The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel

by Natalie Wrye

  Chapter 9

  VIOLET

  “What’s that slice of beef doing in a place like this?”

  It’s a question I can’t even answer.

  Emily glances suspiciously between us, and Heath moves on, his white long-sleeved shirt catching a hint of the sun streaming through a nearby window.

  The frost-colored fabric across his broad chest glows with a single flash of light but then he disappears just as quickly, passing through our intersecting hallway and around the corner into another.

  I watch him leave, resisting the urge to let my eyes drift below the black belt at his tapered waist.

  Slice of beef?

  Try “pig-headed with a side of prick.”

  The irony doesn’t escape me that the most gorgeous man in my office shouldn’t be in my office, but what does escape me is how nobody seems to notice that he’s also the biggest asshole to walk this firm’s long hallways.

  Was I the only woman in the world whose brain cells weren’t fried by Heath Sparrow the minute he passed?

  I roll my eyes at the empty corner where Heath has just turned, and I find Emily—all breasts and long hair—practically licking her chops in the same direction.

  Guess I just answered my own question.

  “That man is fine in ways I didn’t even know existed,” Emily declares, staring absently after him. “I’d have him for breakfast and dinner, if he’d let me. Hell, maybe even lunch, despite the fact that I’m on this obscene diet.”

  I turn back to my wristwatch, counting the few minutes left on my break. Heath’s the last thing I want to talk about during my precious half-hour, especially since he was escorted out of the offices shortly thereafter, but Emily seems determined—like all of the women and even some of the men I’ve met—to use all of her available time to think and talk about Heath Sparrow.

  Her gushing is pushing dangerously at my gag reflex.

  “Have him for lunch, Em. Just please don’t make me lose mine.”

  “Oh, come on,” the tall brunette scoffs, flicking a wave of hair off her shoulder. “He’s fucking hot, and you know it.”

  My thoughts skim over the recent memory of the dark-haired Adonis in his white button-down and black slacks. I let my mind run a brief playback of the heart-stopping image.

  But then I discard it before my brain cells find their way between my legs as well.

  “He’s…attractive,” I manage with a semi-flippant shrug. “I’m not saying that he’s not. It’s just that…”

  “That what?” Emily demands. “That he’s not David?”

  The mention of David’s name causes a quick flutter in my stomach, and just like that, I am instantly over this conversation.

  “Em, I love you,” I say, kissing the beautiful brunette’s cheek. “But I need a break.”

  “You just took one,” Em gapes. “For a whole two weeks in another state. Wasn’t that enough?”

  I shake my head, emotion clogging my throat at the thought of what I’ve just returned from. I cough. “Not when you’re dealing with what I had to.” I avoid her gaze. “Family shit. You know how that is.”

  “Sure.” Emily nods, clearly not understanding. She shrugs. “That’s fine.” Her voice lowers. “Be sure to tell Mr. Hot-Cock that just came in that Emily says ‘Hello.’”

  I scoff. “You’ll be able to tell him yourself soon enough.”

  I turn away from the secretary, leaving the receptionist area without a second glance. I blow a breath out as soon as I hit the break room.

  Time seems to have stopped with Heath in the office. I’m feeling trapped. Out of breath. And the more I look at my surroundings, the more caged I feel inside the firm’s brick walls. Like, everybody is looking at me.

  Like everyone can tell what I’ve done. With Mr. Hot-Cock, no less.

  My pulse starts to pick up, paranoia working its way under my skin. The paranoia solidifies into poison when I hear a loud ping. It’s only after a few seconds that I realize the ping is coming from me.

  I slip my hand into my dangling purse, fishing out my phone.

  A news notification is waiting for me with the headline:

  Financier accused of fraud Dumps Entire Legal Team. What will Chris Jackson do next?

  I head into my office, wondering what this might mean for the infamous businessman—AKA Brett’s dad’s—case when Emily practically bounces into my office behind me, her hands wringing as she follows.

  “He’s done for. Chris Jackson’s case for innocence is going to go up in flames.”

  I sit down, starting to write notes for my client. “Uh huh. And that means something because…?”

  “We can seal his fate. Hit that bastard where it hurts.”

  “Hit him? You mean, our firm?” I look up at my colleague, and she nods.

  She blink, disbelieving. “Didn’t you have a client that came in, wanting to sue Chris Jackson for embezzlement?”

  I return her gesture with a nod. “Yup. And King & Sparrow suggested I turn him away.”

  “Even though it was more money than has ever been sought for a private civil case in history?”

  “It was.” I lean back in my leather chair.

  “And we’d turn down money because…?”

  “Apparently, we want no part of this God-awful press.”

  Emily leans against the edge of my desk, crossing her arms under her chest, and I take a deep breath, my temples starting to beat from all the tension this case has already put on my shoulders. I inhale slowly.

  “You mean one of the most famous law firms in the world is going to turn its back on a record-breaking case because, I don’t know, some reporters and press are sticking their nose in it?”

  “No,” I answer, shutting the ledger on top of my desk. I gaze at the bubbly brunette. “I’m saying they’re going to turn their back on a freakin’ press sideshow with more half-baked theories and stories than the law should allow.” I place my eyes back on my desk.

  “You mean our firm isn’t going to nail his dick to the wall?” Emily leans closer. “Even after all the evidence you gathered against Chris. All your research and findings.”

  I sigh, still writing. “It was probably for the best. For God’s sake, I know the defendant’s son.”

  “Even more reason why you’d want to put a pin in this guy’s penis and tack it to some dry-wall.” The eager secretary grins.

  “Yeah, well, it’s not enough for the firm. They won’t even let me close to the case. In case you hadn’t noticed, Em?” I glance up, meeting her hazel-amber eyes. I return to writing. “These days? I’m nothing but a glorified paper-pusher at this company.” I scoff. “And I’m probably not helping with my eagerness to take on coffee duty.”

  The feisty brunette grabs my pen. “Then you must not be seeing what I see.”

  I sigh.

  I don’t have to see. I know enough. Enough to know that I might never see Senior Partner status.

  Enough to know…that my ex-husband might have been right. About me.

  And to see the civil and criminal case of a cruel man like Chris Jackson tossed so casually to the side was like a knife in the heart, a reaffirmation that moneyed scumbags like Brett’s dad were glorified instead of persecuted.

  No matter how many people—offspring, included—they set to hurt.

  I can’t bear the thought of a camera crew here, hovering around these offices…until I look at the list of my afternoon appointments—a list that Emily so thoughtfully circles in red just below the note about the Box Office TV documentary. I glance up at her, squinting.

  “You’re a sadist, you know that?”

  “Eh, that’s what all my submissives say.” Emily stands, planting a hand on my desk. Leaning over, she licks her lips, tapping a finger on the edge of my black ledger’s page. Her brownish-gold stare is steady—resolute. “Oh, c’mon… Madame Prude.” She waves her other hand in the air. “You’re not going to tell me that you don’t want to stick it to this Big-Busin
ess asshole—Chris Jackson, to give him a taste of his own medicine when you make him pay out of the ass to the people he stole from? With interest?”

  I bite my lip. “Umm, no…?”

  “Tell me,” she continues, “that you don’t want to give this Jackson guy what’s coming to him, after everyone at the firm ignored witness after witness, after you dug up every dirty detail and shoved them into the Senior Partners’ faces After you hit the streets to dig up this evidence and damn near put a hole in your Manolos—?”

  “Okay, okay!” I yell, grabbing her hands. “Alright…you’ve—you’re right, okay? I…” I take a deep breath. “On some level, I do agree with you.” I exhale. “There. Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic,” she stresses. “And you can bet your yoga-shaped ass that a thousand law firms would kill for this kind of coverage. Just…” She leans in. “Talk to David.”

  I open my mouth and she stops me.

  “He’ll listen to you if you ask him. Showing the world that this firm won’t bow down to a man like Chris Jackson might be awesome for business.” Emily crosses her arms. “And while you’re at it, it might not be a bad idea to make sure David knows all about…”

  “That I know all about what?” I hear from the doorway. I nearly drop my jaw on the desk.

  Senior Partner, David King, is just standing there, leaning against the doorframe. In a navy blue suit almost the color of his eyes, he smirks in my direction, arms crossed. His tiny smile is crooked and when he looks at me, his eyes full of humor, I don’t know whether to laugh or hide my face in shame.

  I glance at Emily.

  Fuck, how long has he been standing there? My closest coworker hops off my desk. Clearing her throat, she laughs dryly and I usher David in, standing up as he makes his tall, dirty blond way into my office. I try to keep my knees from buckling…and fail.

  David smiles. “Just wanted to grab you ladies before our meeting.”

  I frown. “Our meeting?”

  “Yeah,” he sighs, “Spur of the moment meeting of the minds. There are a lot of new developments. I want to make sure that we’re ahead of them. Now more than ever.”

  His fingers splay on the edge of my desk. In that moment, I remember what they felt like on my skin when I first shook his hand almost eleven months ago, and I shake the memory of them off me, grabbing my planner and heading out with Emily at my side, my nerves humming as I follow David down the hall and to the conference room at the end of it.

  The entire law firm staff is already waiting inside.

  I take a seat, feeling somber, anxiety suddenly eating me up as David takes a stand at the front of the room, raising his hands.

  “Alright, everyone. Please be seated. This won’t take but a minute.”

  Crossing my hands in my lap, I straighten my back, not for a minute expecting what comes out of his mouth next.

  “So, I know you’ve heard all by now about Fitzgerald Sparrow’s, uh, accident.” My heart jumps into my throat. “Well, I will be the first one here to confirm that the rumors are in fact true. We’re going to have a new guest in the office as we roll out some new changes for the firm.” He bows at the waist slightly. “With your permission, of course.” He looks around at the rest of the room. “I believe many of you here know him. He is, of course, family to this firm.”

  My eyes flit to Emily. Family?

  David continues. “And we must be open to change.” He frowns. “As a result, our distinguished firm here might receive a lot of attention and press because of Fitzgerald’s horrible misfortune. In no one way,” he starts to circle the room, “shape or form, are we going to encourage this—this negative attention. We are going to do what we do best: Rise above it. So, if anyone—anyone—here feels the need to feed this gruesome media beast surrounding our former—excuse me—current Managing Partner, let me know now, because I can tell you…that maybe you and this firm aren’t the right fit for each other.”

  The room grows silent.

  “If there are any questions, feel free to let me know now or within the next twenty-four. After that, I refuse to let the gossip mill drag us down with it. A sort of ‘Speak now or forever hold your peace.’” His eyes scan the room before finding mine. I meet his stare, unblinkingly.

  “Alright, well, if no one has anything to say at the moment, then…” He knocks his knuckles against the tabletop. “Meeting adjourned.”

  The rest of the room begins to file out. I feel eyes on the back of my body as I follow the rest of my colleagues out but I don’t dare turn to meet them. Emily pinches my side and we both slide into my office without a second word, silently shutting the wooden door behind us.

  She lets out a big sigh.

  “Holy hell, that was intense.”

  I turn to her. “Ya think?”

  “David went all cloak and dagger with that one. I usually think of the guy as a stuffed shirt, but the way he laid down the law about Fitzgerald…? Kinda hot.”

  “Correction: Hot…but confusing as all hell.”

  “Right, right. The family bit.” Emily smacks her forehead. “Does David have any, uh, siblings?”

  I shake my head. “No idea.”

  “But didn’t you obsessively research him when he first star—?”

  I hold up one finger. “Finish that sentence, and I will have to kill you.”

  “Okay, so I’m guessing that’s a Hell no.”

  I plop down behind my desk. “What are we going to do now?”

  “What can we do? Fitz is in the hospital. We have no say in anything. The answer is nothing.”

  “It can’t be nothing…” I reply out loud.

  “Why?”

  “Because with Fitzgerald Sparrow in the hospital and David’s mystery guest, too much is up in there. My guess? The new Managing Partner won’t be David… And I want to know who it is, if not him…”

  Chapter 10

  HEATH

  Nightfall hits me like a fucking train. Steadfast. And unmerciful.

  My morning wasn’t much better after bumping into Violet in the office. And though we only spoke for less than ten seconds, I was affected all afternoon, my thoughts stuck on her for the better part of my evening, my consciousness torn into two—scattered along the train track that was my day.

  The only notion that keeps me from falling too far?

  Marilyn.

  A call from the hospital reveals that my sister’s ready for visitors, and with a relief I didn’t know I could feel, I rushed to New York Presbyterian in my customary town car, my gait tearing a hole through the hallways as I made a beeline for her room, ignoring all else.

  She was awake. More alert than ever.

  Her black and blue-ish bruises were turning into sickly yellow hues across her skin, but despite noting her painfully decorated body, I couldn’t help myself from reaching for her…and holding her in my arms.

  I kept my touch tender, despite how desperate I was to squeeze her, to show her how glad I was that I could hug her. Feel her. Talk to her. Trade jokes and jabs with the funniest twenty-four year old to ever walk the planet.

  My heart squeezed, my chest aching from the raw emotion.

  Especially when she flashed me a weak smile, wincing as she sat up under the ghostly white sheets. She examined me with assessing blue eyes.

  “I never thought you’d make it here so soon.”

  “Thought? Or hoped?”

  She grinned. “The hospital staff told me you made it here that night. That you slept in my room. Stayed until the morning.”

  “They over-exaggerate. I really only stayed because you owed me money. Wanted to make sure I got it back.”

  She laughed. “You’re the same as ever, Hollywood.”

  “And so are you, Squirt. Tougher than nails.”

  She gazed down at her freshly bruised body, smiling. “Don’t I look tough?”

  “I learned to never judge a book by its cover.”

  “Interesting advice. Considering that you’ve alway
s looked like the asshole you are.” She winced again with a smirk. “What’s with the fancy threads?”

  “Had some business to take care of earlier.” I glanced down at the newest Tom Ford threads on my shoulders. “Not everyone can be as tough as you.”

  “Some of us are tougher.” She winked in my direction, her stare wandering out of the window at the setting sun. Her smile fell from her gorgeous, discolored face. She glanced back at me.

  “I heard about dad.”

  I nodded. “I figured you had.”

  “They say he may never wake up.”

  “They say a lot of things,” I answered, my stare stalwart and unblinking. “But then again…they’ve never met the Sparrows, have they?”

  My sister grinned. “No, I guess not.”

  Minutes pass, and we filled them up with light-hearted banter, sibling stories and jokes.

  Until Marilyn started talking about the night of the accident.

  And I sat down near the edge of her stiff hospital bed, careful not to touch her, careful not to poke too hard at the pieces of her that were slowly cracking. I let her speak, never saying a word.

  Not until she finished.

  The car accident was brutal, she’d said. Like nothing she’d ever experienced.

  Satan himself, in her words, had set them on a road to Hell, and as she sat in the passenger’s seat, she watched—as if in slow motion—my father’s expensive red Ferrari spin out of control, tilting on two wheels before turning completely over.

  Winding in a cartwheel of pain and impending death.

  The world went topsy-turvy before turning black. And the next thing Marilyn remembered was waking up in a white-washed hospital bed, her back and bones aching on every inch, her mouth unable to move as she assessed the red wounds and new scars now stretching across her skin.

  She said the leather wheel seemed to slip out of my father’s grasp, found a mind of its own.

  A well of emotion built behind my tired eyes, but anger—seething and hot—dried the unfallen tears. I was angry that she’d had to go through such pain alone. I was angry that my dad’s damn driving had put here there.