Glancing at the time on my phone, I suddenly realize I’ve been sleeping for two hours when I’m supposed to fly home today. I grab my boots and my head spins, while my stomach growls. I’m not drunk, but I’m not myself, and I don’t like it. There is enough spinning out of control in my life without me drinking myself there, too. But then, doesn’t the fact that I let this happen here with Nick, say trust? On a core level, I didn’t even recognize until today that I trust Nick. I’m not sure who I said that about last.
Finishing the task of pulling on my boots, I stand up, testing my footing, and decide that I’m light-headed, but otherwise, really okay. I walk to the bathroom to pee and fix my face, frustrated as my conversation with Josh replays in my mind, as does the memory of Macom that Josh had brought forth. And suddenly, I need to see Nick. I need to feel the connection I have with him, the trust. And the minute he touches me or kisses me or simply looks at me, I will.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Faith
On my quest to find Nick, I quickly make my way through the bedroom to the hallway. I head down the stairs, only to grab the railing with the queasy, dizzy sensation called foolishly drinking syndrome, which I’m fairly certain is a real medical term. Or perhaps it’s the kind of college kid I never was, and am not now, thus I should not be using it in my life—ever. A thought that has me taking slow, cautious steps, down to the first level of stairs to ensure I don’t tumble downward.
My feet are thankfully still on solid ground as I reach the platform below and turn the corner to take the second level of steps. Instead I find myself halting at the sight of Nick and another thirty-something man, with buzz cut blond hair, sitting at the island bar, both men with files and computers in front of them. Aware that I’m about to interrupt their obvious work session, I fully intend to sneak back up the steps, but instead, find myself staring at Nick. Something inherently sexy about the way his brown hair tied at his nape, his high cheek bones, and full mouth come together to accent his masculine beauty. The man literally oozes power and arrogance, reminding me that he is all about control. All qualities that remind me of Macom and my mother in different ways, and that I swore I never wanted in my life again. And yet, Nick might as well be a drug, and me an addict, because I am officially incapable of walking away. Some might even call my attraction to him a form of self-destruction, and yet, Nick is more than the sum of those descriptive words. He’s become the wings in the wind of change for me. The one person in my life who has ever truly lifted me up.
Shaking myself, I take a step backward, but the stranger with Nick sits at the end cap of the island facing me, and suddenly, his gaze lifts and lands on me. Nick follows his visitor’s lead, his attention immediately rocketing to me as well, and when his gaze meets mine, I forget leaving. I forget the stranger. There is just this man taking my life by storm in all the right ways, and that connection we share that I was looking for. The bond, I am now certain that we’ve shared in different incarnations since the moment we tangled words in my mother’s gardens, our connection intense and fierce, even then.
“Faith,” he says, pushing to his feet, his voice warm, welcoming, the look in his eyes, hot. “Join us.”
“No,” I say, holding up my hands. “Keep doing what you’re doing. I just wanted you to know that I was going to do some painting.” But he has already stuffed documents into his briefcase, shut the lid, and is now crossing the room toward me, his stride long, confident. Everything about this man is powerful, intense. Riveting.
“I’m going to go paint,” I say again, hurrying to meet him at the bottom of the steps. “I can tell you’re working and I didn’t mean to—”
He pulls me to him and kisses me, his really wonderfully hard body absorbing the softer lines of mine. “Don’t do that,” he orders softly, a rough, intimate quality to his voice.
“Do what?”
“Act like you don’t belong here, because you do. And since you obviously don’t know that yet, I’ve got work to do. Abel’s a close friend, of which I have few. I wanted you two to meet. And we ordered pizza with the intent of waking you up to join us.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” he confirms. “We did. How do you feel?”
“Unsteady,” I admit, my hands on his upper arms. “I don’t know what I was thinking drinking like that.”
“I’d like to think that you trusted that you were here with me, and safe.” He caresses my hair behind my ear. “If you fall, I promise I’ll catch you.”
“You already did,” I say, my hand flattening on his chest, my mind reflecting on the secret I sense in him, and trying to understand when I pain him. “I’ll catch you, too. You know that, right?”
His gaze sharpens and then darkens, a hint of that secret flickering in his eyes, here and gone in a few flashed seconds. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says softly, but I sense the wall he now throws up, even as he twines the fingers of one of his hands with mine. “Come sit down and meet Abel.”
He attempts to put us in motion while I dig in my heels. “I’m not myself right now.”
“I’m half a bottle in,” Abel calls out, and Nick rotates to stand by my side, allowing us both to spy the bottle in Abel’s hand. “We’ll be speaking the same language, Faith,” he assures me.
Nick glances at me. “He’s an attorney,” he explains. “And he just won a big case that he wishes he would have lost.”
My brow furrows. “He wanted to lose a case?”
“I did not want to lose my damn case,” Abel grumbles. “I win. That’s what I do.”
“All right then,” Nick says dryly. “Pizza for you both and no more whiskey.” And this time, he doesn’t give me time to object. His arm slides around my shoulders as he sets us back in motion. While I can’t help but think that Abel and I oddly have similar reasons for drinking. He had an obligation to save a client that perhaps didn’t deserve to be saved, much the same as what I felt with my mother.
“How are you this clearheaded?” I ask, as we round the counter and Nicks pulls out the barstool for me that sits between his spot and Abel’s. “Didn’t you drink with both of us?”
“I drank a pot of coffee,” he explains, indicating the thermal pot on the counter as we both claim our seats.
“He drank his No.6 with you,” Abel comments, sounding less than pleased. “My bottle is beneath him, and for the record you better be damn special to score the No.6 over me.”
“Perhaps he needed No.6 to deal with my version of crazy today,” I rebuttal, with the full intention of dodging an awkward bullet.
He laughs and glances at Nick. “Quick-witted. I like that.”
“Until she outwits you, and she will,” Nick assures him.
“Game on,” Abel says, glancing at me. “You know this now, but to make it official, I’m Abel. Especially when I’m not drinking.”
I laugh, finding Abel, the official, or not so official version, easy to like. “You’re pretty humorous, Abel, especially when you’re not drinking.”
“A perfectly acceptable assessment,” he says, “unless it’s next week when I’m in court.”
“Ah well,” I say. “You might not be funny at all. I’m pretty sure I’m easily amused right now considering my alcohol intolerance.”
“That’s a horrible condition, I hear,” he says, refilling his glass. “Thank God, I don’t have it.”
“As you can see,” Nick interjects. “He’s a phone book of bad jokes, sadly, even when he’s not drinking.”
“My jokes amuse people with a sense of humor,” Abel comments dryly, glancing at me. “In case you haven’t noticed yet, Faith, Nick doesn’t have one of those.”
“You know what they say,” Nick replies. “If you can’t be the good looking one, be the funny one.”
Abel snorts. “If you are inferring you’re the good looking one, then you drank more than I realized.”
Nick offers me his cup in response. “Drink this. None of us need to numb our brains to the kind
of stupid Abel’s attempting.”
Smiling at the banter between these two, and also eager to put the whiskey behind me, I eagerly sip Nick’s coffee, regretting it as the bitterness hits my tongue. “Oh God,” I murmur, unable to control the intense grimace on my face. “That is horrible.” Both men laugh fairly ferociously, and I shoot glowers between them. “It’s not funny. That might be poison. I don’t know how anyone drinks that.”
“It’s called lots of long work nights and building tolerance,” Nick says. “You’d be surprised how good bad can taste when you need to stay awake and focused.” His cellphone rings where it rests on the counter.
He grabs it and glances at the caller ID, his jaw setting hard as he stands back up. “I need to take this.” Apparently, that translates to alone because he’s already exiting the kitchen.
“And then there were two,” Abel says dramatically, pattering fingers on the table, as if creating music. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I do awkward small talk better than the average guy. For instance, I hear you’re not only an artist but that you made a big sale last night. Congrats.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a bit taken aback and awkward that he knows about my payday. “I guess Nick has been talking.”
“Bragging,” he says.
A warm spot forms in my chest with the realization that Nick doesn’t just support me when he’s with me, but even when he is not. “That’s nice to hear.”
“Nice,” he repeats. “Nice and Nick don’t really want to compute for me, but maybe it’s the whiskey. What are you going to do to celebrate your payday?”
Pay back Nick a chunk of the money he paid the bank, I think, but that’s none of his business, so I settle on a generic, “Pay bills,” I reply.
“Huh. A new car or even shoes would be a sexy celebration. Bills. Not so sexy.”
“Sexy has never been on the top of my priority list,” I say. “And paying bills is much sexier than not paying bills.”
“That’s true,” he says. “And I’m sure Nick will help you celebrate anyway.”
“He did that by being with me at the gallery last night.”
He arches. “And gave you a gift, I assume? The man is rolling in money, which I’m sure you know.”
A fizzle of unease slides through me. “I know he has money.”
“A lot of money,” Abel pushes. “You know that, right?”
“He told me,” I say, my discomfort growing exponentially, as does my regret over the whiskey that still has me feeling less than sharp.
“Did he?” Abel asks, in what feels like feigned surprise. “Huh. He usually doesn’t share details because, you know, everyone wants something from him.” He stares me down, all signs of humor gone now, his green eyes cold, hard, as he adds, “Do you?”
CHAPTER NINE
Faith
I blanch at Abel’s question, and obvious accusation, but recover quickly. “That’s direct,” I say, realizing what should have been obvious. He’s sizing me up, looking for the vulture in a butterfly’s clothing.
“Do you have a problem with direct?”
“Actually, I prefer it,” I say. “Namely because I dislike secrets. So, to answer your question: Yes. I want many things from Nick, but none of those things include his money.” I think of my fake friends back in L.A. that turned out to be all about Macom and his fame, which spurs me to add, “And for the record, I find the idea of a friend who wants to protect him, enviable.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes and when I believe he’s about to reply, Nick reappears. “What’s enviable?” he asks, claiming the stool next to me again.
“My hot body,” Abel says, holding out his hands to his sides. “Which is why I stay single. I need to spread the wealth.” The doorbell rings and he is on his feet in an instant. “I’ll get that,” he announces, already walking toward the door.
“He’s a piece of work,” Nick says, and we face each other as he adds, “But I’m sure you figured that out.”
“I did,” I say. “But I think I might like him.”
“Think?”
“I’ll decide after I have more food than whiskey in me,” I reply, appreciating Abel’s loyalty to Nick, but not necessarily his approach in showing it. “Do you two work together?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “but we run cases by each other with surprisingly good results, considering our fields of expertise.”
“You trust him,” I observe.
“I call no one a friend that I can’t trust.”
A comment that brings my little chat with Abel full circle. “Because everyone must want something from you.”
His hand settles on my leg. “Where did that just come from, Faith?”
“The number that represents your bank account,” I say. “It’s rather sobering, quite literally.”
“Most people would find it intriguing.”
“I’m not most people, Nick.”
“Of that,” he says. “I would agree.”
“Money changes people.”
“I’ve had money all my life, sweetheart. Adding a few extra zeroes isn’t a character-changing event for me.”
“I get that,” I say. “But just as money can make the holder less than genuine in many ways, it makes those around the money holder tend to be less than genuine. Nick, I don’t want your money.”
His eyes that are always so damn hard, soften. “I know that, Faith,” he says, seeming to understand that I’m speaking beyond the bank note.
“If anything, your money makes me nervous. It makes me—” I stop myself before I head down a path that leads to Macom, and is better traveled when we’re alone. “You have to know that I can’t—”
Nick’s hand goes to my face, and suddenly his cheek is pressed to mine, his lips at my ear. “We can, Faith,” he says softly, leaning back to look at me, our eyes lock and hold, I feel the deep pull between us. “Together, remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“No buts,” he says.
“Nick—”
“Faith.”
“We aren’t done with this, Nick Rogers,” I warn.
“You most certainly are for now,” Abel says, setting the pizzas on the counter. “Eyes on the guest and the food people.”
Nick lifts his brows at me, offering me the power of decision: Do I push for a talk I can’t really have in front of Abel or cave to the scent of spicy cheese goodness currently teasing my nostrils? The spicy cheese goodness wins. I rotate to face Abel, who rewards my attention by opening a box top to display an impressive looking pepperoni pizza. My stomach growls again and I decide this delicious, calorie-laden lunch will either grow the brain cells I will need to negotiate a proper financial outcome with Nick “Tiger” Rogers or put me back to sleep, but the latter is a risk I will have to take.
Ten minutes later, we remain at the island, all with bottles of water and paper plates piled with slices of pizza, in front of us. “How do you two know each other?” I ask, and one slice into my meal, I’m already feeling sharper and far more present in the conversation.
“We met in law school,” Nick offers, his answer seemingly simple, when I’ve come to know that there is nothing simple about Nick Rogers.
Or silent about Abel, I’m learning as he adds, “A long-ass time ago. Fourteen years ago?”
“I got my tattoos in July of 2003 and we met that week,” Nick says. “So yes. That would be fourteen years ago.” He glances at me. “Which I remember because he talked the entire damn time.”
“Offering moral support when he almost backed out,” Abel interjects. “You know the whole ‘don’t be a wuss’ kind of support, though that wasn’t the exact word I used.”
“He’s a big talker in every possible way,” Nick says, holding out his bare forearms to display the black and orange tiger etched on one and the words ‘An eye for an eye’ on the other. A phrase that I hate, and that still isn’t about him to me. I’m not sure it can ever be about him. “Two tattoos,” Nick continues
. “Ask Abel how many he got while talking big? None. He was afraid it would hurt.”
“It’s a good thing you two aren’t competitive or anything,” I say dryly. “Or else you might be enemies.”
“Speaking of enemies,” Nick says, shoving aside his plate. “Let’s get serious and talk about the winery.”
I stiffen instantly. “What are you doing, Nick?”
“Abel knows what’s going on at the winery,” he says, and before I can even register my shock at this announcement, he adds, “And he knows this because I’ve asked him to protect you from me.”
I face Nick, my feet suddenly unsteady again, and I haven’t even stood up yet. “What is this?”
“I promised you paperwork that protects you and the winery. And that needs to come from another attorney, who could be disbarred if he helped me deceive you.”
His friend, who just not so subtly accused me of using him for his money. “I’m giving you my check from last night,” I say. “That covers sixty thousand of the money I now owe you. After the L.A. Forum in a few weeks, I should be able to pay back the rest.”
“You owe me nothing,” Nick says, “which is exactly what Abel is going to guarantee.”
“Abel doesn’t decide this,” I retort. “And neither do you. I’m paying you back.”
“We can talk later,” Nick states. “Let Abel do his part in this now.”
“Abel’s been drinking,” I argue.
“Abel’s had half a pizza,” Abel says. “He’s good. You can ask him, yourself, though, if you prefer.”
I inhale and face him, shoving my plate aside as I do. “I appreciate your efforts, but—”
Shameless Page 7