by R. C. Martin
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
P.S.
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 R.C. Martin. All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other elements portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real persons or events is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Cover and Interior Design by Cassy Roop at Pink Ink Designs ©2017
www.pinkinkdesigns.com
MY FEET ARE freezing. Maybe it’s the hardwood floors throughout my tiny apartment. Maybe it’s the rise in altitude of my new home. Or maybe it’s just my anxiety making itself comfortable inside of my body, slowing my circulation; perhaps it’s starting its cruel invasion, beginning at my toes, with every intention of working its way up, until I start to panic and I’m nothing more than a nervous ball of ice—incapable of thinking or functioning to the capacity at which I was meant to function.
Or maybe I’m just being dramatic.
I wipe down the counters, for the fifteenth time today, and then toss the rag into the sink. I stifle a groan, burying my fingers in my hair, trying not to let the silence make me crazy. I’m not used to living on my own. I miss Ellery and Pryce. I shouldn’t, given that being the third wheel in their marriage was starting to drive everyone nuts, but Elle isn’t just my older sister. She’s my best friend. Not to mention, Pryce isn’t simply my brother-in-law. He outgrew that title a while ago.
Over the last four years, Pryce has been one of the most supportive voices in my life. He was the one that convinced Elle and me that my moving in with them would be logical, smart, and fun. He wasn’t wrong, but our arrangement was always meant to be temporary.
Before I moved, I was beginning to feel this nagging awareness that I was on the verge of overstaying my welcome. Then, being the ambitious and brave couple they are, instead of kicking me out, Elle and Pryce convinced me that starting over was exactly what I needed. It was Elle who pushed me to apply for jobs at firms outside of California. It was Elle who thought a change of scenery would do me good. But it was Pryce who insisted it was my turn to pack up and move away to start a new adventure.
They were right. Except, after a week of being in Denver, I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t think any of us really knew how dense the silence of a thousand miles would be. It’s weird, not hearing Pryce come in really late after his shift; and I miss the sound of my sister humming while she works on case notes. I’ll admit, I don’t miss those times when I heard them having sex. It didn’t happen very often, but on those rare occasions when our timing was all off, it was hard to not hear my sister.
I shake away the memories with a soft laugh and open the refrigerator to pull out a beer. While I’m fully cognizant of the fact that I have a big day tomorrow, and certain that I should probably try and get some sleep, I’m also fully aware that I’m too wound up to fall asleep yet. Glancing at the bottle of local brew, one I’ve yet to try, I pop the cap off before making my way to my room. I take a swig from the bottle as I travel the short distance, letting the liquid sit in my mouth for a moment before I swallow. I give a second look to the label, impressed with the flavor, and then set the beer on a coaster atop my makeshift desk at the foot of the bed.
Leaning over the back of my chair, I power up my laptop, hoping to find an email from Ellery. I’m a bit disappointed when I discover that I have no unread messages. I shrug it off as I turn to my dresser and pull open the top drawer before plucking out a pair of socks. I slip them on my feet and make a mental note to budget for some area rugs. If I’ve got cold feet now, on the tail end of summer, there’s no telling how I’ll survive winter without them.
With my feet covered, I slide out my chair and make myself comfortable behind my laptop. Sipping at my beer, I open a new tab and bring up Facebook in my browser. As I scroll through my feed, that familiar sense of hopelessness starts to take hold of my heart.
I’m well aware that social media platforms are just that—platforms by which to showcase every perfect aspect of your life, while leaving the real life stuff hidden in, well, real life. Nevertheless, I can’t help but take note of all the people I’m connected to; all the people chasing after their dreams, conquering their goals, and living their lives as if it’s that easy.
It isn’t until I’m three quarters of the way through my beer that I decide I’ve had enough self-inflicted torture for one night. I’m just getting ready to shut down my computer when I notice I’ve got mail. Seeing that I have a new message from my sister causes a smile to pull at my lips, and I instantly discard the hopelessness I was wallowing in only a moment ago. I prop my left heel on the edge of my chair, hugging my leg against my chest as I open up her latest response and dive right in.
from: Ellery Reinhart
to: Sigourney Salenger < [email protected]>
date: Mon, Sept 2, 2019 at 10:32pm
subject: Re: Croft, Sloan, Parker, and Sticks...
Sticks,
Hey. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. My workload this weekend has been a bit crazy, and I’ve been trying to catch up. Between my cases and Pryce’s restaurant plans, I’m wondering how we’ll manage to survive the rest of this year without you. Maybe we were a bit presumptuous in thinking we could do this thing called life with you living thousands of miles away!
Gosh, that sounds bad, doesn’t it? Like we needed you to stay so that we’d still be coming home to a clean house every night. I hope you know that’s not what I mean. However, I will admit, the condo is starting to look a little scary these days. Pryce is still trying to perfect his dinner menu, and you know what that means—lots of delicious dishes for me to try, and even more dishes left to be cleaned. Except, we’re not exactly left with the time to clean them. God—I can’t wait until he’s finally ready to quit his job and really get things moving with his solo project. Just a couple more weeks!
As for the mess, I can’t even get mad at him. He’s starting to stress out. I keep trying to tell him that he’s got six months before he needs to have his menu completed, but he’s got so many decisions on his plate right now. I think he’s just anxious to have something figured out, you know? And I don’t blame him. But this weekend in particular has just been crazy. Not that things at the DA’s office are ever anything other than crazy but…you know what? Gosh, I did not mean for this email to turn into a bitch-fest. Let’s talk about you.
Let’s talk about how much I love you. How proud of you I am. How brilliant I think you are. Most of all, let me remind you that tomorrow, you’re going to kick ass. The last thing you need to be is nervous. This position is just the beginning of your future. I think that Croft, Sloan, & Parker wi
ll be the perfect place for you to learn and grow and keep you focused. The bar exam will be here before you know it, and then this stepping stone will have been completely worth it. I believe in you with my whole heart, and I expect a phone call tomorrow after your first day. If I don’t pick up right away, call me until I do, okay? I mean it. I want all the details.
Okay, I have to go. Pryce will be home soon, and I feel like I haven’t seen him since Thursday. Even though we sleep in the same bed, I miss him almost as much as I miss you. (By the way, he misses you, too!) I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Knock ‘em dead, sis—and show a little leg…
Yeah. I said it! DON’T roll your eyes at me. You got ‘em, flaunt ‘em! Lord knows you were blessed with the best legs in the family, not to mention that rack—it’s almost unfair. Besides, it gets cold there! Like, there’s snow and stuff. Show off those sticks before you have to cover them up! Trust me. I’m your sister. I know best.
Hugs,
Elle
After reading over her email twice, smiling to myself both times, I decide that she’s not the only one who needs to log off for the night. Finally powering down my computer, I brush my teeth and wash my face before taking my ass to bed.
Tomorrow, a whole new chapter of my life begins.
I WIPE THE sweat from my brow as I ride the elevator to the forty-ninth floor, leaning against the handle bars of my bike. My father hates it when I carry my ride into the office, but not a single shit do I give. I’m not stupid. I know better than to leave my wheels, worth more than ten grand, locked up in the cage downstairs. Besides, he can’t say anything to me about it now. He’s no longer my superior. We’re equals.
The elevator chimes when I arrive at my destination, and I lift my bike onto my shoulder as I step out onto the top floor of our firm. I pause, glancing at the glass doors before me. Croft, Sloan, & Parker. Only a year ago, we were Beckett, Croft, Sloan, & Parker, until the old man wanted out. I saw the writing on the wall long before then, and I knew his pending retirement would be my opening.
For the last two years, I’ve been busting my ass, incorporating commercial law into my repertoire. I always thought I’d end up buying my way in via my corporate law expertise; but when I made the firm that first million in Beckett’s absence, it was all the confirmation I needed that I had made a good choice—the smart choice.
Partner by the age of thirty-five. It’s what I’ve wanted since I graduated from law school. Part of my ambition stems from my own drive and my own desire for success. I’m good at what I do. One of the best. I earned the right to say as much—I earned the right to have my name printed on the goddamn door. But I won’t lie, and I’m not ashamed to admit that, on some nights, the fuel that kept the fire lit under me was my determination to best my father. I wanted into a corner office not to prove that I’d made it, but to prove that I’m better than him.
Croft, Sloan, Parker, & Croft—I worked my way up, I bought my seat at the table, and now I’m here. Fucking finally. By the end of the day, every sign in this place will bear my name, and my father can’t say shit.
With a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth, I swipe my key card, granting me access before I pull open one of the double doors and make my way into the office. I bypass the front reception desk and take a left, headed for my new suite. Swiping my key card once more, I unlock the door and step inside. I can’t stop myself from coming to a halt and taking it all in. As ready as I am to be a partner at this firm, it doesn’t make this moment any less surreal.
The furniture I had delivered on Saturday is situated exactly as I had pictured it, months before this space was even mine. Modern and simple is how my mother has always described my tastes. Clean and sophisticated is how I would describe it. Regardless of how you want to label it, I put it to good use. This space is now mine, and it looks just right.
The limited amount of wall space I have is the same blueish-green color it’s always been, now adorned with a few pieces that truly make the office my own. On the other side of my double door, glass entry, I’ve hung a wall mount for my bike—a spectacular act of rebellion against my father. On either side of the mount are two framed pieces of cyclist art my mother purchased for me some time ago. The bright colors bring a bit of contrast and character to the suite that I’m sure she’d love, even though I know she won’t dare step foot in this place.
After hanging my bike, I go to stand behind my desk and admire the city. The view of the pink and orange sunrise surrounds me. The wall behind my work space and the wall to my right are made almost entirely of floor to ceiling windows. The low-set cabinetry that stretches around the room, against the windows, now houses my collection of books and office supplies, as well as a portion of my vinyl stash. I spent all weekend moving in, with every intention of being settled on my first day.
My attention is pulled away from my spectacular view when my phone buzzes inside of my pocket. I slip it out, a hint of a smile making my lips twitch when I see a new message from Hale—my closest friend, and certainly the only person who would ever send me a text this early in the morning. Most days, I don’t know whether he’s coming or going. His shifts at the hospital make his schedule ridiculously unpredictable, to say the least.
Cheers, brother. Don’t make anyone cry on your first day in those new shoes.
Chuckling, I’m quick to send my reply.
Right back at you.
Ah, I must be granted an exception. Twelve hours in surgery. Saved a life this morning. His wife was quite pleased.
Show off.
Turning toward my desk, I glance at the paperwork Avangeline delivered late Friday evening—the résumés of the second year associates I’ll be managing, along with my new secretary. Tossing my phone down, I finger through the sheets absentmindedly. I’m well aware that Rebecca had her paralegal deliver the folder with good intentions; she’s always been an ally with my best interests at heart. That said, she should know better.
The timing of my promotion wasn’t a coincidence. Maverick Parker, god bless him, has had his fun with the first years. Those who have made the cut will report to their respective partners to endure their second year of paying their dues. Had I been named partner a few days earlier, I would have had a say in my associates. I’m sure it was my father’s plan to avoid that, the greedy swine. Regardless, I knew nearly a week ago which associates my father would assign to my care, and I’ve already looked into them. Thoroughly. They aren’t the cream of the crop, but they’ll do.
It’s my secretary, Sigourney Salenger, that I know nothing about. I don’t have time to look over her credentials now, but I’m sure she’s fine. Rebecca hired her as a favor to me, which means she’s qualified enough. If she’s anything like Avangeline, who has been working alongside Rebecca Sloan for the last six years, I have nothing to worry about. However, with a name like Sigourney, I wonder what kind of woman I should expect. Probably some middle-aged, up-tight librarian type. That’s fine by me, so long as she gets the job done.
Abandoning my desk, I cross the room to the en suite elevator, tucked into the wall across from my conference room table. The doors slide open as soon as I hit the call button, and I step inside before ascending to my new flat. While the public elevators allow one access to the first forty-nine floors of the building, the penthouse is accessible only from the four executive corner suites in our firm. Each office comes equipped with a private flat, outfitted with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living area, and a kitchen. It had been my father’s idea many years ago. He convinced the other partners it was a great plan; claiming that with their late hours and tedious work schedules, it would be convenient to have a place to shower and sleep if getting home wasn’t feasible.
Such a goddamn liar.
I’m without a doubt that my father uses his flat for one thing and one thing only—sex.
Then again, I probably shouldn’t complain. At least I’ve never walked in on him with his secretary bent over his desk for everyone to see. He apparen
tly has a shred of decorum, though assuredly not enough for me to hold more than an ounce of respect for the man.
I was ten years old when I first heard the broken sobs of my mother as she argued with my father about his affair. I was twelve when I realized he hadn’t stopped at one woman, that truth a reality that made my mother disappear into herself. I was fifteen when it became clear that the man who claimed me as his son was nothing more than a money hungry scumbag who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. I was eighteen when my mother finally left him. Then, at twenty-six years old, when I was hired as a first year associate at Beckett, Croft, Sloan, & Parker, I made myself a vow—that I would work tirelessly, that I would work diligently, that I would work scrupulously to become not just a fucking good lawyer, but a noteworthy partner; not just a better man, but a good man, with integrity and the right of everyone’s respect.
I wish to be nothing like Allen Croft.
The elevator opens up to the living area, which flows right into the kitchen. I didn’t do much up here, only stocking up on the essentials. The entertainment center to my left, set up beneath the sixty-four-inch television mounted on the wall, is situated in front of a living room set. There are bar stools tucked under the island in the kitchen, but I didn’t bother purchasing dishes or cookware—only going out of my way to obtain a coffee pot and a set of mugs. The rest can wait. This place will be mine for a while.
Headed toward the master bedroom, I walk straight for the closet, where I brought a collection of my suits to store for mornings such as this. I discard my biker gear, stripping down for a shower, and then stroll in that direction. It’s getting late, the time already half past the hour. I aim to be at my desk well before the office starts to fill with the activity of the day. That’s been my routine for nearly a decade—and I sure as hell won’t stop now.