Release Me

by Farrah Rochon

  “What time is the performance?” she asked.

  “It’s at 10:00 at this new club on Esplanade. It’s called the Hard Court.”

  “The Hard Court?”

  “Remember that buddy of mine that just moved down here?”

  She sent him her mean eyes. “I really, really hate you, Toby.”

  “I know.” He laughed. “Look, Jonathan’s cool. He was my freshmen buddy at St. John’s. He’s been a successful corporate attorney for the past five years in Charleston, but just came into a load of money from some property settlement from his dead grandmother.”

  “Hmm…sounds like me,” Sienna said.

  “How so?” Toby asked.

  “Well, not the load of money part, but I did get my grandmother’s house after she died.”

  “Yeah, Alex mentioned that. How long have you been there?”

  “For the past seven months. Granny Elise told her estate manager that I had to finish my Masters degree before he could even tell me about the house.”

  “Inheriting a house? That’s great, Cee Cee. Paying rent is a pain in the ass.”

  “I guess you’re right,” she sighed. “Of course, I’d rather have my grandma.”

  “Yeah, Granny Elise was something else. Dang, but that woman could make some good biscuits,” Toby reminisced. He wondered if Granny Elise had left the recipe anywhere.

  “Well, you surely won’t find any of those biscuits baking in her oven now. If it were not for Stouffer’s and Pizza Hut, I’d probably starve.”

  “That kitchen was made for cooking,” Toby tsked.

  “You can strap on your apron anytime.”

  “Sienna.” A lanky guy with red hair and tortoiseshell glasses poked his head in the doorway. “Jamie’s out of surgery. I overheard Allen say he was coming to see you in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Scooter,” Sienna answered. “Okay, Toby, I’ll be there Friday night.” She opened the top desk drawer and retrieved a pad of yellow Post-It notes. “Write the directions to the club and a phone number where I can reach you. We’ll need to set up another meeting ASAP.”

  Allen Mulholland showed up at the door, just as the redhead had cautioned.

  “I’ll meet you in your office, Allen,” Sienna told him. “I’ll see you Friday night,” she called over her shoulder as she left Toby standing in the middle of her tiny office.

  Chapter Five

  Jonathan Campbell stood in the middle of the open space and turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. Indina Holmes, his best friend Toby’s interior designer cousin, had done an outstanding job. He could not have dreamed up a better layout for The Hard Court.

  When his twin sister, Jacqueline, had called a few minutes ago, Jonathan had tried to describe the club’s appearance. The best he was able to come up with was a sophisticated basketball court. Indina had taken the thoughts from Jonathan’s mind and brought them to life within the walls of the club. She stayed true to the sports themed décor that he requested, but added touches of elegance that catapulted The Hard Court above the average nightclub.

  The hardwood floors were shiny enough to blind his eyes. The light fixtures on the wall—what Indina had called sconces—were designed to look like basketball hoops, with a basketball halfway through it. A warm, mellow orange radiated from the soft bulb behind the iron-meshed basketball, lighting the path down the stairs from the restaurant on the second floor.

  Jonathan had been very particular about what he wanted to create with this new venture. New Orleans was a city known for its ability to have a good time, and Jonathan wanted to cash in on the resurgence after Hurricane Katrina. The city was going to be better than ever.

  The idea to open up a nightclub with a basketball theme seemed natural. Basketball was his first love, and had been more loyal to him than any of the women he’d ever been involved with. But he had cautioned Indina that this was to be a nightclub, not a sports bar. There would be no betting on games, or fighting over whose team won, or any of the other foolishness that went on in regular bars.

  His would be the type of establishment that called to the city’s more cultured sector. His goal was to attract a clientele who would appreciate the sophistication that went into this place, yet knew how to let loose and have a good time. Jonathan wanted The Hard Court to be a place where a person could unwind after a hard day’s work. And by the looks of things, that’s exactly what he’d gotten.

  “Man, this is tight.”

  Jonathan turned and smiled.

  Toby stood at the edge of the dance floor, its boundaries delineated by a white stripe made to resemble the boundaries of a basketball court. Jonathan made his way to him and hooked his arm around Toby’s neck, enveloping him in a hug.

  “You here to stay?” Toby asked.

  “I finished tying up all the loose ends back in Charleston yesterday. I’m officially a New Orleanian.”

  “You’re an implant. One day in town does not make you a New Orleanian.”

  “Whatever.” Jonathan punched him on the shoulder. “So, what’s up, man?”

  Toby shook his head. “My news doesn’t compare to opening a new nightclub and law practice in the same week. People are going to start calling you the black Donald Trump.”

  Chuckling, Jonathan hooked his arm around Toby’s shoulder. “Come over to the bar and let me buy you a drink while you tell me about this show. You know how behind I am on what’s happening on television.”

  The two sat at the bar, and it was almost an hour later before Toby finished filling him in on everything that had developed over the last few days.

  “This is huge,” Jonathan said.

  “It can be,” Toby answered, excitement lighting up his eyes.

  If he ever got the chance to meet Marshall Kellerman, Jonathan knew he’d have to fight the urge to hug the man. He was just that grateful that someone had alleviated a little of his friend’s pain. He hadn’t seen Toby this happy since before the accident.

  “I guess I’m lucky Aria’s even available to perform at my little club’s opening night.”

  “Little?” Pausing to take a drink, Toby threw him a sardonic look over the rim of his glass. “If this is little, I’m going on a date with Beyoncé tonight.”

  “Well, we both know there’s no chance of that.”

  “You never know, man. It could happen. Technically.”

  “I could become a monk. Technically.” Jonathan raised his eyebrows, waiting for Toby’s counter.

  “All right, all right. No Beyoncé for me,” Toby said. “Really, man. This place is hot. You’re going to light this city on fire.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “How is the new office space turning out?” Toby asked. He waved off another drink when the bartender came to refill his glass.

  “It should be up and ready by the end of the week. I’m headed over there right now. The building contractor has been having a problem with some vagrant who claims she has dibs on the place.”

  “You’d better get that under control. It sounds like the kind of headache you can do without. I’ll be back tomorrow to make sure everything’s set up for the performance.”

  “You don’t have to check up on me, man. Just be on time Friday, and I’ll handle the rest.”

  Toby grabbed his fist and brought him in for a hug. “This is going to be hot, man. I can feel it. Oh, and make sure you look good for your grand opening. I’ve got somebody I want you to meet.”

  “Don’t do it, Toby,” Jonathan called to his retreating form, but his former teammate was already making his way toward the club’s smoke-glass doors.

  If there’s one thing he didn’t need, it was Toby playing matchmaker. Jonathan did not need a woman interrupting his life right now. He had enough on his plate with the club opening at the end of the week, and his law practice’s first client coming in next Monday. Speaking of which, he had better head over to the new office to see about the situation with the nutcase that had been causing the contra
ctor all of these problems.

  Jonathan suppressed a groan.

  It was too much to ask that things would go off without a hitch. He’d prepared himself for glitches—pipes bursting, construction running overtime—but an uncooperative vagrant could lead to more than he’d bargained for. If the nutcase became too vocal, the courts may get involved. And as an officer of said court, he knew better than most that it was best to avoid that type of interference at all cost.

  Jonathan left instructions with the bartender to call his cell if anything came up while he was away, and headed out of The Hard Court.

  Sliding onto the cool leather seat of his Mercedes SK5, he started up the car, smiling at the soothing hum of the engine. He loved this car. Power and style wrapped into a sleek, black package. Exactly what he aspired to attain when he dressed in the morning.

  Jonathan pulled away from the curb and maneuvered through the narrow streets of the French Quarter, centuries-old brick and wrought-iron structures observable on either side of the street. He’d been ecstatic when his real estate agent had found office space only a few minutes from the site of The Hard Court. The old two-story wooden structure on the edges of the city’s most famous neighborhood was on the small side but suited his purposes to a tee. It was the perfect location and layout, and he sure as hell was not going to allow some whack job to cause him any problems.

  Jonathan pulled his car in behind the plumber’s pickup truck that took up most of the alley he planned to use as a parking lot. That reminded him, he needed to put in another call to the guy in charge of that project.

  He heard voices coming from the newly renovated parlor room that would serve as his lobby. Jonathan walked up the steps to the wraparound porch. Its planks were still bare after being stripped of a hundred years of paint. It would be beautiful with the rich mahogany stain he’d decided on.

  He opened the front door to find the contractor in a heated discussion with a rather tall woman whose back was turned to him.

  “You’re here. Good!” the contractor yelled, throwing his hands in the air. “Now you can deal with her. Fighting off psychopaths is not in my job description.”

  The woman turned.

  Jonathan took a step back.

  She wasn’t exactly what he envisioned when he thought of a vagrant. The word, by definition, evoked images of a dirty, homeless nobody. From the looks of her, this woman was not homeless. She looked more like one of the palm readers that lined the pedestrian walkway around Jackson Square. She wore a long flowing skirt and loose blouse that had a tie at her slim neck. A purple paisley scarf that dramatically clashed with the bright orange and hot pink colors of her clothing was tied around her head and in a knot over her right ear, its ends brushing her shoulder.

  A little eccentric maybe, but definitely not a vagrant. Fascinating, if he were to be honest. She was no more than a few inches shorter than he was, and at six-feet, four inches, his height was nothing to sneeze at.

  Fascinating and formidable.

  “Is there a problem?” Jonathan asked. He directed his question to the building contractor who continued to grumble in the corner of the huge room. The plumber was thumping his palm with a pipe wrench. He had yet to open his mouth.

  “Yes, there is definitely a problem,” the woman answered. “I’m guessing you’re the owner.”

  “I am,” Jonathan said. “How can I help you?”

  “You can tell these men to pack up their tools and get out of this building.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jonathan choked. It took a quick mind to catch him off guard, and she had certainly done that.

  Definitely fascinating.

  “You are messing with history. This building is a landmark.”

  “I think you’re mistaken, Ms…? I’m sorry, but I missed your name.”

  “My name is irrelevant. The important thing here is that this building holds too much significance for me to allow you to continue gutting it like a fish. I won’t stand for another ounce of desecration.”

  Jonathan’s throat had become so dry he could hardly swallow. What was it about her that had him so enthralled?

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but no one told me about any historical significance when I signed the lease. I consulted the landlord before performing any renovations, and he didn’t have a problem with it. In fact, he was thrilled that the place would get a makeover.”

  “The landlord doesn’t care about this building’s history. That doesn’t lessen its importance.”

  “If it were all that important, it would be listed in the state’s landmark registry, and the city would have prevented renovations before I ever started. Like I said, I believe you have the wrong building.”

  She pointed at him with two long, elegant fingers. “This is not over. I will not let you destroy this place.” Before he could respond, she rushed past him, leaving a faint, floral scent in her wake.

  Jonathan, along with the contractor and plumber, walked out onto the porch and watched as she marched defiantly across the street, then down the sidewalk.

  “Fascinating,” Jonathan let out on a whispered breath.

  ***

  Sienna deposited a pack of gummy bears on Candi’s desk. “A little something to brighten your day,” she greeted her boss’s assistant with a smile.

  “How did you know my day needed brightening?” Candi asked.

  “Uh oh, what happened?” Sienna asked, noticing that the usually composed Candi seemed a bit rushed.

  “Oh nothing, just that my boss has turned into Godzilla,” Candi answered.

  “Not what I wanted to hear, seeing as I have a meeting with him in,” Sienna checked her watch, “less than five minutes.”

  “Make that right now.” Sienna turned at Allen’s voice. He stood just outside his door. “Candi, get James Beck on the phone, and if a Michael Roberts calls make sure you put him through immediately.” He turned to Sienna. “My office, if you please, Sienna.”

  Candi mouthed good luck, and sent her a sympathetic wave.

  Sienna entered Allen’s spacious office and sat in one of the two leather chairs facing the richly polished desk. Allen took the seat behind his desk and crossed his hands over his blotter.

  “I’m not going to beat around the bush, because frankly, I just don’t have the time. I’m going to have to pull you from the Holmes/Jordan account.”

  Sienna’s breath caught in her throat. She had not known what to expect when Allen had requested this meeting, but she certainly hadn’t expected to have the rug pulled out from under her. She’d been put in charge of the account less than twenty-four hours ago, how could she have messed up this soon?

  “I don’t understand, Allen. Just yesterday you were saying how great a fit I am for this account.”

  “Circumstances have changed.” He sighed deeply and set the chrome pendulum on his desk to swinging. The methodical tapping matched the trepidation beating within her chest. Allen Mulholland was stalling.

  He sat back in his chair and held her stare. “Cardinal Studios, the parent company of Over The Edge Productions, has learned of Mr. Holmes’s decision to go with MDF, Inc. to handle promotional duties for the reality show. The president of Cardinal called this morning with what could turn out to be the most lucrative deal MDF has ever been offered. They have eight feature films and made-for-TV movies slated for production next year in South Louisiana, and they are looking for a marketing firm to handle the account. I touched on this yesterday. With this new state tax credit, this area is about to explode as it pertains to motion pictures.”

  “I still don’t understand what it has to do with my account.” She already thought of it as her account. She’d stayed up half the night trying to devise different angles for marketing Aria.

  “Cardinal is looking at how well we handle the Holmes/Jordan account as a benchmark.”

  So that was it. Allen didn’t have as much confidence in her as he’d claimed.

  “I know this is disappointing, Sienna,
but you have to understand—”

  “No, Allen.” She was not losing this account. Though, she may lose her job if she spoke to her boss in that tone again. Sienna tapered her voice. “I can do this.” He shook his head, but before he could voice another negative thought against her, Sienna stopped him. “I’ll guarantee it,” she said. “I guarantee Cardinal Studio’s satisfaction with the way this account is handled.”

  “And if they are not one-hundred percent satisfied?” Allen asked.

  Sienna sent him a leveled gaze. “If Cardinal Studios does not offer their marketing dollars to MDF based on my handling of Aria Jordan’s account, then I will tender my resignation,” Sienna said.

  Allen picked up a pen and began to tap out a rhythm on his desk. “Sienna, do you remember how many people were up for your position?” he asked.

  “Two-hundred fourteen,” she answered.

  He raised a brow, a small smile forming at the corner of his mouth. “Most of those people are still looking for a job, many of them will not find one. And not one of them will find one as lucrative as yours.”

  “I know that, Allen. But I also know that I can do this job.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  She nodded.

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. I was planning to put another account on hold so I could take over the Holmes/Jordan account personally, but I’ll give you a chance.”

  Sienna breathed a short-lived sigh of relief.

  “But take this as your sole warning.” Allen pointed the ink pen at her. “I will be watching. I want to be kept abreast of every aspect of this account.”

  “Of course,” Sienna answered.

  “Mr. Mulholland,” Candi’s voice came through the phone intercom. “James Beck is on line five.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” Sienna said. She rose from the chair on legs that could barely support her, and somehow made her way out of the office and onto the elevator.