“It does indeed. Dude paints swastikas on gravestones in Jewish cemeteries.” There were aghast murmurings from the room. “Got any advice for me, counselor?”
Her brain started whirring. “Other charges?”
“Oh yeah, a veritable cornucopia of them. Third-degree criminal mischief, firearm possession, criminal possession of stolen property, and unlawful fleeing.”
She whistled. “They’ll try to bargain.”
“No doubt, but not until I’ve lost a shit-ton of sleep preparing for them not to.”
She shrugged. “Part of the job.”
“What would you ask for?”
“Depends what you have on him.”
“Prints. Red spray paint in his house. Surveillance video of his car leaving the scene. That’s all a matter of public record. The rest I can’t tell you.”
“Can he be ID’d in the car?”
“Only circumstantially. We don’t have good video.”
She shook her head. “What the hell good are these goddamned privacy-invading Big Brother security cameras anyway if they don’t get clear shots?”
“Hey! You’re not supposed to be on his side!” Jane was delighted by their exchange.
Her outburst reminded Wendy that, oh yeah, they had an audience here. She’d been a little too into talking shop with Noah.
She turned back to the camera. “I don’t know New York State law, but I’m thinking I’d offer to plead to the rest if you drop the biggie.”
“Wait,” Hector, the other groomsman, said. “She’s defending that creep?”
“Well, not that particular creep,” Elise said. “But she’s a defense attorney.”
Hector, whom Wendy had met only a handful of times—at the infamous photo shoot, for example—said, “I don’t know how you sleep at night.”
Here they went. Sometimes Wendy felt like she had to have this conversation at every cocktail party she went to, after the “And what do you do?” questions were asked and answered.
“I sleep just fine,” she snapped, too tired to dish out the more patient version of this speech—plus, Hector was sort of a jerk. “In fact, I sleep like a goddamn baby. You know why? Because it’s my job to help uphold this little thing we call the right to a fair trial. Section 11 of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Sixth Amendment to the United States Constitution. Hallmark of democracies everywhere.”
Hector blinked rapidly. “Even when you know someone’s guilty?”
“I act for my client. If my client tells me he’s innocent, he’s innocent. My personal feelings don’t come into play.”
“Wow,” Hector said. “I don’t know if I could do that.”
“Someone has to.” Noah spoke from the phone, drawing everyone’s attention. “The system depends on it. I’ve tried a number of cases where I was convinced the defendant was guilty—all the evidence pointed to it—and then the defense would drop some bomb that definitively proved innocence. Am I glad I lost those cases? You’d better believe it.”
What the hell? Wendy looked around to see if Noah’s impassioned speech in support of her argument was causing anyone else to freak out. Nope, just her. She tried to get the fluttering in her stomach to stop. She wasn’t sure why she was so surprised. He’d been to law school. Hell, all it took was a junior high civics class to absorb the lesson of innocent until proven guilty.
“And what about minor possession cases?” Noah went on. “You have any of those recently, Wendy?”
“Yeah. Teenage pothead. Busted at a party. Underage possession—third offense.”
“And what happened to him?”
“We pled it down. He did court-ordered rehab followed by a few months of house arrest, and he’s going to be doing community service until he’s like twenty-five.” She smiled at the memory. The judge had given that kid so much community service, he might well have preferred a smaller dose of straight-up jail time. But she was proud of her work on that case. She truly thought that with the oversight of the court and the fact that she’d essentially scared the living crap out of him, the kid had a decent chance to get his life back on track.
“Right,” Noah said. “Canada has more liberal drug laws, but in some states here, there’s a strict three strikes you’re out law on drug possession. They’d take this teenager, lock him up, and throw away the key. Does that seem right?”
“I see your point,” Hector said.
“Damn right,” Noah said. “Prosecutors get a lot of glory, but good defense lawyers are the unsung heroes of the system. And Wendy’s a great defense lawyer.”
Her cheeks heated. She wasn’t sure how he could possibly know that. Yes, she worked at one of Toronto’s top firms, which wasn’t something you just stumbled into, but…
“Okay!” Gia clapped her hands. “As fascinating as all this legal foreplay is, if it’s going to go any further, the two lawyers need to get a room.” She motioned to Jane. “Just give her the phone and she can take Noah into Elise’s bedroom.” She was grinning as she spoke, and everyone else laughed, but shit. Their discussion there had felt kind of…heated. She loved Noah’s mind. Well, she appreciated Noah’s mind. Talking with someone who thought fast and critically was a pleasure.
An intellectual pleasure.
But she didn’t need Gia getting the wrong idea, so she smiled and said, “Sorry. Got carried away there.”
“You ladies sure know how to throw a party,” Cameron teased, grabbing Jane so she fell back onto his lap. She shrieked and struggled to keep the phone upright.
“I hope tomorrow night’s bachelorette party is this exciting,” Noah said from the phone.
“Oh, shut up.” Jane turned the phone around so she could look at her brother. “I think it’s pretty clear that you Vegas boys are going to have more fun than we are.” She paused, her expression turning wistful, and Wendy, Gia, and Elise shared an amused look. “But we are going to paint this town red! I’m just not sure who’s going to bail us out of jail if you all are gone.”
“Wendy,” came the voice from the phone. “Wendy will bail you out of jail. Actually, Wendy will make sure you don’t go to jail in the first place. Stay with Wendy, and you’ll be fine.”
“I was kidding, you overprotective dork,” Jane said.
Wendy knew as much, but the immediate vote of confidence, even in jest, combined with Noah’s earlier praise of her abilities, warmed her insides.
Chapter Eleven
Noah was exhausted. He’d pulled near all-nighters Thursday and Friday nights, caught a few hours of sleep in the wee hours of Saturday, then dragged his sorry ass to the airport. Not the most auspicious start for what was supposed to be a weekend of debauchery. Well, semi-debauchery. It wasn’t like Cameron was going to do anything crazy with the bride’s brother present. Cameron wasn’t the type to do anything crazy anyway. The guy knew where his bread was buttered.
Which made Noah a very happy man.
Also an entry in the happy-making department? He was pretty sure he was going to win his bet with Wendy. Yeah, her book-themed party for Jane was cute, but it didn’t involve air travel. Vegas was classic. He was going to show Cameron a great time—a chaste, respectful great time—and document the hell out of it.
So: he was happy. But still exhausted. After struggling to cram his bag into the dollhouse-size overhead bin—and to cram his body into the dollhouse-size seat—he sat back and closed his eyes.
Sleep, blessed sleep. The flight was five hours and fifty-five minutes, and one of Noah’s talents was that he could fall asleep instantly and anywhere. He’d developed the skill in high school, when he was working nights at the store. He would literally sleep away his middle-of-the-night “lunch” break at work, not to mention his study periods at school. Now that had been true exhaustion. Mixed in with the ever-present worry about his sister and mom, and probably a good measure of unresolved anger at his dad.
He stuck his ear buds in and shook his head as if to physically clear the memories. He hat
ed thinking about those days. Doing so made him feel almost as out of control as he’d felt back then. Like his life was hanging by a thread.
So, sleep. He nestled back into his headrest, and his well-trained body let loose a huge yawn. He could feel himself slipping, surrendering to—
“Noah!”
“Jane?” His eyes flew open and rested on…“Wendy?”
His entire body jolted awake. More than awake. How could Wendy be here, on this plane, on a runway at LaGuardia?
And yet there she was.
And another question, one he’d asked himself many, many times in recent months: how could such a small woman—she actually fit in the goddamn plane—have such a huge presence? How could she light every nerve ending in his body on fire without even saying a word?
“Surprise!”
The word came from Jane; Wendy still hadn’t spoken. Noah could recognize his sister’s excited, gleeful tone anywhere, but he kept his gaze on Wendy, who looked right past him as she made her way down the aisle. Her face, totally neutral, gave away nothing. She was acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to be on this Vegas-bound plane together.
Goddammit.
“The girls surprised me with a last-minute Vegas party,” Jane exclaimed, stopping next to his seat.
Yeah, he got that. Clearly, the two days’ notice he’d given Cameron had been too much. Allowed Wendy too much time to marshal her troops.
Wendy had made it farther down the aisle and was out of his sight. He forced himself to pay attention to Jane rather than to turn so he could keep watching Wendy.
“Vegas,” he said. “So why are you on my plane here in New York?”
“There were no direct Toronto–Vegas flights left that all four of us could get on,” Jane said.
No direct flights his ass.
“Wendy thought it would be a hoot to connect through New York and try to get on your plane,” said Elise, who was standing behind Jane.
“Did she now?” He really, really wanted to turn around. But he refused to give her the satisfaction.
“So I got your flight info from Jay.” Elise did an affectionate shoulder-checking thing with Jane.
“Right.” He began mentally dictating a “note to self: murder Jay” memo.
“Would you like me to switch seats with you?” the woman sitting next to him asked Jane.
“That’s so nice of you, but it’s okay!” Jane smiled over her shoulder at Elise. “I’m gonna sit with my friends. Just pausing to bug my brother for a sec.”
“You’d better go, then.” Noah made eye contact with Gia, who was in line behind Elise. She shot him a sheepish-bordering-on-sympathetic smile. “You’re holding everyone up.”
“Oops! Sorry!” Jane blew him a kiss and started moving.
After the women had passed, Noah sat back and tried to be cool. But he didn’t even know where they were sitting. Were they two rows back from him? All the way at the back? Which side were they on? Could she see him from where she sat?
It was too much. He gave in and twisted around.
Jane and Elise were getting settled in a few rows up from the back of the plane. Gia was in the row across from them—she was so tall he could spot her easily though she was already seated next to the window. The aisle seat next to her appeared to be empty.
It wasn’t, though. He knew it wasn’t.
It was just occupied by a short person.
As if she’d felt his attention, the short person in question suddenly leaned around the edge of her seat and stuck her tongue out at him.
He refrained from doing the same but only just. He sighed, turned back to face front, and opened a magazine. He was not going to get any sleep on this flight after all.
Point to Wendy.
* * *
When the plane landed, Wendy got out her phone and pulled Gia aside. They had two nights in Vegas, and she was damned well going to make the most of it.
And by “make the most of it,” she meant “hire the beefiest yet nerdiest stripper she could find.” So far, Jane’s plans seemed to be limited to manicures, restaurants, and gambling. Which was fine. Wendy was into all that. But all she’d done by moving the party to Vegas was even the playing field. If their party was going to win, she needed to take things up a notch.
“She’ll be okay with a stripper, right?” She showed Gia her phone, which was open to the website for an establishment called Exotic Boys Incorporated. She wanted to up the ante on the bachelorette festivities, but she didn’t want to make Jane truly uncomfortable.
“Oh yeah. I’m sure she’ll— Wait.” She grabbed the phone. “Wendy! Are these strippers or male prostitutes?”
“Strippers! My God, Gia, I’m trying to put on an epic bachelorette party here, but I’m not a madam!”
Gia scrolled on the phone and then handed it back to Wendy at a page marked “services.” There were various “dances” listed in different time increments, but there was also a “deluxe experience” that was a lot more expensive than regular dances.
“Oh my God!” Wendy threw her head back and cackled. “Do you think that’s what ‘deluxe experience’ means? Well, hell, you did say you wanted an uncomplicated Las Vegas hookup, didn’t you?”
“Ha! So did you!”
“So should I get us a couple of deluxe experiences?” She was kidding. Yes, she needed to get laid, but not that way.
“Nah. We don’t need to pay for it, Wendy. We’ve got it going on.”
“You have it going on. I’m not so sure about me.”
Gia swatted her. “Well, I’m not paying for it. I gotta go get my bag. You make the transaction.”
Laughing, Wendy made the call.
“Good afternoon, Exotic Boys Incorporated, Marilyn speaking. How may I help you?”
“Oh!” Wendy wasn’t sure what she expected. Press one for a hot fireman; press two for a hot Elvis impersonator? No, but she also hadn’t expected an actual human to answer the phone on the first ring, much less one named Marilyn. “Yes, hello. I’m in town for a bachelorette party for my friend, and I’m looking for a dancer.”
“Ah,” Marilyn said. “You’ve come to the right place. Are you looking for a party bus or in-room entertainment?”
“Um, in-room entertainment, I’m thinking? Tonight, if possible.” Might as well get this party started right.
“That’s no problem. Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for? Our most popular dancers at the moment are cop, firefighter, tuxedoed gentleman—”
“I’m not sure we’re in the market for the usual cop or firefighter thing. I’m looking for something a little more…cerebral.” Ha!
“We have a nice ‘hot for teacher’ experience. Or we do a Los Alamos package—your dancer will arrive attired in a scientific lab coat and hand out sex toys emblazoned with the phrase ‘Caution: nuclear fallout.’”
Wendy cracked up. A person really could order up anything in Vegas, it seemed. “What about a librarian?”
“I’m sure we could pull something together.” Wendy could hear the clack of fingernails on a keyboard. “You know what? I have the perfect gentleman in mind. He’s a published author, in fact.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jane was going to love this. “He sounds perfect.”
“What time did you want him to arrive?”
They had dinner at eight with the guys—somehow even though they had only dropped the “we’re going to Vegas” bomb on Jane this morning, she’d already arranged a joint dinner. And there would probably be drinks afterward so…“Midnight? Is that too late?”
Marilyn said, “In Vegas, midnight is early. Now, what kind of experience are you looking for?”
“You mean time-wise?” Or are you asking if I want to hire a rentboy, Marilyn?
“Time-wise, yes. We book in one-hour increments, but you can also opt to enjoy the company of your dancer for the entire night.”
“That would be the, ah, deluxe experience I saw on your
website?”
“It would be.”
“And what does the deluxe package entail, exactly?”
“The standard package includes full nudity and unlimited lap dances, though it is customary to tip for lap dances, even in a private in-room setting. The deluxe package includes additional services negotiated between you and the dancer.”
“But if I book the deluxe package, the ‘anything else’ is sort of, uh, implied?”
“It is.”
A silly idea arose. Maybe Wendy should actually book the deluxe package. Jane would love that their stripper was an author. She’d want to talk his ear off. Which she could do—after the stripping—if Wendy paid for more time. She could even try to get her hands on his book and they could run it as a “book club.” Ha! Instead of the usual bachelorette penis-themed decorations, they could continue the literary theme from last night. And Marilyn had said, “anything else,” right? How much would their stripper love it when “anything else” turned out to be “talk about books with the bride.” Jane would probably end up inviting him to the wedding like she had the real librarian in that bar in New York.
“The deluxe package sounds great, actually.”
She rattled off her credit card info for Marilyn and, exceedingly pleased with herself, turned around and—
—crashed smack dab into Noah Denning’s chest.
“At least you’re not carrying a beer this time.” His expression was hard to read, but she thought there might be a little bit of…anger there? Oh, shit. Had he overheard her phone conversation and assumed she was hiring a sex worker for…actual sex-related activities? Instead of, you know, talking-about-books-type activities?
Well, whatever. This was a bachelorette party. She was allowed to hire a stripper. The details were none of his business. For that matter, she was allowed to hire a goddamned prostitute if she wanted. Anyway, she’d been talking really quietly. He would have had to work hard to overhear. He was probably just mad she had crashed the boys’ party. As he should be. Ha.
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