by Natalie Wrye
Sliding closer across the seat, she licks her lips, smelling every bit of that sensuous strawberry scent I’ve come to know so well.
“Heath…” She hesitates. “Are you alright?”
I don’t know how to tell her…that nothing is. That the detective’s little discovery means that I was seconds away from losing the only family I ever had.
Not that it was much of a family anyway.
Manhattan nobility never could keep a secret. And the knowledge that the infamous Sparrow father and son were feuding for the last seven years was something that they relished in. Rolled in. Tossed and tumbled in. Like the notorious dirt-diggers they were.
Seven long years.
That was a long time not to talk to someone. The fact that it was my own father just made the reality that much more raw—an open wound I’d never gotten around to healing. Harvard or not, I could never quite understand how the man I’d admired for years could walk away from me.
His oldest heir.
I’m still thinking about the father-worshipping boy I’d been when Violet grabs my attention again in the idling car, her touch disturbingly tender, her voice even more so. I turn to her, closing my eyes slowly before opening them. I meet her stare.
“Heath,” she leaned in closely. “Have you heard a word I said?”
I nodded. And the worst words I could have imagined came out of my mouth, driving her away.
And now several hours later, I’m a mess, a shell of my former self, trying to put the semblances of my fucked-up soul together again.
I’d barely made it out of Friday morning Manhattan traffic alive. I almost missed my 5:53 train, nearly spilled coffee down the front of my shirt, and partially tripped over a homeless person as I stepped out of the subway.
All in all?
It was turning out to be the shittiest Friday I’d ever fucking had. And the sad part was that it wasn’t even noon yet.
I take a sip from my mug, realizing that I need a drink—a real one—more than I needed the goddamned coffee inside. My skin is still tingling from spending last night with Violet and I try to drown my nerves with the hot liquid, somehow still smelling her scent on me—the slightly tangy, slight sweet taste of her wet pussy—still on my tongue for the past fourteen hours.
And now she’s mysteriously missing. Taken the day off, I’ve heard.
The legal secretary Emily, who giggles every time I walk by, provides a rock-solid alibi, dragging my mood into a sulk, and I sit behind my father’s infamous oak desk, struggling to concentrate, my mind still stuck on last night—on the new revelations, on my reaction to them, on tongue-fucking my sweet redhead—instead of on the cases right in front of me, the work that waits just ahead.
What I’d said to Keats wasn’t at all what she deserved. But it was all I had.
We never had a true chance—Violet and I. At least, in the relationship sense.
I was smart enough to know that the sexy smart redhead was the type of woman to change you. Get under your skin. Make you want things you knew you didn’t deserve.
Because she was a woman to be deserved. And frankly, I wasn’t worthy enough.
What we’d had, for that one night, was in the past—as sexy as that was. A huge part of me was still remembering. Still reliving. Still regretting… And even now I know one unbelievable night isn’t enough to satisfy my undeniable thirst for her, though I damned sure tried. And I was looking for a repeat as soon as possible.
Despite my best efforts lately, it seems that life—laughing and all—can’t help but get in the way.
Unable to sleep at all last night, by five, I found my way to the gym and to the office before most people awoke. My body continuing to hum several hours later, I inhale the brown lava in front of me, reading the front page of the newspaper, a slow anger working its way under my skin as I stare at King & Sparrow’s sinking stock.
I start with the headline.
FAMILY MAN FINANCIER…OR CAREER CRIMINAL?
Former Manhattan businessman Chris Jackson is seemingly a mystery to all who may know him, an object of much debate amongst both friend and foe.
A self-made man with Midwestern roots, a wife and two children, Jackson seemed the perfect gentleman in both finance and family… Until federal prosecutors arrested him late last year, slapping the serial entrepreneur with multiple charges of fraud and securities law violations.
Jackson is also believed to have embezzled from business partner and foes alike, and reports say that various parties are set to come forward to not only testify against Jackson, but to take him to civil court, accusing him of more accounts of corporate theft…
I re-read the article. For the third damned time.
I can’t stop the thought that this firm—now my firm—King & Sparrow is being connected with the biggest cocksucker of the century, and as I scan the letter, inhaling the smoking cup of hell-hot coffee, I clutch the newspaper roughly between my hands, crushing it between my fingers right before a loud knock sounds at my office door, shattering my solitude.
Shit. I almost spit the java back out. My tongue half-torched by the baking-hot brew, I manage to call out despite the burning, my anger—like the scalding coffee—looking to land on the nearest object in my path. I call out.
“Come in!”
And the door swings open…revealing a ghost. I almost gape.
Jesse Somerset is the best trial lawyer in the damn country…and my best friend from college. The formerly rowdy boy from the Bronx stands in the doorway of my office in a fresh Tom Ford suit, shocking the hell out of me with his clean-cut hair and missing slouch.
He grins at me across the threshold, as if holding a secret he’s glad to have let go. He crosses his arms, as if impatient.
“D’ya miss me, Huncho?”
“Not as much as I missed the money you owe me.” I stand to my feet, smiling. “Get your ass over here, J. Set. And that’s an order.”
I’d heard a rumor that my Harvard roommate was working for my overbearing father, but it seemed just that… A rumor. A tough street kid with stellar grades and a rude streak, Jesse Somerset was the friend I’d never expected, a former child gang member with a record and soft spot for beating up rich kids.
I was the trust fund fucker. And he was the boy without a chance.
On the very night of our Harvard graduation, he’d been the one who kept me from drowning in a Jack Daniels bottle; his words of encouragement a salve to my father’s scathing words after I walked away from everything I’d worked for.
My Juris Doctorate. My diploma.
A spot in the Sparrow legacy.
Hugging him now, I revel in the familiar camaraderie of the brother I never had. I step out of his embrace, slapping a hand on his hard shoulder, my face threatening to split in two from my smile.
I look into his green eyes, discovering laughter lurking behind them when he jabs at my shoulder with a quick punch.
“Huncho, where the hell have you been? I’d heard you’d run away to Hollywood to be a star.”
I snort on a small laugh. “The star shit’s a rumor, Jay. Nothing more. The Hollywood part? That’s true. Found a couple of businesses to invest in, a couple of movies to fund. Tried my hand at producing and discovered that I’m actually quite good. Go fucking figure that.”
Jesse shrugs, his green gaze twinkling. He grins slow and wide. “Have you ever not been good at anything you’ve put your mind to? Even Harvard. Before you stepped out.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “You were the only bastard I knew with enough brains to party all night before a test and ace it. You could have sold your services.”
“I almost did.” I cross my arms, reeling back into my memories. “But I figured I was doing enough prohibited shit to get busted. Didn’t want to add too much weight to the stakes.”
“I don’t blame you. Especially with your father being a donor and all.”
I nod. “Wouldn’t want to smear the Sparrow name any more than I already had, right?
He smirks. “Exactly… Which is why I’m glad you’re here. You’ll help us do a lot of good…”
His eyes are hopeful. And determined. It makes my stomach sick.
I’d rather not to tell the most honorable man at Harvard that I won’t stay past a month or two at the firm, but I don’t have it in me. The day has been a rollercoaster of a ride already, and as I motion to Jesse to head outside of the cramped quarters of my office, we head in sync towards the break room, my curiosity driving me to pepper my best employee with questions.
I start with the most obvious.
“You know I was shocked when I came into the firm and David told me that you work mostly pro-bono. I never thought my father would allow that.”
He sniffs. “I know. It seems impossible, doesn’t it? Most firms would have told me no.”
“My father would have added a fuck no for emphasis.” I glance over at Jesse. “Charity’s never really been his thing. In fact… it’s the opposite of his thing.”
Jesse’s dark brow raise. “Maybe once…but then again, he was the most supportive person on my side when I proposed it to the firm. Gave me his blessing and everything, even when David wanted to put a hard stop to all the free hours we were submitting to billing.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I stop in the wooden-floored hallway. “My dad was the one who okay’ed it?”
“Shocking, isn’t it?” Jesse grins. “No one was more surprised than me.”
I keep walking, maintaining pace with Jesse. We amble into the break room without breaking stride. “Maybe Dear old dad thought he was doing you a favor. I mean, since Marilyn got you the job.”
Filling a cup with water from the cooler, Jesse frowns, spinning in his Ferragamo shoes towards me, his dark brown furrowed. With the same slanted stare that scared away Harvard yuppies, he lifts the plastic cup to his lips, taking a long sip. He seems to consider what he’s going to say before finally blurting out the last truth I would ever expect to come from his shiny white teeth.
He gazes blankly at me. “Heath…what makes you think Marilyn got me this job at King & Sparrow?”
I blink. “I… Well, I assumed my dad didn’t hire you. Since he only seems to give a damn about protecting blue-bloods like that fraud friend of his, Chris Jackson.”
“Huncho…” My old roomie drags out my nickname. “Your father was the one who hired me on the spot. Said he remembered me from Harvard.” He blinks. “Said he remembered me from you…and that that was enough.”
I balk, my mouth going dry at the thought. My cup of Joe almost tries to climb back up my throat, and I push it down, my head swimming from all the conflicting notions fighting in my overworked brain.
My dad said that? My mind tells me No way…despite what Jesse says.
It doesn’t make any sense. Considering my father’s past. Considering my past with him.
Truth was…my father didn’t trust my judgment. Never said a kind word about my intellect.
He pressured me into attending Harvard Law—harassed me into it, in fact. Every step of the “Ivy-covered” way, he’d tried to beat me into submission, bend me to the will of the Sparrow way.
Shock wasn’t the word for what his lawyer had told me about his living will. I’d never imagined my father would leave his shareholdings and the future of the firm in my Harvard-dropout hands.
Hearing Jesse’s confessions about my father pushes a button in me—a button I didn’t know could be pressed. A stinging sears its way behind my eyes, but the burning subsides when the delivery guy—Steve What’s-His-Face—steps into the glossy gray-painted break room, his smile wide as our gazes collide.
I punch Jesse’s shoulder lightly, feeling a tingle form underneath my tightening fingers. In the clear light of day, I feel every bit of the asshole David King is, and because I can’t have what I really crave, I opt for the next strongest item. I storm out.
Jesse calls over my shoulder. “Already ready for lunch?”
Halfway down the hallway, I stalk into my own office space. “Not quite.” I reach for my wallet and keys. I glance at Somerset throwing him the jingling set.
“Not unless Jameson has enough calories to count as a full brunch.”
I stalk quietly to the elevators without looking back.
Chapter 23
VIOLET
My heart feels heavy in my chest, no matter how hard I run.
This morning’s jog is one of the worst I’d ever had.
Completing my jog through Central Park isn’t the toughest; keeping my mind off of Heath is. And as I cross the trail through the park’s Bridle Path loop, my headphones in, and my Nikes on, I can’t quite get the sexy asshole out of my head, last night’s late rendezvous and later trip to police headquarters sticking like a thumbtack in my mind.
The air is crisp, ripe to the taste. I inhale it steadily, not letting the frigid temperatures stop the one habit I love to have—the only habit I’ve kept to myself after my divorce left me decimated.
Jogging was my release. My sin and my sanctuary.
When my mind is full of chaos, running is what I escape to first, and this morning, through the December frost and winterized forest, even the lap around the Reservoir, through the Meadows and up across 102nd Street can’t save me from my scandalous memories, my body still on the path, but my head still stuck in Heath’s apartment. Thinking. Dreaming. Wondering what if…
What if I had stayed? What if we had finished what we started?
Would I still be the same? Would anything be?
What was the protocol for fucking your boss when part of you wasn’t so sure about him? When a piece of you still believed he might revert to the prick he’d been just several months prior?
Heath was a playboy. That was a given.
It went without saying that the New York investor-slash-Hollywood producer was a male-slut on every coast, and a part of me had been ashamed at how fast he’d almost talked me into his bed, how quickly I was willing to throw caution to the wind just to let his lips feed on mine on top of his quartz counters.
Only hours after, he’d made me regret my decision, pushing me away in as harsh a manner as anyone could. I recount the sordid scene as I cut across West Drive, my heartbeat drumming in my ears.
“Heath?” I called again to him in that secluded back seat. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes,” he answered, his stare as cold as the dry earth and just as brown. “You can stay away from me.”
I blinked, my brain barely able to keep up with the scathing words coming from his mouth. “What…?”
“I’m serious, Keats,” he said, his clipped tone cutting the very wings on which I’d flown just hours before. The high I’d had from being with Heath was falling at my feet, and I crashed to earth, shattering into a million pieces at his pricey soles.
“This?” He motioned between us. “This can’t work. It never does. I don’t…” He grit his teeth. “I don’t know how to be close to people.”
I said his name again, my touch drifting to his shoulder. “Maybe you should just give it a try…”
“Why?” He turned on me, the ice in his eyes turning to anger. “You want to end up in a coma too?”
My breath hitched. “Jesus, Heath. That’s not fair.”
“Fair to who exactly? To my father who may never wake up? To my sister whose phone calls I hadn’t picked up in a week? And what about you, Keats?” He leveled at me, making my skin shudder.
“What about me?”
“I put a goddamned country between us. Didn’t that give you a hint as to the type of asshole I am?”
I said nothing. I couldn’t. In so many ways, he was right, and the hurt in Heath’s eyes when I didn’t respond was tangible—a palpable sensation that put a heaviness in the air. He turned from me, his face twisting towards the opposite window. The chill outside is nothing compared to the frost I feel when he looks away, and his voice is quiet when it returns, the tenor soft enough to cut an emotion
al hole into my psyche.
I sighed when he said “See? Even you know it… I think it’s best you cut your losses now.”
“Heath…” I uttered, an attempt to recover.
“Just go!” He yelled suddenly, scaring me half-to-death. The sound is a shock to my system, and I flee, my eyes filling with tears as I reach for the car door, wrenching it open. My body is just as bewildered as my brain, my senses overwhelmed. Both rage against me, in a battle with absolutely no winners, and I fight the urge to listen to either, sprinting up the steps to my Brooklyn brownstone, chest hurting, my head swimming and small pieces of my soul breaking along the way.
Even now, jogging in my favorite place on Earth, I can feel those pieces missing.
Different types of pieces than those that had broken, fractured and flailed from what was once the worst thing to ever happen to me.
My divorce.
It’s an event that feels like forever ago, despite the passing of just two years—a time warp I will never understand.
Somehow this is deeper. More visceral.
When a marriage ends, it feels like the world does. And I remember a time it felt like the sky was falling around me, that the very ground beneath my feet was going to swallow me whole and spit me out.
But I recovered. Bounced back more than I ever thought possible.
Maybe it was because the pieces I thought were missing when my ex Jeffrey left were just hiding. Sitting around, tapping their feet. Waiting for me to get my shit together.
What Jeff and I had was an arrangement more than a blinding love, and even in our best moments, I was never fully myself. Never as happy. Never as satisfied. Or free…
As I was when I was with Heath. Asshole that he was to me in that back seat.
Despite his darkest moments, there was a light in the thick of his hidden depths—a passionate warmth. The way he talked, touched, looked at me.
His was a humor that matched mine, a passion and lust for life and the law that rivaled my own. The twinkle in his brown eyes told a different story than the one coming from his lips.
Heath had hardened his heart because it had been broken so many damned times. By the people closest to him.
