seats so we could give the couple more room to writhe around.

  Two stops later, after they stumbled off together, Brandon and I both burst out laughing as soon as the doors closed.

  “Holy shit!” I crowed in between heaves. “I thought they were going to make a baby right there!” My stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

  “I think I might have gotten herpes.” Brandon was also red in the face. “At least now I know why you wanted to take the train.”

  I smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “I think you actually liked it. You should have offered her to pay for a sex pad. She probably would have gone for it.”

  Brandon rolled his eyes and shook his head. “One day you’re going to forgive me for that,” he said. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll convince you that I’m actually a decent guy.”

  By the end of his statement, the humor was completely gone from his voice. He wasn’t laughing any more, and his wide blue gaze had me completely transfixed with its mix of vulnerability and kindness. We sat quietly as the train rumbled beneath us, staring at each other until I forced myself to remember the way he’d talked to me. I pulled my glance away and renewed my study of the subway ads above us.

  Brandon sighed beside me. “This is frustrating. I’m not an asshole, Skylar. I still can’t believe I actually had the stones to ask you that.”

  “So why did you?” I was curious now, and wanted to believe I’d get a real answer. This guy, the one who could laugh at himself and who wanted to see a woman home safe, seeme
d like a good man. Not the type who would turn women in to crude courtesans.

  He sighed deeply and shrugged. “I…it’s hard to explain.”

  “Try,” I prodded.

  He gave me a look I was starting to recognize—the one that said, “You’re not going to let it go, are you?” I raised my eyebrows expectantly. No, I definitely was not.

  He sighed again and sat forward, talking down to the ground while he balanced his forearms over his knees. “All right, fine. It’s been a while, if you have to know the truth. Since I’ve dated anyone. The last woman I was with seriously…well, it was pretty clear by the end she was only interested in my money. Anyone I’ve been with since has either been a one-night thing or nothing at all. Then I meet you, and I can tell you’re not a one-night kind of girl. I really want…well, I guess I figured that I should probably give you what you’d want from the get-go. It didn’t even occur to me you wouldn’t want any of it. I’m sorry. Truly. More than you know.”

  My heart squeezed at his words. They weren’t flowery, but the slow cadence of them and the way his voice broke over the word “truly” eroded several more layers of suspicion. I hadn’t stopped to imagine what he must have thought of me, an intern succumbing to his advances. I knew so much more about him in some ways—why wouldn’t he have thought I had my own angle on what I could get out his life? He was the holy grail of legal and business connections in Boston. And probably a lot of eligible bachelor pools too.

  Slowly I reached out to touch him lightly on the shoulder, but before I could reply that all was forgiven, the conductor announced our stop, and the car jerked to a halt. I stood up and pulled my bag over my shoulder.

  “This is our stop,” I said as the doors opened behind me. “Come on, Casanova. You can keep apologizing on the walk home.”

  ~

  We chatted easily as we walked down Ditmas Avenue. The truth was, Brandon was actually really good company when he wasn’t trying to hit on me. He was witty and smart, but also funny, down-to-earth, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

  By the time I stopped in front of a small club, my side hurt from laughing so much. I turned eagerly toward the entrance, where the strains of a jazz trio hummed from within.

  Brandon looked to me in confusion. “You live in a jazz club?”

  I rolled my eyes, but shivered in the cold. “Yeah, I totally live in a jazz club. The vinyl seats make for a great night’s sleep.” I turned back to the entrance, where the doorman looked bored on his stool.

  “Hey Charlie,” I said. The big man was shivering slightly beneath his tight black beanie and massive parka, but he managed to conjure a small smile for me.

  “Hiya sweetheart,” he replied kindly as he leaned over to take my quick peck on the cheek. “They just started their second set. He know you’re coming tonight?”

  I shook my head. “No, I thought I’d surprise him.” I unwound my large wool scarf from around my neck and handed it to him. “Here. You look like you’re freezing.”

  Charlie didn’t blink, just accepted the scarf and tied it awkwardly around his neck, obviously caring little that it was bright red and belonged to a girl about a third his size. “Thanks, sweetie. It’s colder than a bitch out here tonight.”

  I turned to find Brandon examining the entrance of the club, half concerned, half curious. The temperature had probably dropped another five degrees in the last hour, and I realized he didn’t have his town car to climb into.

  “My dad works here most weekends,” I told him. “I’m going to say hi before I walk home. You can wait here for your car if you want.”

  He furrowed his brow. “Wait, what? No. Are you staying until the end of the set?”

  When I shook, he shook his head back. “You’re not walking home by yourself. It’s not safe.”

  I tried to protest, but he laid a hand briefly on my arm, calming me.

  “I won’t try anything,” he assured me. “I promise. Besides, I’m pretty sure this guy will kick the shit out of me if I do. Right, man?”

  Charlie didn’t reply, just glared at Brandon and waited for my response.

  Brandon looked back at me with raised hands. “See?”

  I sighed, but was unable to withhold my smile completely at the contrast between Brandon’s imploring expression and Charlie’s death glare behind him.

  “Just come in, then,” I relented, and we walked into the small, dark club to meet my father.

  ~

  Chapter 9

  Nick’s was the kind of place you couldn’t find any more in the downtown Manhattan, or even around Park Slope or Williamsburg. It was the kind of place I had grown up in, doing my homework perched on the stained bar top before they opened, and helping band members lug instruments in and out of the small, dark doorways for sound checks. The slow pace of Nick’s rarely drew more than ten or fifteen patrons at a time, but that also meant that no one cared about anything there but the music. There was no spot for this kind of establishment any more in the bustling parts of Manhattan, where all the jazz greats once started out. The Blue Note was basically a Disney Land ride, whereas Nick’s still had the gritty hint of urban underbelly that always inspired good music.

  Brandon followed me into the bar, gingerly stepping around clusters of tables, chairs, and barstools in a way that made me wonder just how long it had been since he had gone anywhere that didn’t offer box seats, VIP reservations, or valet parking.

  The club tunneled narrowly like a wormhole into the basement of a Brooklyn brownstone. Its dank interior was lined on one side with small tables and red, vinyl bench seats that likely hadn’t been replaced since the late seventies, and on the other with a worn bar top that sold a lot of potent well drinks along with the occasional scotch. Stale alcohol practically glazed the air, along with sporadic whiffs of Charlie’s cigarette smoke whenever the front door opened. At the back of the club was a tiny dance floor in front of a tinier stage. It just big enough to hold Dad’s jazz quartet, which boasted a trumpet, an upright bass, a piano, and a drum kit.

  I slid onto one of the bench seats across from the bar, where I wouldn’t distract the band too much while they finished their set.

  “Do you want a drink?” Brandon asked, still standing in front of the table I’d chosen.

  I looked up as I shucked my outerwear, scarf, and gloves. “Um…sure. I guess. MacCallan Twelve with a splash of water. Just tell the bartender it’s for me. He won’t charge you.”

  Brandon didn’t reply, but the slight lift of his eyebrows before he walked away revealed some surprise at my order. I snorted. His reaction wasn’t uncommon; most girls my age didn’t drink whiskey. Those that did drank it with Coke or a lot of sour mix.

  Amos, the willowy trumpet player from Trinidad, was the first to notice me with a smile and a brief wave, while Doug, the bassist and my dad’s truck partner, grooved to a solo. The drummer was new. Dad often joked that it was the band’s curse that they could never hold onto a decent set of sticks. As usual, Dad was, lost in his own world at the piano, his fingers floating effortlessly over the keys.

  He looked the same as always, his slight form clothed in his typical performance attire: worn black pants from the Goodwill and a white, oxford button-down, rolled up at the elbows. I used to tease him that he looked like a waiter in that outfit, but he always shrugged and said that classics never go out of style. His floppy brown hair, gray at the temples and at the base of his neck, was parted down the middle and matched the trim mustache that was just a little grayer than the hair on his head. His eyes were closed and his head leaned low as he bobbed back and forth to the rhythm set by Doug and the drummer, his fingers gliding up and down the keys in velvety riffs.

  I leaned onto my elbows with my eyes closed to listen, just as I had done all my life. It didn’t matter how long I had been gone—I wasn’t home until I could hear my dad play.

  “They’re really good.” Brandon sat down in the seat across from me and slid my whiskey across the table. He took a
drink of something slightly darker. “The piano player sounds like Bill Evans.” He removed his coat and draped it over the back of his seat, not taking his eyes off the quartet.

  “That’s my dad.”

  I smiled at Brandon’s double take between me and my father as I took a small sip of whiskey. We didn’t look much alike, other than our slight frames. If pictures were any indicator, I had my grandfather’s flaming hair, Bubbe’s olive skin, and my mother’s green eyes. But Dad and I were both small, and I had definitely inherited his love of music.

  “Well,” Brandon remarked as he took a sip of his own drink. It smelled like a very nice brandy. “So much for stereotypes. I can’t imagine him picking up garbage.”

  I shrugged. “Some people really do just have day jobs so they can do other stuff.”

  It was true. Raising me—well, that and a few other vices—had prevented Dad from ever really pursuing his music to the fullest. He’d had a few offers over the years to play with some of the greats, but always turned them down, citing family commitments. Tours were always out of the question, even with Bubbe there to look after me. Still, just because he couldn’t take a little girl on the road with him, it didn’t mean his heart wasn’t one hundred percent dedicated to those black and white keys. I admired him all the more for that.

  “Did he teach you to play?”

  I looked back over my whiskey at Brandon. “A bit. I’m nowhere near as good as he is, though.”

  Brandon nodded his head in response, watching the trio as Dad launched into a short solo. His hands flew over the keys, dipping into spontaneous trills that were as smooth as water in a brook. The song effortlessly melded into another, and we listened without speaking for a good fifteen minutes.

  I was content just to sit in silence; I didn’t really like talking to people when I was at a show, and especially not when Dad was playing. Music, to me, was meant to be listened to, not talked over. Nothing bothered me more than trying to hold a conversation when something great was happening on stage.