Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  The doubts in my mind faded into the background, consumed by the beat of the music. I knew what I wanted. And it was right in front of me.

  “I’m busy in ten hours. But I’ll give you seven.” I ran my mouth along his jaw. His eyes fell shut and he groaned. “And you’re making me eggs for breakfast.”

  1

  Ava

  July, Six and a Half Months Later

  I fucking hate New York.

  My pulse pounded in my ears like a drum. Sweat poured down my face and my neck.

  Is spontaneous combustion a real thing? Because it might happen in the next five seconds.

  “What the hell do you mean you’re selling our condo?” I panted into my cell. My lungs dragged in two shallow breaths.

  “Honey, it’s my condo. You and your roommate need to be out in a week.” Our landlord’s voice came down the line.

  “But we just moved in! You can’t—”

  Dial tone.

  Shit!

  I was booking it across 37th Street as fast as my trendy open-toed pumps would carry me, already late.

  Getting evicted wasn’t the first bad thing to happen that month. Since my best friend and I had moved to New York, a pigeon had shit on my head, a local had flashed me on the street, and the R train had got me lost.

  Three. Fucking. Times.

  For a city that’s supposed to be epic, the Big Apple hadn’t bothered to put out the welcome mat.

  The sleek office building finally came into view as I rounded the corner. When I pulled on the handle of the glass door by the side of the building, it refused to open. I tried again.

  “Come on, you know you want to.”

  I gave up the crooning and tried to pry it open. My nail broke off in the door frame.

  “Dammit!”

  I looked around wildly, realizing too late that everyone was going through a revolving door farther down the building. The one I’d been trying said Security Only

  across the top. Finally pressing inside the right door revealed a lobby filled with well-dressed professionals who, unlike me, knew where they were going. My heels clicked as I rushed over the marble floor toward the security guard in the corner.

  The guard’s nametag said Barry. I plastered on a smile and tried not to wheeze.

  “I’m—” shallow breath of a dying woman “—I’m looking for a law office.”

  “Which law office?” Barry asked my boobs like they were more exciting than my words. In his defence, Barry wasn’t the first man to think so.

  “There’s more than one law office here?” I groaned.

  “Twelve in this building.”

  No wonder the world is going to shit. I tried to remember the name. “Umm … something about arms …”

  “Armstrong Levitt. They’re on eighteen. What’s a pretty girl like you need a lawyer for?” He looked me up and down like it was the best part of his day. Barry was old enough to be my dad.

  His eyes shone hopefully when I rested a forearm on the desk. “I cut a guy,” I confided in a loud whisper. Then I took off toward the elevator bank without looking back for his reaction.

  Eighteen floors passed in a flash. I tried to fix myself in the mirrored wall. Tucked a few strands of auburn hair back into my messy bun. Scrubbed a tiny smudge of winged eyeliner I always screwed up on my left eye. Smoothed my royal blue silk tank and tugged down my probably-too-short skirt. I did the last part carefully, to protect the feather detailing around the hem.

  No matter what I did, it didn’t hide the sheen of sweat that covered my … well, everything.

  The doors opened with a ding, exposing a law office that looked like it was made by old rich men, for old rich men. Shiny wood. Polished marble. Big, bold lettering probably made from twenty-four-karat gold. A pretty secretary smiled from the reception desk. I blew past her with a wave as a familiar face caught my eye through the wall of a glassed-in meeting room.

  “I’m here! Sorry, sorry.” I tugged the sliding door shut behind me.

  My best friend sat on the far side of the table with our lawyer, John. Lex wore a stylish blue boyfriend jacket rolled at the sleeves. Her red hair fell in sleek waves just past her shoulders and her gray eyes radiated relief. Always 100% class, my BFF didn’t look like she’d just completed an Ironman.

  So that made one of us.

  “Traffic was insane. Still getting used to it.” I pulled out a chair and collapsed into it. My clothes were already sticking to me. Now they’d stick me to the chair. Ick.

  Lex knew I didn’t drive but wasn’t about to rat me out.

  “Right. So, remind me what we’re doing here?” I was dying to know the reason for my best friend’s cryptic and urgent-sounding phone message asking me to get my ass down there. I never thought we’d need a lawyer. And with less than eight weeks to finalize Travesty’s spring collection, Lex and I didn’t have time to mess around.

  “Someone from the court came to my office this morning,” Lex started.

  John gestured to another person at the table, who I’d hardly noticed in the rush. “Ava, Travesty has been served with a complaint. Nathan Townsend is here representing the plaintiff.”

  I didn’t understand what that meant, but turned my head.

  Oh.

  Oh no …

  Oh, supercalifragifucking …

  I’m a visual person. What I noticed was spiky dark hair. A jaw you could cut diamonds on. A navy suit that cost more than my rent, tailored to fit a hard body. Eyes two shades lighter than the suit.

  He wasn’t smiling, but I knew his teeth were straight. The only flaw above his neck was a scar through his eyebrow. And you’d only see it if you were close.

  Say, close enough to lick it.

  I wanted to squeeze my eyes shut. Hope he’d vanish in a puff of smoke, like a leprechaun. Or a unicorn. Or anything that belonged in my imagination and not reclining comfortably in a New York law office.

  “Ava Cameron, is it?”

  “No. No, no, no.” I turned to John. “We are not working with him. If you need help, find someone else. According to Barry there are lots of options.”

  “We’re not working together.” A voice smooth as whiskey commanded my attention. Blue eyes took me apart and put me back together. Then the owner of that voice and those eyes straightened despite his already impressive posture and pushed a card in front of me on the table.

  An actual fucking business card.

  Nathan J. Townsend. Associate, Townsend Price.

  Unbelievable. Weren’t lawyers supposed to be old and balding, like John? Not twenty-something and sexy as—

  “I’m representing Anthony Bryson, whose work you copied.”

  The surprise at seeing Nate dissolved into a new shock. “What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

  “One of the designs from Travesty’s initial collection, your design, bears an uncanny resemblance to one created by my client,” he replied easily. Nate opened a folder and slid over the glossy photos like a detective in a network cop show. “These garments appeared at a fashion show three weeks ago. I understand they’re part of your fall line.”

  He’d switched into full-on lawyer mode. It felt strange. The last time I’d heard his voice, it had been an octave lower and saying other things.

  Very different things.

  I forced my attention back to the photos. The first showed a flouncy skirt I’d done for the fall, blown up to highlight tone-on-tone detailing in an inverted chevron pattern that blended into hearts at the bottom. Next to it was a photo of a maxi skirt I didn’t recognize, but the pattern was similar.

  I glanced at Lex, sliding the photos over. “Travesty’s designs are original. And mine,” I bit out.

  “I appreciate your indignation, Ms. Cameron. But there is a striking similarity between this motif, shown here, and my client’s.” His smooth tone was as infuriating as his accusations.

  “It doesn’t sound like you appreciate anything, Mr. Townsend,” I said tightly, lea
ning in. “Except the tree trunk up your ass, which you seem pretty happy about.”

  Nate blinked.

  Take that, Suit. I felt an ounce of satisfaction at his reaction.

  “What Ava’s trying to say,” Lex jumped in with her trademark tact, “is the chevron has inspired a lot of collections this fall. We have a unique take on it.”

  “Nathan, this is a sham. We intend to dispute this. But I think we’re done for today.” John cut us off before we could get into any more trouble.

  This day had gone from bad to worse to apocalypse-sized disastrous.

  I dug into my bag, searching for a nail file. At least I could fix something.

  I’ve been in New York four weeks. I’m behind on the spring line, a week from homeless, and getting sued by the only person in the whole damn city who’s seen me naked.

  “Quite the trifecta,” Nate muttered under his breath as he slid his files into a brown leather case.

  Because apparently I’d said it out loud.

  2

  Ava

  Lex dragged me out of the conference room while Nate and John packed up. I steered her into the first elevator and hit the emergency stop button inside.

  “What? When? How?”

  “Last winter when we visited New York. We went clubbing and I went home with a guy …”

  Her eyes bugged out of her head. “That was him? You slept with twenty-something Jon Hamm masquerading as a lawyer?”

  “He didn’t give me a bio, Lex! Or say ‘Sue you later.’ Pretty sure that would’ve killed the buzz. Besides, you were there too.”

  “It was dark. And we were drunk,” she admitted.

  I slid to the floor and stuck my head between my knees. My stomach was not staying where it was supposed to in relation to my other organs.

  “I hate to say it, A. But the bigger problem is this lawsuit. Bryson wants two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in damages. They might also be able to stop us from selling anything else with that motif on it if they win.”

  Shit. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars was probably the better part of my parents’ house. “We don’t have that kind of money. How can they sue us for that if we don’t have it?”

  It was surreal. We hadn’t done anything wrong. To Bryson, the designer Tall, Dark, and Asshole was representing, or anyone else.

  We both knew Tony Bryson’s clothes but had never met him. In any other circumstances, I’d have been fangirling.

  Two months ago no one knew what Travesty was. Then part of our fall line had made an emerging designer showcase and caught the eye of an A-list teenage celeb. Her stylist had called us directly to request our Claire skirt before it hit stores, and she’d already worn it. Orders had spiked overnight.

  Apparently that made us almost legit. And a target.

  “Lex, there’s no way I would copy someone else’s designs.”

  “I know.” Her voice was firm. “Though I’m usually the last person to say this,” she went on, “don’t worry yet. They’ve picked a fight with the wrong girls. I’ll talk to Grant. See if he knows anything that might help.” Lex’s stepfather was a patent lawyer in San Diego.

  “I just don’t understand why he’s back. He’s like a fucking boomerang in Hugo Boss.”

  “Still thinking about the lawyer, huh?” Lex slid down the elevator wall beside me and squeezed my knee. “It’s hard to plan these things, A.”

  “I’m trying to find a decent boyfriend, but since you don’t have any brothers I can date, what’s a girl to do?” I asked sweetly.

  Lex rolled her eyes.

  She had started going out with my little brother last fall. Or technically, hooking up with him. It was worse than weird when I found out. But having had a few months to get used to it, I could see they were actually kind of amazing together.

  Despite being two years apart, Dylan and I had never been tight. We’d gotten closer recently, both because he’d transferred to our college last year and because of Lex.

  But that didn’t mean I’d pass up a chance to tease her about it. “It’s totally cool,” I said. “Except when your best friend and your brother go at it. A thousand times a day. Like the world is going to end.”

  She flicked her hand dismissively. “You’re exaggerating.”

  I cleared my throat. “Oh, God! Just like that! No, harder!” I banged my hand on the floor of the elevator for emphasis.

  “We do not sound like that.” Lex’s face went as red as her hair.

  “You’re right,” I conceded. “You’re way dirtier.”

  I gave Lex a once-over. My friend was tall and slim, with great hair and unusual eyes. And enough girls seemed to think my brother was hot. “If we lose this lawsuit, could you guys make two hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of porn?”

  “Ava!” Lex gasped. “I cannot believe we’re talking about this.” Her eyes flicked down. The card still clutched in my hand caught her attention. “What’s that?”

  Before I’d escaped the room, Nate had written a name and number on the back of the card and returned it to me. “If you’re looking for a new apartment, a friend is renting one out. It’s between here and the park,” he’d said.

  The guy had balls for days. Like he was trying to do us a solid, in the middle of stealing from us.

  I told Lex about the call from our landlord and what Nate had done. “I’m just going to tear this into about a million pieces.”

  She plucked the card out of my hand and held it a safe distance from me. “Listen. I know you want to and I do too. But maybe he’s trying to be nice.”

  “Nate Townsend is a lot of things, Lex.” Hot. Quirky. More than one lifetime’s worth of fucked up. “He’s not nice.” I reached for the card but Lex jerked it away.

  “Right now it doesn’t matter if he runs the mafia. It’s impossible to find a good apartment fast. Can we at least see it?” Lex pushed herself up from the floor, then pulled me up after her.

  “Fine,” I said grudgingly.

  “Good.” She nodded. “Now let’s get the hell out of this elevator before the firefighters show up.”

  My mood brightened. “I like firefighters.”

  “We’re probably in violation of a fire code. They’ll bill us.”

  “Screw firefighters.”

  By that afternoon, I’d fantasized a hundred ways to tell Nate Townsend what to do with his bogus lawsuit.

  And his midtown rental.

  And his pretty blue eyes.

  Carl, the owner, buzzed us up soon after we called. Tall and fit, with hair graying at the temples, he was good-looking in a generic, Viagra-commercial-star way. Carl explained he was moving overseas for work but keeping the condo. “You’re friends of Nate’s?” he asked.

  “Ahh—something like that,” Lex replied.

  I was ready to hate the apartment. But the suite was almost new, with a familiar vibe even though it looked completely different from the house I’d grown up in or the one Lex and I had shared with two other girls at school.

  “How much is this place?” Lex asked. She made notes as we trailed behind Carl through the condo, but I could tell we had the same reaction: it was really freaking great.

  The price Carl gave us made my eyebrows shoot up.

  You could’ve fit four of these in our old townhouse, but the place had ten-foot ceilings and windows along the entire side. Plus, there was a nook off the living room I could use for sewing. What sealed the deal was a huge island taking up most of the kitchen that could easily double as a bar for entertaining. I pulled Lex aside, eyeing the island longingly. “OK, just think of the parties …”

  “Let’s not think of the parties,” she murmured, though her mouth lifted at the corner. “It’s at the top of our price range, but less than anything the same size.” Lex knew the city better than I did, having lived here the previous summer for an internship.

  “Can we get back to you by the end of the day?” she asked Carl.

  He nodded and Lex pull
ed out her phone again to flip through messages as we followed Carl out. “Let’s talk tonight. I’m heading over to the magazine office to find some things for John. He’s filing a motion to dismiss the case. With any luck we’ll be done with this mess within the week.”

  “Good luck with that.” I smiled winningly. “I’d better go work on the spring line so they have something worth suing us for.”

  3

  Nate

  “We’re so fucked.”

  Josh Malone’s familiar blond head appeared in the doorway of my office. He looked both ways down the hall before stepping in.

  I rubbed my eyes, which were glazing over from reading the stacks of paper on my desk. It was turning into the longest Monday in history and somehow it was barely two pm. “What?”

  “Chris Easterly,” he said, his voice low so anyone passing wouldn’t overhear. “They cut him loose this morning.”

  “No shit.” A fist tightened in my gut.

  “Shit,” Josh confirmed. He lifted two file boxes off a chair and set them on the floor with a thud. They joined the other dozen already piling up in my office like Tetris cubes. “Chris was billing higher than me. Higher than you. Everyone liked him. Clients, partners. Hell, even Price liked him,” Josh said, referring to the senior partner who, rumor had it, once smiled back in 1988. “Word is he fumbled on a depo last week.” Josh took a seat in the chair, carefully adjusting the cuffs of his dark Armani suit before folding his arms.

  Being an associate in a legal practice was thankless. The first year out of law school you billed more hours per week than some of my undergrad classmates had spent awake. On top of it you were expected to be charming and social, work with the other associates but secretly find ways to undercut them. To show you were competitive.