The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel

by Natalie Wrye

  “Chicago?” I ask, watching Violet bristle from the question. “What’s in Chicago?”

  “Something I don’t want to talk about.” Her shoulders slump. “Especially with you.”

  Her gaze swings in my direction, and they travel to my hand still perched on hers, the skin beneath my fingers just as soft as velvet. And as tempting to touch. I remove my hand.

  “I see you haven’t forgotten much, have you?”

  The beautiful redhead blinks. “I’ve forgotten it all. All except the part where I wish you’d never been born. I remember that part very vividly.”

  “As do I.” I smile. “Along with the shoe you threw at my head.”

  Her blue eyes flash, humor hinting in their oceanic depths. She raises one red eyebrow. “That was an accident.”

  “‘Accident?’” I lift my own eyebrows, letting them practically hit my hairline. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

  “Heath…” she says my name, her tone turning serious. “You might be a liar. But I’m not. And I didn’t plan on coming here tonight, knowing you would be too.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I never told anyone about us.”

  My eyes narrow. “And neither did I.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.” She tightens her hold on her purse, turning away.

  Without thinking, I grab the crook of her elbow, hooking my hand around its curve, and I’m shocked when I feel Violet shudder, her curvy body trembling beneath my touch. Her skin feels warm beneath my hand—hot even.

  I stand to my full height, feeling powerless despite my size. Lost for words.

  But Violet’s eyes speak volumes as she stares at me, and her willingness to walk away without another word is a like a twist to my gut, a stab I hadn’t expected quite to hurt as much.

  And who was I to talk hurt?

  I was the one who walked away. Flew, in fact.

  Three thousand miles and eleven months couldn’t lessen the lust that flared every time I saw the tantalizing attorney, and I’m still slammed in the solar plexus as I lay eyes on her, every ounce of my body desperate for another second. I motion to her expensive drink, still sitting there—lonely—on the mahogany bar. I nod towards it, inhaling harshly through my nose.

  “You going to let that go to waste?”

  She glances over at the glass with a shrug. “Drink it, if it suits you. Fucking snort it. Inhale it. Do with it what you want.”

  “We’re still going to have to see each other.”

  “Up until Marilyn gets better. Or you fly back out of town. Whichever comes first.”

  The dig stings, and I try to shake it off, the comment piercing a fragile piece of me I didn’t know existed. I tighten my hold on her.

  “Marilyn is counting on all of us to pull it together for her. I know my sister. I don’t know about you…but I wouldn’t want the wrath of Marilyn Sparrow on my ass. I’ve seen my sister break people down till there’s nothing left but their balls.”

  Violet flashes a dry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have a set of balls.” She turns once more.

  “You’re really going to do this, Keats?” I call out as she slips from my grasp. “Keep up this wall?”

  She turns, stopping several feet down the bar. “You built up this wall, Heath. I’m just reinforcing it.” She shakes her head, letting strawberry strands of hair swing. “Have a good time in New York while you’re here, Heath. Don’t make this any worse. Or do. I don’t care.” She blinks, raising her face to me, her chin set in resistance. “But I do care about your sister.” She inhales. “And I know you do, too. If we give two fucks about her, we’ll keep the focus on her…” She hesitates. “And not each other.”

  My stomach sinks with each passing second, reality setting like an ice-cold blanket of New York snow.

  But Violet Keats isn’t what I came back for.

  I’m here for my family only. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I’m reminded when I pick up her discarded glass, draining the entire drink. The taste is smoother than I thought, the bite nuanced. It’s not as bad as I predicted, but I know the few days will be…

  As soon as I tell Violet why we can’t stay apart from each other—a fact that’s entirely out of my hands and in my father’s. A fact his lawyers made damned sure I can’t fight.

  Chapter 6

  VIOLET

  The next morning, I have the worst hangover of my entire life.

  Except it has nothing do with alcohol and everything to do with Marilyn’s brother, a bastard I can’t seem to get out of my head.

  It’s a Heath hangover. And I wish it would go away.

  I try to sleep it away at night, try run it away at the rising dawn. I try to freeze it away on my frigid fifteen block walk to Marilyn’s hospital room. And I try to shop it out my system two hours after I leave the beautiful brunette’s bedside.

  Times Square is stuffed to the gills on this cold Saturday afternoon, packed to capacity with traveling tourists. Christmas has come and blanketed its cheer all over the city. The air shimmers with excitement and lights, and as I amble over to Rockefeller Center, shopping bags in hand, I marvel at all the city has given me…

  And taken away.

  The tourist-filled streets outside my personal bubble of space seem peaceful somehow—a quiet chaos. Metal and brick behemoth buildings cast a shadow over me as I now wander aimlessly, and with each slowly moving block, I watch the streets come alive with this year’s crop of fresh holiday decorations, my gaze dancing along all the dangling glitter that stretches as far as the eye can see.

  That’s the thing about Manhattan.

  Its shiny surface hides the multitudes of sin that lie beneath. No sin as deadly as the deceptively sexy sight of Heath Sparrow back in my city, his mere presence a punishment I hadn’t quite expected.

  I’m still thinking of all that sexy sin when I slam headfirst into a wall of lilac scent and hair, my bags bumbling out of my hands and towards the icy sidewalk. I stumble, almost seeing my Maker as the slippery ground beneath me almost causes me to lose my footing.

  Bending over to pick up the scattered bags, I see a pair of manicured hands reach into help. I’m almost bowled over again when I notice that they belong to a familiar face. I gasp softly as she grins.

  “Emily.” I stolidly take my bags from her hands as she passes them to me, my face frozen as I try to find additional words. I stare at my office secretary, surprised to see her on this side of town. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  She smiles, as if I’ve asked the stupidest question in the world. She motions upwards into the air, catching a few snowflakes in her bare hands. She inclines her head towards the sky.

  “What everyone else is doing here, of course. Enjoying Christmastime in the city.”

  I almost catch myself cursing out loud. Of fucking course.

  “I love this time of the year,” she inhales, breathing soundly through a set of small nostrils. “You can smell the holiday spirit in the air.”

  I lift one eyebrow. “Sure that isn’t the city sewage?”

  She giggles. “You joke…but this is the greatest season in New York. A season of change. Of new beginnings. When everybody puts the bullshit of the year behind them and starts fresh.”

  The words strike a small chord within me. “Starting fresh” sounds better than ever in a year of so much tumult, but I’m starting to think that “starting fresh” is just an illusion. At least, for me.

  It’s hard to kick off a beginning in the midst of so much rotten. And I’ve had enough rotten experiences—especially during holidays—in the last two years to “spoil” me for a lifetime. I nod as if I understand Emily’s enthusiasm, my small smirk wilting as I stand.

  I blow out a cold breath that looks like smoke. “Well…” I start. “It was nice seeing you. Take care.”

  Emily reaches for my arm, her tiny hands wrapped around my wool coat. Her eyes go as wide as saucers.

  “Wait,
” she utters. “You’re not going to stay?”

  I glance around. “For what?”

  “For the ice-skating, of course.” She glances towards the rink I hadn’t noticed. Until now. Her hazel gaze glows from within. “You can’t miss this. This is a once-in-a-year event.” She huffs laughingly. “What kind of New Yorker are you?”

  “Uh, the sane kind?” I ask, my gaze scanning over the several screaming kids and adults on the ice. “Em… I’m just saying. I really like my ass. And I would prefer it not be broken by ice right now.”

  “Are you saying you can’t skate?”

  “Of course I can. I’m not ten. It’s just…”

  “What?” She presses. “What is ‘just’?”

  I raise my shopping bags towards her face. “I’m not big on holidays anymore…” I puff out. “Besides, I have nowhere to put my items.”

  “They have lockers for that sort of stuff.”

  “I don’t have the time. I’ve gotta work.”

  “It’s Saturday,” she mentions. “What obligations could be that important to take away from your weekend?”

  “I just got back in town,” I exhale, running out of excuses. “I have to unpack and get my clothes in order.”

  “Yes.” She nods. “Because if you don’t, the clothes will get up out of your suitcase and run away.”

  She grins, letting her sandy brown eye brows rise towards the sky. Her stare slants. “You need this. And you know it. The look on your face yesterday when you came in said it all. And you stayed in your office all day. Never coming out for a bathroom break, for crying out loud.”

  She was right. I know that she’s right.

  But it doesn’t make it any harder to let loose. And I stand there, rigid as a statue until she takes the bags from my hands and heads in the direction of the rink, her stride long and purposeful as I rush after her, trying to avoid another pedestrian-accident as people rush excitedly by me on their way to whatever tourist attraction awaits.

  I slip and slide over the snowy path leading to the skaters, stopping only when Emily does. She hands a twenty over to an attendant who hands her a key. She passes it to me.

  “Locker 201 is yours. You’re going to shove these inside.” She nods towards my new clothes, stuffed in several bags. “I’ll get our skates as soon as you tell me your size.”

  I do, my head swimming the entire time.

  Several minutes later, laced up in a pair of borrowed ice skates, I step out onto the white frozen floor, fear latching in my throat. I’m even more afraid when Emily steps in beside me, floating like a butterfly as she pushes herself onto the ice, gliding gracefully.

  I watch her longingly, wishing I could do the same. But I feel stuck, my fingers clutching to the waist-height wall as if my life depended on it.

  I suck in a freezing breath, regret mingling its way into my hard-earned oxygen. I let it go.

  Hank Williams belts out the lyrics to “White Christmas” over a surround-sound speaker, and I waddle over the white ice like a newborn doe, the scratching sounds of my skates almost deafening to my sensitive ears.

  I watch Emily mouth at me. “Let go,” her lips mimic.

  I do. Slowly. And as the safety of the wall slips out of my grasp, I find a wind that only fills me on my morning runs, when I leave the world and all its fucked-upness behind me. That wind pushes me towards Emily.

  She extends her hand, reaching for my own, and I take it, the terror I felt just moments prior melting the pure-driven snow. I smile. Frozen face and all. Looking towards the legal secretary with a new awe in my eyes. She smirks back.

  “See? I told you it wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “That remains to be seen. We’ll wait until I walk out of here with an unbroken ass.”

  She laughs. “You got it.”

  A strange comfort finds me, and I settle in, discovering the child-like parts of me I thought were gone. I soar over the ice, skating with ease. Old skills I’d believed had abandoned me return with a vengeance, and the more I skate, the more relaxed I become.

  In my oversized coat and stiff blue jeans, I circle the ice. I even twirl across it. Feeling more satisfied and serene than I’ve been in days, I find myself opening up to Emily, my icy walls lowering along with my angst.

  I answer her unspoken question when she finally voices it to me. I surprise myself with my honesty.

  “So?” The brunette levels at me. “Want to talk about what had you walking into work as if you’d seen a ghost?”

  I don’t want to tell her that I had seen one. Just last night. Instead I say the first words that come to my mind, my mouth meting out the truth. Bit by bitter bit. I sigh.

  “I’ve had a rough time of it lately. Especially on my trip.” I take a deep breath. “Ya see, I went to Chicago to sell my condo.”

  “Oh.” Emily perks up.

  “The condo I owned with my ex-husband.”

  “Oh.” The word holds a hundred different meanings, and this “oh” is unlike the last. I continue anyway.

  “My friend Marilyn was also in a really bad car accident the other day in Manhattan. A car crash that put both her and her father into a coma.”

  Emily’s face sinks, sorrow sinking into her features. I keep going.

  “Her coma is induced. Just until the swelling in her brain goes down. But her father’s…” I trail off. “It’s much worse. In fact…” I say, feeling the story sour on my tongue. “He might not make it.” I continue skating beside her. “And to add insult to injury, a man from my past has…” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. “Well, he’s come back. And what we had was, uh, really complicated.”

  “‘Complicated’ as in ‘The sex was amazing.’” She grins sadly.

  “As in ‘The sex was life-altering,’” I admit. The wind nearly freezes the sudden frown on my face. “But it didn’t work out. It couldn’t…” I let the statement linger in the air. “Besides, he’ll be heading back to where he came from soon. I just wish he would hurry up and leave. So I can forget how it felt to want him so badly.”

  She nods knowingly, her expression showing a range of emotions I can’t pin down. She glances over at me. “I understand. And until Mr. Hot-Cock leaves…? What will you do?”

  “Avoid him like the plague.”

  “A life-altering sex plague,” she adds with a smile.

  “Hey, it’s a start.”

  And so is the afternoon. Emily and I skate until our limbs are tired. Until our throats are too sore from laughing.

  We part ways several hours later, and for the first time in a long time, I get that familiar warm feeling. The feeling of finding a new friend.

  The feeling lasts all the way downtown as I head towards my Brooklyn brownstone. On the way, in the backseat of a bright yellow taxi, I pass the Jackson Enterprises building, the site of so much corporate theft.

  Minutes later, my eyes cross by the biggest clothing store I’ve ever seen. A baby’s clothing store.

  It’s a reminder of all the unfinished business I left behind in Chicago. Business I know I have to go back to. Business I’m scared will break what little I have left.

  Chapter 7

  HEATH

  Saturday night is a night for sin.

  It’s a night made for mistakes. Drunken or otherwise. And I’m realizing I’m making just that as I stroll into the Strip-emporium on the corner of Corinth and Lexington.

  The music is blaring, a stream of laser lights scanning the expanse of the dark carpeted floor. The screaming sounds of Def Leppard lyrics drum overhead, searing into my subconscious and as I pass by Walter, the meathead bartender, my eyes skim over the blonde dancer swinging around the shiny metal pole in the center of the club, her long legs capturing the looks of every man within a hundred feet.

  Every eye…except mine.

  My eyes are stuck on the far side of the strip club, and I bypass the drooling onlookers in favor of the small curtained area just beyond VIP. The site of many wins, sins and m
ore.

  I pull back the black curtain, slipping behind it, opening the hidden door carved into its cheap wall. I unlatch the lock, pulling.

  A new room opens up to me. Hell, a new world. With welcoming arms, the gambling tables invite me in, and I step inside the dimly light area, my stare scanning the stacks of chips and money over every green-fibered tabletop. Taunting me.

  As they always have.

  In a way, this is my addiction. Always had been.

  Risk was a regular part of my life, a thrill I’d never gotten over. Stability bored the hell out of me, and somehow I’d discovered at the tender age of twenty-two that the taste of sameness would never satisfy. Never quench my unending thirst for more.

  It was the thought of that permanence, that perpetual droll that had driven me away from Harvard Law, had changed the course of my life. Forever.

  I stare at the several decks of playing cards splayed before my eyes, feeling that itch that burned in my fingers every time I was ready to take a bet. And tonight that itch was nuclear, my body seeming to know what it needed when someone like Violet Keats was in fifty miles of me.

  I stand, hovering, over a set of players focused on a particular poker game when the dealer at the center of the circular table stares over at me, his dead eyes piercing right through my skin. He points at my chest and then the surface of the table.

  “In or out, Heath?”

  I slide my silk-lined coat from my shoulders, slipping quietly into a seat. I meet his stare. “I’m in.”

  He adds me into the dealing rotation, handing me a set of cards along with everyone else. A waitress swings by, taking several orders, and I ask for the darkest bourbon they’ve got. A vintage to mirror my tormented mood.

  I settle in, staring at my selection of cards, my eyes soaking in a pair of Kings. My pulse picks up.