by R. R. Banks
Pretty par for the course with those two. Pigs.
I follow them to the front door and wait while they ring the doorbell. A minute or so later, a short Hispanic woman opens the door and smiles politely at us.
“Ryan and Zoe Nichols, and Bryant Brooks,” my father says in his deep, rumbling courtroom voice. “We have an appointment with Mr. Grigson.”
“Yes, he's expecting you,” the woman says. “Please, come in.”
The woman, who I assume is his housekeeper, leads us into the front part of the house. It has a spacious open floor plan and is simply a beautiful space. Very tastefully decorated and surprisingly understated. Given that he's a former rock star, I was expecting something gaudier. Something more – well – rock-and-roll. But, it appears that Connor Grigson has excellent taste. Or, more likely, just an outstanding interior designer.
The housekeeper seats us in what is sort of a parlor area, rather than in the sunken living room. I sit on a large, overstuffed chair while Bryant and my father take a seat on a large, cushy sofa to my right. There's an ornate cherry wood coffee table that sits between the sofa my father and Bryant are on, and a matching loveseat directly across from them, to my left. On the wall on the other side of the coffee table from me is a large, flat screen television mounted to the wall. It's a nice, cozy little space carved out of the otherwise large, open room.
I hear a man's voice from a hallway that leads to the back section of the house and it sends a chill down my spine. I sit upright and feel my eyes grow wide as I hear the thump of footsteps approaching. It couldn't be. There is no possible way.
“Oh shit,” I mutter to myself.
“What's that, Zoe?” my father asks.
Heat flares in my cheeks and knots in my stomach constrict so hard, I'm afraid I'm going to throw up. I shake my head.
“Nothing,” I say.
Connor Grigson steps into the room as my father and Bryant get to their feet. I'm staring at the ground desperately, trying to will it to open up and swallow me whole. I hear my father clear his throat and when I look up, he's staring hard at me, the look of irritation on his face more than clear. I slowly rise to my feet and look into the face of Connor Grigson – otherwise known as “Andy.”
He sees me, and his eyes instantly widen as a look of shock momentarily crosses his face. To his credit, he keeps himself composed and doesn't say anything stupid that would give us away. He clears his throat and turns to my father, who extends his hand.
“Ryan Nichols,” he says. “This is Bryant Brooks, and this is my daughter, Zoe.”
Connor shakes hands with the men and then turns to me, extending his hand. I put on a plastic smile I hope doesn't look as fake as it feels and shake his hand. There's a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth and a mischievous twinkle in his eye that makes those knots in my stomach tighten even harder. I have to fight back the wave of nausea that's rising up within me, and fight the urge to turn and run out the front door – an urge that's growing stronger with each passing second.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice colored with that faint Irish brogue I remember all too well.
“Fine,” I reply. “I'm fine.”
He nods and gives me a crooked, knowing little grin. “You know, you look exactly like a girl I once knew,” he says. “Her name was Misty –”
“My name is Zoe,” I reply quickly, my cheeks burning so hot, I'm surprised my face isn't in flames. “Zoe Nichols.”
“Right,” he says. “Well, please, have a seat, everybody.”
The housekeeper from earlier crosses from the kitchen area to where we're sitting and sets a tray down on the table. She hands each of us a cup of coffee and gives me a small smile.
“Thank you,” I say.
She gives me a small nod and turns away, walking back to the kitchen before disappearing into the back of the house. As Bryant and my father fix their coffee, I cut a quick glance over at Connor and find him staring at me, that roguish smile still on his face. I want to throw my coffee cup down and run out of the house screaming in humiliation, but know I can't do any such thing.
No, I'm stuck right where I am. As they say, I made my bed, and now it's time to lay in it. Of course, the memory of what Connor and I did in that bed floats through my mind and despite my best efforts to push them away and ignore them, they persist – and I feel the heat growing between my thighs.
“Well,” Connor says. “There's certainly a lot of legal firepower in this room. What can I do for you all today?”
My father clears his throat and leans forward. “Mr. Grigson –”
“Connor, please,” he says and then casts a sidelong glance at me, that mischievous sparkle in his eye. “Though, my good friends call me Andy.”
My hand is shaking so hard, my coffee cup rattles against the saucer. Both Bryant and my father give me a curious, yet annoyed look. I clear my throat and get myself under control, giving them an apologetic smile as I set the coffee cup down on the table. The whole time, Connor is giving me a smug little grin from the loveseat. My father and Bryant return their attention to him, their demeanor serious. All business again. Yeah, I'm so going to hear about this later.
“I think it’s best if we keep things on a professional level,” my father says. “No offense, of course.”
Connor shrugs. “None taken,” he says. “So, what can I do for you, Mr. Nichols?”
“Well, we are representing Mr. Jay Hill,” Bryant says. “He feels he's owed for the success of a band called – FUBAR?”
Connor laughs and shakes his head. “Jay always was a bit of a whiny twat.”
“So, you admit that you know Mr. Hill,” Bryant says.
“Oh, of course, I do,” Connor replies. “You're the fourth set of lawyers he's sent after me.”
Bryant and my father exchange a glance, both of their faces darkening. I could have told them that had they asked me for input – any input. I could have told them Hill had tried and failed three separate times to sue Connor for back royalties. But, they never asked me. Never included me. And as a result, I guess I just forgot to mention it.
Oops. Golly, my bad.
“What, you didn't think you all were special, did you?” Connor asks, his voice colored with amusement. “Yeah, sorry about that. My lawyers chewed him up and spit him out three times already. You lot going to try it again?”
“Be that as it may,” Bryant says, finding his footing again quickly. “Our client has a legitimate complaint –”
“The same complaint he's filed three times before getting to you guys,” Connor cuts him off. “And in the three previous cases, his claim was tossed out by a judge because Jay Hill is nothing more than a liar and a fucking grifter.”
I couldn't have put it better myself, to be honest. It's what I tried to get them to see the very first day we met Jay Hill. I could see right through him. But, apparently, all my father and Bryant saw were dollar signs. The thought of being able to squeeze tens of millions of dollars out of Connor had blinded them to the simple truth sitting right there in front of them. It also, apparently, precluded them from doing even the most basic research into the man they're so zealously representing.
Everything about this is setting off warning sirens in my head. Something is definitely not right about this whole thing. My father, when he's on a case, absolutely goes for maximum dollars. He's a bulldog like that and will take his pound of flesh from anybody who runs afoul of him.
That's the rub here though – Connor Grigson, aka “Andy,” hasn't done anything to run afoul of him. Hill is a liar, and I can prove it. But, my father has it in his head, for whatever reason, that he's going to take Grigson for everything he can.
“Is it true,” my father says, “that some years back, you gave Mr. Hill ten-thousand dollars?”
“That's very true,” Connor snorts. “The ungrateful bastard.”
“Our client,” Bryant says, “maintains that you were trying to buy him out of his share of your band with
that money. He also said that when he asked you for his fair share of the profits, you physically threatened him.”
“His story gets more riveting every year, I swear to you lads,” Connor says, a smile on his face. “Somebody really should make a movie about it.”
“So, if not as part of a payoff,” Bryant starts, “what was the ten-thousand dollars for?”
“Look,” Connor says, “the first thing you need to get straight with is the fact that your boy, was never a member of FUBAR. Never. It was me and Ronnie, period.”
“I looked it up,” my father adds, “and you had a four-person band while touring.”
“Studio musicians,” Connor says. “Ronnie and I wrote all the music and the lyrics. Everything that FUBAR ever put out came out of one of our two heads. Period. Jay hung around us a lot. We kept him around mainly because had the connection for the good H.”
“H?” my father asks.
“Heroin,” Connor replies. “I'm a recovering addict.”
“I see,” my father says, his tone filled with judgment.
“And the ten-thousand dollars?” Bryant pressed.
“He was hard up. Down on his luck,” Connor shrugs. “I tried to help him out.”
“And you just gave him that kind of cash – out of the goodness of your heart?” Bryant asks, his tone clearly mocking.
Connor's eyes narrow and I see his jaw clenching. “Money meant shit to me back then, Mr. Brooks. And believe it or not, I'm actually not some heartless prick,” he says through gritted teeth, before looking over and flashing me that disarming smile. “At least, not most of the time.”
The air in the room is thick with tension as the three men face off with one another. For once, I'm glad to be sitting off to the side, clearly left out of the conversation. Watching the power dynamic between the three alpha dogs is interesting though. My father and Bryant have their lawyer faces on and are obviously trying to intimidate Connor. Trying to bully and badger him into accepting the fact that Jay Hill has a case against him and that they’re here to fiercely advocate for him.
Connor, to his credit, is standing his ground. He's firm and has plenty of resolve. I have to wonder if the fact that he's a recovering addict is what gives him such strength. To be able to kick a heroin addiction and live a prosperous, productive life – it's not something a lot of people can do. It takes real strength and I can't help but be impressed, despite the fact that I want to run out the front door and never lay eyes on him again.
I want to believe he's a good man though. Almost. And I might believe it if he wasn’t the same man who tricked me into thinking he was an escort. The man who slept with me under very false pretenses. I want to scream and shout, and slap him across the face. Actually, I want to beat him to a bloody pulp for what he did. For taking advantage of me like he had.
But, I can't. I can't say a word to him, and I can't lay a finger on him. Not without giving away my secret. The fact that he knows I'm not about to do that, and keeps taunting me with that knowledge, as well as the knowledge of what we did together – it is beyond infuriating. I feel violated in a thousand different ways.
“Well, we're here as a courtesy,” my father says. “And also, to see if we can avoid any – unpleasantries – by coming to a mutually satisfactory settlement. Nobody wants this to go to a trial, Mr. Grigson.”
“Least of all you,” Connor replies with a smirk. “Because you'll lose. And I have a sneaking suspicion you already know that.”
“We know nothing of the sort,” Bryant jumps in. “Perhaps you don't know how the courts work, but all it takes is for us to get the right judge, or the right jury, let them hear a little compelling testimony, and then, you'll be on the hook for the full hundred million.”
Connor nearly spits out his coffee but manages to swallow it down before he bursts into laughter that borders on hysterical. I have to stifle my own smirk as my father and Bryant exchange dark glances. They aren't the type of men who enjoy being laughed at – especially when they're trying to browbeat and intimidate somebody into bending to their will.
“Wow,” Connor finally says when his laughter subsides. “I see that the value he places on himself goes up in proportion to how fantastical his stories have become. That's fabulous.”
“Shouldn't we all value ourselves and our talents, Mr. Grigson?” my father asks.
“Absolutely,” Connor shoots back. “But, Jay Hill has no actual talent to speak of.”
“He claims the success of your band was built on his back,” Bryant chimes in.
“That would be funny,” Connor says. “If it weren't so pathetic.”
My father shrugs. “Be that as it may, our duty is to our client,” he says. “And, to that end, he's authorized us to make you a very fair offer to settle this and be done with it once and for all.”
My guess is that Hill didn't authorize anything. Driven by the same greed that's driving my father and Bryant, he probably just agreed to anything they told him to agree to.
“Oh, well, this should be magnificent,” Connor says.
My father looks at me, giving me a small nod. I open up the folder I'm holding and clear my throat. I look over at Connor, who's turned his attention to me, and have to beat back the nervous churning in my belly.
“Well, Mr. Grigson,” I say, “our client has no wish to see this process drag on any longer than necessary. Any longer than it already has, actually. We know you're a busy man and all.”
“Oh no, of course not,” he says, that mischievous little glint in his eye again. “How very considerate of him.”
“Therefore, to avoid a trial and bring this matter to a close,” I say, trying to muster up some small shred of conviction that I don't feel, “our client has authorized us to settle out of court for thirty million dollars.”
Connor smirks at me. “Thirty-million, you say?”
I nod, doing my best to avoid his eyes. “Taking into consideration, all of your band's past revenues, merchandise sales, and continued royalties,” I say, “we think that's a more than fair number.”
Not really. I don't think that at all, actually. If I were in Connor's place, I wouldn't give the guy thirty cents. In his place, I'd tell Bryant and my father to shove it and to get out of his house. But, I can't say that. And from a personal standpoint, given what happened between us, I wouldn't give him that advice anyway. Let him figure it out on his own. Might serve him right for being such an opportunistic, self-serving prick.
“Well, that's certainly quite forgiving and generous of your client,” he says. “How absolutely magnanimous of him.”
“We thought so as well,” my father says, clearly missing Connor's dry sense of humor. “So, do we have an accord, Mr. Grigson?”
Connor leans back in his seat, his eyes never leaving mine, a smug smirk on his face. And I want, more than anything, to punch him in his stupid nose right about now.
“I'm going to need some time to think about it,” Connor says. “Consult with my lawyer and all that.”
“Of course,” Bryant says. “I will say though, don't take too long in deciding. This generous offer does have a shelf life.”
“Of course it does,” Connor says.
My father and Bryant are obviously so desperate for a massive payday, they don't actually hear the sarcasm in Connor's tone. Or they're just choosing to ignore it, wanting to believe otherwise. Bryant and my father get to their feet, and I follow suit.
“Well, we'll expect to hear from you soon,” my father says.
“Oh, sure,” Connor replies, though his eyes remain fixed on me. “Count on hearing from me.”
“We'll see ourselves out,” Bryant says and turns to go.
I follow them out to the foyer and look down at the folder in my hands.
“Damn it,” I mutter.
They both turn and look at me, and I hold up the folder with the offer sheet and contracts.
“Forgot to give it to him,” I say. “I'll meet you at the car.”
/> “Don't take too long,” my father says.
They leave the house and I turn, walking back into the living room, the knots in my stomach twisting so hard, I want to scream. When I step through the archway, I see Connor still leaning back on the sofa, his leg crossed, his arm slung over the back casually. He gives me that cocky grin, looking for all the world like he knew I'd be back.
The bastard.
Chapter Nine
Connor
“So, Misty,” I say, unable to suppress my grin. “Or, should I call you Zoe? I’m not sure which you actually prefer.”
“Shut up,” she snaps and throws the folder she had been carrying in my lap. “You took advantage of me. You should have told me who –”
“It's not like you gave me a chance to say much of anything, now is it, love?” I reply, cutting her off. “As I recall, you opened the door and told me to get in and get naked before you changed your mind.”
“You should have said something,” she mutters.
I laugh and get to my feet, dropping the folder onto the sofa. Closing the distance between us, I hear her breath catch in her throat. Her seemingly bottomless dark eyes are wide, her full lips parted slightly. I can practically smell the desire and lust coming off her even now. If her father and his associate weren't in the car waiting for her, I bet I could have talked her into another round.
As I reach out to take her hand, she gives her head a little shake and seems to break her paralysis. She takes a quick step back as a low chuckle passes my lips, and I smile at her.
“I don't recall you being this shy the other night,” I say.
“I should slap you,” she says, her voice cold. “What you did was –”
“Gratifying for the both of us,” I say. “Don't pretend that you didn't enjoy it. You were the one who ordered some take-out cock, not me. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, love.”
“You are such a pig,” she says, though her words carry a little less heat than before – if only a little.