“I work here,” I said, finally. Wasn’t it obvious?
He moved my way again, his posture casual and relaxed. This time I straightened. I tilted my chin up. A waft of his scent—spicy, earthy, clean, and masculine—filled my nose. I inhaled and shivered. He’d always had this impact on me. And I always loathed myself for it.
“Last I heard, you were working on a Fine Arts degree.” He arched a thick, devilish eyebrow, as if to ask, What went wrong?
Everything, I thought bitterly. Everything went wrong.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I did get a degree.” I pushed off from the wall and moved past him to wash my hands. He followed me with his eyes. “A thing called life butted into my plans, and I didn’t have the luxury of working my way up on an art-intern salary, so I work as a PA. That’s what I did until about three hours ago when I was let go. I thought I was having a bad enough day when I walked in here, but”—my eyes swiped his body—“clearly, the universe decided to make it an all-out disaster.”
I didn’t know why I was telling him all this. I didn’t know why I was speaking to him at all. I should’ve yelled or stormed out of the bathroom after what he’d done to me years ago. Called our bouncer and kicked him out of McCoy’s. But as much as I didn’t like to admit it, I didn’t hate him as much as I probably should have. A tiny sad part of me knew he wasn’t to blame for my current state. My choices were mine.
I’d made my bed. Now I had to lie in it, even if it was full of fleas.
He tucked one hand in his pocket, using his free one to tousle his unruly hair—even more perfect now that he was all man. I looked away, wondering how he’d spent the last decade. What he did for a living. Whether he had a girlfriend or a wife or maybe even some kids. I’d always made it a point not to ask or listen, but now that he was in front of me, curiosity poked me, begging my mouth to ask these questions.
But I didn’t.
“Have a nice life, Vicious.” I turned off the faucet, sashaying to the door.
He grabbed my elbow and jerked me in his direction. A jolt of panic and excitement ripped through me. There was no point in shaking him away—he was twice my size.
“Do you need help, Help?” he whispered in my face. I hated him for calling me that.
And I hated me for responding to his gruff tone the way I did, even after all this time. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and a hot wave crashed inside my chest.
I was breathing heavily, but so was he.
“Whatever it is I need,” I said, my voice a hiss, “I don’t want it from you.”
He pinned me with a wolfish grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he said, releasing my arm like it was dirty and nudging me to the door. “And I still haven’t made up my mind.”
I turned around and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving my high school crush turned nemesis alone in the bathroom.
I contemplated asking Dee to serve their table for the remainder of the night—knew she’d have probably said yes, seeing as they reeked of money—but my stupid pride made me want to see this evening through. It somehow felt important to show him, and myself, that I was indifferent to him, even though it was a lie.
Around three rounds of drinks and an hour later, Sharp Suit stood up. He looked frustrated, annoyed, and defeated, feelings I knew all too well from my year in Todos Santos. The man extended his hand across the table, but Vicious didn’t shake it or stand up. He just glared at the stack of papers between them, silently urging Sharp Suit to pick them up. The man did, and left in a hurry.
I rushed to place their bill on the table and turned around before Vicious had a chance to talk to me again. He paid with a credit card and vanished from what used to be my lucky corner. When I picked up the signed receipt, my hands trembled. I was scared to see how much he’d tipped me. Pathetic, I knew. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. On one hand, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and on the other, I wanted…heck, what did I want?
Whatever it was, when I picked up the receipt, I knew it wasn’t this. My eyes flared when I saw what he’d written at the bottom:
For your tip, go to 125 E 52nd. 23rd floor.
—Black
A crazy laugh fizzed from my throat. I fisted the note into a tiny ball and dunk-slammed it into the trash behind Kyle.
“Lousy tip?” He looked up from his book, confused.
“He didn’t leave one.” I motioned for him to pour me another shot.
He grabbed the neck of the Vodka bottle. “Asshole.”
Oh, Kyle, I wanted to say. You have no idea.
PLOT TWISTS. GUESS THEY KEPT shit interesting.
I’d be lying if I claimed I’d forgotten about Emilia LeBlanc. But I hadn’t expected to see her again. Sure, I knew she was in New York. New fucking York, the home of over eight million people who weren’t Emilia LeBlanc.
I’d come to the city a week ago with the intention of doing one thing and one thing only—to make the jerk I’d met at McCoy’s drop his fucking lawsuit against my company. He had.
Did I enjoy intimidating him? Yes.
Did it make me a bad person? Probably.
Did I care? Not even one bit.
Sergio had caved, but not because I metaphorically squeezed his balls so tight his future children screamed in agony. He’d done it because I pulled out a detailed draft of a counter lawsuit, one I’d written myself the night before, on my flight from LA to New York. And I’d aced this motherfucker.
Lawyers had the potential to make the best criminals. That was a fact. The only thing that separated me from being an outlaw was opportunity. I had plenty of those within the law.
But Help wasn’t far off. I was a bad person, a good lawyer, and to some extent, yes, still the same asshole who made her senior year miserable.
Sergio was going to drop the lawsuit, let us keep the client we allegedly “stole” from his firm, and all was going to be well. I was a partner in a company specializing in high-risk investments and mergers. The four of us—Trent, Jaime, Dean and I—had founded Fiscal Heights Holdings three years ago. They worked the money side while I was the company’s lead attorney.
Sure, I liked numbers. They were safe. They didn’t fucking speak. What wasn’t to like? But I liked arguing and pissing people off even more.
He moved my way again, his posture casual and relaxed. This time I straightened. I tilted my chin up. A waft of his scent—spicy, earthy, clean, and masculine—filled my nose. I inhaled and shivered. He’d always had this impact on me. And I always loathed myself for it.
“Last I heard, you were working on a Fine Arts degree.” He arched a thick, devilish eyebrow, as if to ask, What went wrong?
Everything, I thought bitterly. Everything went wrong.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I did get a degree.” I pushed off from the wall and moved past him to wash my hands. He followed me with his eyes. “A thing called life butted into my plans, and I didn’t have the luxury of working my way up on an art-intern salary, so I work as a PA. That’s what I did until about three hours ago when I was let go. I thought I was having a bad enough day when I walked in here, but”—my eyes swiped his body—“clearly, the universe decided to make it an all-out disaster.”
I didn’t know why I was telling him all this. I didn’t know why I was speaking to him at all. I should’ve yelled or stormed out of the bathroom after what he’d done to me years ago. Called our bouncer and kicked him out of McCoy’s. But as much as I didn’t like to admit it, I didn’t hate him as much as I probably should have. A tiny sad part of me knew he wasn’t to blame for my current state. My choices were mine.
I’d made my bed. Now I had to lie in it, even if it was full of fleas.
He tucked one hand in his pocket, using his free one to tousle his unruly hair—even more perfect now that he was all man. I looked away, wondering how he’d spent the last decade. What he did for a living. Whether he had a girlfriend or a wife or maybe even some kids. I’d always made it a point not to ask or listen, but now that he was in front of me, curiosity poked me, begging my mouth to ask these questions.
But I didn’t.
“Have a nice life, Vicious.” I turned off the faucet, sashaying to the door.
He grabbed my elbow and jerked me in his direction. A jolt of panic and excitement ripped through me. There was no point in shaking him away—he was twice my size.
“Do you need help, Help?” he whispered in my face. I hated him for calling me that.
And I hated me for responding to his gruff tone the way I did, even after all this time. Goose bumps prickled my skin, and a hot wave crashed inside my chest.
I was breathing heavily, but so was he.
“Whatever it is I need,” I said, my voice a hiss, “I don’t want it from you.”
He pinned me with a wolfish grin. “That’s for me to decide,” he said, releasing my arm like it was dirty and nudging me to the door. “And I still haven’t made up my mind.”
I turned around and bolted out of the bathroom, leaving my high school crush turned nemesis alone in the bathroom.
I contemplated asking Dee to serve their table for the remainder of the night—knew she’d have probably said yes, seeing as they reeked of money—but my stupid pride made me want to see this evening through. It somehow felt important to show him, and myself, that I was indifferent to him, even though it was a lie.
Around three rounds of drinks and an hour later, Sharp Suit stood up. He looked frustrated, annoyed, and defeated, feelings I knew all too well from my year in Todos Santos. The man extended his hand across the table, but Vicious didn’t shake it or stand up. He just glared at the stack of papers between them, silently urging Sharp Suit to pick them up. The man did, and left in a hurry.
I rushed to place their bill on the table and turned around before Vicious had a chance to talk to me again. He paid with a credit card and vanished from what used to be my lucky corner. When I picked up the signed receipt, my hands trembled. I was scared to see how much he’d tipped me. Pathetic, I knew. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. On one hand, I didn’t want to feel like a charity case, and on the other, I wanted…heck, what did I want?
Whatever it was, when I picked up the receipt, I knew it wasn’t this. My eyes flared when I saw what he’d written at the bottom:
For your tip, go to 125 E 52nd. 23rd floor.
—Black
A crazy laugh fizzed from my throat. I fisted the note into a tiny ball and dunk-slammed it into the trash behind Kyle.
“Lousy tip?” He looked up from his book, confused.
“He didn’t leave one.” I motioned for him to pour me another shot.
He grabbed the neck of the Vodka bottle. “Asshole.”
Oh, Kyle, I wanted to say. You have no idea.
PLOT TWISTS. GUESS THEY KEPT shit interesting.
I’d be lying if I claimed I’d forgotten about Emilia LeBlanc. But I hadn’t expected to see her again. Sure, I knew she was in New York. New fucking York, the home of over eight million people who weren’t Emilia LeBlanc.
I’d come to the city a week ago with the intention of doing one thing and one thing only—to make the jerk I’d met at McCoy’s drop his fucking lawsuit against my company. He had.
Did I enjoy intimidating him? Yes.
Did it make me a bad person? Probably.
Did I care? Not even one bit.
Sergio had caved, but not because I metaphorically squeezed his balls so tight his future children screamed in agony. He’d done it because I pulled out a detailed draft of a counter lawsuit, one I’d written myself the night before, on my flight from LA to New York. And I’d aced this motherfucker.
Lawyers had the potential to make the best criminals. That was a fact. The only thing that separated me from being an outlaw was opportunity. I had plenty of those within the law.
But Help wasn’t far off. I was a bad person, a good lawyer, and to some extent, yes, still the same asshole who made her senior year miserable.
Sergio was going to drop the lawsuit, let us keep the client we allegedly “stole” from his firm, and all was going to be well. I was a partner in a company specializing in high-risk investments and mergers. The four of us—Trent, Jaime, Dean and I—had founded Fiscal Heights Holdings three years ago. They worked the money side while I was the company’s lead attorney.
Sure, I liked numbers. They were safe. They didn’t fucking speak. What wasn’t to like? But I liked arguing and pissing people off even more.
