The Bet: A Manhattan Nights novel

by Natalie Wrye

  I understood, more than most, that the raw emotion under his rough laughter, the silent agony in his eyes was a result of hurt. Anger. Protection of a soul that had been pushed and prodded and poked full of holes.

  It was that soul—or at least, the glimpses of it—that drew me to him at Elsie and Brett’s engagement party.

  Beneath the light teasing with a sophistication, an intelligence, a biting wit.

  He was every bit of his father’s son. But in the best ways.

  Smart and bold. Take-no-shit and self-made…with a knack for excelling at both business and pleasure.

  And what a pleasure he gave. What a pleasure he could be.

  I know that my heart or head—maybe both—wanted more. It’s the “more of Heath” that teases me, tortures me as I finish my run. I slow to a walk, still wondering about the mystery of the man when a small mob of reporters rush my way, a growing crowd of cameras starting to form across the street, heading fast in my vicinity. And I freeze, my feet stuck to the ground.

  Nothing—not even fight or flight—kicks in, and without Heath by my side like last time, I’m unaware of what to do. I take a deep breath, throwing my shoulders and long hair back, steeling myself for what is to come. With the pack of excited press moving quickly towards me, there’s nothing to do but wait, and as I stand dumbfounded on the corner, my cell stuck to my hand, a gigantic black truck, sitting on shiny rims, skids in front of my path, careening around the corner like a bat out of hell.

  It stops right in front of me, kicking up ice and bits of yesterday’s snow, nearly soaking me in the process. The back seat window rolls down, revealing a beautiful brunette. Several seconds show me that it’s my beautiful brunette, and as I stand—still shaking—in my hoodie and tights, she raises one hand at me, ushering me inside as the back door to the behemoth vehicle swings open.

  She yells out to me. “Vi, come on!”

  It’s the only urging I need. I follow her direction quickly, flouncing into the truck. The media mob makes it to our side of the street, and as they do, our humongous tires squeal as we peel out, the rev of the truck loud as we leave a trail of journalists in our dust before turning the corner to Columbus Ave. My throat emits a gasp as I lean back against the leather, the plush seats threatening to swallow me as I force my pounding pulse to slow.

  My heart continuing to hammer, I glance over into the face of elegance beside me, marveling at the beauty despite the bruising on her delicate skin. My heart beats an unfamiliar tempo as recognition sinks in. I smile, saying her name.

  “It’s good to see you, Marilyn.”

  Heath’s TV superstar sister smirks. “It’s good to be seen.”

  “Heath never told me…I didn’t know you were released from the hospital.”

  “Escaped is more like it.”

  “And I’m guessing that screaming paparazzi mob out there was for you?”

  “I think they could smell me coming from a mile away.”

  “Must be one hell of a perfume you wear.”

  “Have to,” she answers, circling her face with one painted finger. “Gotta make up for this new face somehow.”

  I frown. “What are you talking about? You’re still beautiful.”

  She snorts. “Tell that to the my TV show producers when they can my ass for showing up on set in a nice shade of puke green.” She narrows her dark blue eyes at me. “What are you doing at the Park at this time anyhow?”

  “Going for my morning run.”

  She lifts a sharp eyebrow. “At noon?” My face heats, my stare swiveling out the window. “I see,” Marilyn comments as a quiet enters the back seat, the hum of the truck the only sound in the oversized car. “You’re trying to avoid my brother, aren’t you?”

  There’s no point in lying. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Please.” She purses her lips. “You two have been dancing around each other every time you’re within ten feet. Not that Heath can really dance…” She trails off with a tiny smirk. “What’s the problem now? I mean, you’re not in love with him, are you?”

  “What?” I swing towards her in my seat. “No!” I cross my arms. “It’s just that… I…we…” I exhale. “You…”

  Marilyn leans towards me. “Can I buy a vowel or…?”

  I sigh, feeling sick just talking about it. There’s so much to sift through. Too much, in fact. Especially when my past is beating down my door.

  I glance at Marilyn. “The problem is…that I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Heath and I are a long story. And until I know how this story ends, I’d rather not even start.”

  She hikes a high-arched eyebrow, eyeing me inquisitively. “So you’re going to give up before you even begin?”

  I sigh. “If I have to…”

  Her pink lips purse. “Better to play it safe, then?”

  “Safe. Yes. Exactly.”

  Marilyn turns to me. “Violet, I’m sorry to say this… But what a fucking crock of shit,” she hisses, her pretty brows pulled together in a frown. “Stop lying to yourself.”

  I scoff, straightening in my seat. “I’m not.”

  “You don’t want safe. You want special. What you and Heath have is that. Stop settling for a lukewarm life. A lukewarm love. You said yourself that sometimes you even questioned if you loved your ex, Jeffrey. Am I right?”

  I shrug.

  “So?” She practically screeches. “You were settling.” Her palms fly outward as she gazes at me. “You were settling in that stuffy condo in Chicago. Settling in a disloyal circle of friends. Settling for a man who never even bothered to sweep you off your feet. Vi…” she blows out gently, gesturing with her hands. ”You’re not regular,” she repeats, sounding just like her brother. “You’re not normal.” She giggles softly. “And that’s a great thing. Romance, love, lust—those shouldn’t be normal for you, either. You can play a lot of things safe. In fact… you should.” She shakes her head. “But love isn’t one of them. And until you drop that wall of hurt, you won’t find the love you deserve. I should know… I haven’t found it yet. But then again…” Her ocean-colored eyes grow glossy. She holds out her hand. “Hi. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Marilyn. Emotional brick-layer. And you are?”

  I find the will to laugh. Marilyn hugs me. And suddenly everything feels alright.

  But I still haven’t found a way to tell Heath…that in the business of law and the law, my case—and heart—are now no longer closed…

  Chapter 24

  HEATH

  Manhattan sure knows how to kick the shit out of a man.

  The music is pumping, the speakers buzzing. A bass too intense for the sound system blares through the air, and as I stroll my way into the club—soaked on every inch of skin—I shake a slew of ice flakes from my shoulders.

  So much for having an LA winter.

  It would have been my first real Los Angeles winter season, my first foray into an eighty-degree Christmas. Instead, I’m here—a strip club, no less.

  I came back to New York for two reasons…and both involved Marilyn. Now, standing here in a cheesy exotic bar rife with bottom shelf liquor and purple walls, I don’t know how to tell a friend—a man I haven’t seen in seven years that the person he once knew…is a fucking fraud.

  Jesse sits down as I approach the violet-lit VIP section, his gray overcoat sitting precariously on his shoulders, his arms spread wide as he takes in the view in front of him.

  A mass of brunette wavy hair and fake tits. A dancer spins around the pole, mimicking the swirl happening in my hungry gut.

  I take a seat on the faux leather, tempted to swipe his drink. God knows I could use the alcohol. I inhale slowly.

  “The Abominable Snowman wouldn’t bring his ass out in this weather. And yet here I am.” Jesses motion for the scantily clad waitress. “This better be good, Sparrow. Otherwise, you owe me an Armani trench.” He glances down. “‘Cause this shit is sure to be ruined.” He knocks another inch of ice from its wool surface as he take
s off his coat.

  “When we’re done talking, I’m sure you’ll be able to buy twenty more just like it. I wouldn’t have dragged you here in the middle of the day, if it wasn’t worth it, Jesse.”

  He nods. “I understand. So talk.”

  Humming his agreement, Harvard’s most ruthless valedictorian smiles the same smile I’d seen him use to trip up nineteen year-old gang-bangers.

  But we’re not nineteen anymore. And these gang-bangers are much more different now. Now? They’re in business suits.

  Their gambles have grown more sophisticated, more calculated, betting a sport they now leave to their lawyers, risk a game they play better than roulette.

  I order a whisky from the waitress, anxious to chase the cold away with its warmth. I stare at my old friend, wishing I had more time to tell him…that someone is after my family…or the firm.

  “Is there a reason you called me down here on the shittiest day of the year?” He stresses. “We have bigger fish to fry. In case you hadn’t heard, our stock prices are…”

  I cut him off. “I know about our stock prices. In fact…” I trail off, grabbing his drink and taking a sizable gulp. “That’s the reason why I called this business meeting.”

  He gazes at the stripper still circling the metal pole, his stare swiveling back to me with a smile.

  “This is a business meeting? And I’m guessing she’s your secretary, huh.” I glance over. “Wonder where she keeps the notepad…”

  I glare “I’m serious, Jesse.”

  “Me too. I don’t even want to think about where her pens are stashed.” My old college roommate clears his throat, and I’m tempted to jam my first down it, impatience getting the best of me.

  “Listen,” I snap. “I’m talking about a war, Jess. You should be familiar with this routine by now.”

  He raises one eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

  I sigh, leaning my head back, the red and violet lights bouncing off the edge of my dark liquor as I lick my lower lip. My mouth goes dry.

  “What do you know about Violet Keats?”

  Just saying her name shoots an arrow through my heart, but I barely blink. The waitress arrives, and I take my drink, not moving to sip it, straightening my back to better watch the expression of Jesse’s unsuspecting face. He shows nothing.

  “Not much.” He finally takes a gulp of his own drink, his words scratchier than ever. “I barely know her.” He shrugs. “Do you?”

  Except for the way the smells, the way she fucking tastes. I know the pitch of her breathy moans, her little sighs. In fact… I know every single, sexy inch of Violet Keats. But that’s none of Jesse’s business.

  He leans forward in his dark suit, Violet’s name still hanging on the edge of his angular lips. His frown starts to deepen as he sits.

  “I know she’s friends with your sister, Marilyn. Is that why you’re curious?”

  My stare slants. “About what exactly?”

  “About whether or not she was going to affect your decision to work on Chris Jackson’s case, of course. I know David wants to. Hell, he’s been holding secret meetings about it since Fitzgerald went in the hospital. If that’s the case…” He stares, setting his drink down. “Then I quit. Rep’ing a man like Chris Jackson isn’t the sort of…working environment I’m walking into.”

  The word working sounds like a curse coming out of Jesse’s mouth. Or worse—a dirty word.

  “We’re not representing Chris Jackson, Jess. Not on my fucking watch. But that doesn’t mean that someone isn’t floating around the rumor that we are to drive our stocks down, to bring the business my father built crumbling to the goddamned ground.”

  Jesse shakes his head. “I’m still not following you, Heath.”

  “I’ll make it simple…” I lean closer, my pulse playing along with beat of the loud music. “I’m talking about corporate espionage. I’m talking about big business corruption. Stock manipulation. The works.” I whisper lower. “Hell, Jesse, this goddamned club we’re sitting in is the site of so much fucking crime and extortion that it makes Alcatraz look like a private Catholic school. Any of this ringing a bell?”

  He scoffs, sitting back, his broad shoulders slouching as he inclines. “Well, there goes my buzz…”

  “I’m fucking serious here.”

  “So am I, Heath.” Jesse leans forward, his nearly black eyebrows furrowing as he inspects me slowly, his green irises scanning my entire face. “So am I.” My old friend glares. “I want you to keep talking because I want to hear this. Because I think you’re getting ready to confess something I probably don’t want to hear, something you had to drag me miles away from the office just to show…” He hesitates. “Or am I completely wrong?”

  He’s not wrong. And I hate that he knows me so well. Can see right through the bitter wall I’d tried to build. The emotional safe-guards.

  I want to tell Jesse about the gamble. That fucking bet. I want to tell him that I’ve been bamboozled into taking a wager that was impossible to win. When some secret plot was behind the scenes manipulating the very integrity of King & Sparrow as we speak.

  I want to tell him…that we’re being fucking set up.

  But before I can say anything else—admit my dirty deeds, a curvy blonde with spiked bangs sashays in my direction, rocking a pink lingerie set thin enough to clean my teeth with.

  She bends towards me.

  “Would you like a dance, honey?”

  It’s the last thing I want. But the dancer is already taking a seat in my lap as another two swing over to Jesse, spreading their manicured fingers across each of his Valentino-covered shoulders.

  My oldest friend doesn’t move an inch. Then again, he was always that way.

  Too honorable. Too good. Too caring to put up with the likes of me.

  Or this place.

  I consider that as I ask my question.

  “Jess, I gotta be honest here…” He hisses as Pink Lingerie swings a circle against my crotch. “Your choice of meeting venue is a little…”

  “Naked?” I shake my head, apologizing as I remove the manicured hands skimming over my body. “I know.” He nods to the undulating ladies, dismissing them. “An old friend of mine owns the place. I’d figured it was the last place the press would come looking for me.”

  “You obviously don’t know these New York City slickers much now, do you?”

  “I don’t,” I answer, the smile fading from my face. “But I’m beginning to. And because of you, I’m hoping to learn a lot more.” He glances over at me. “What do you say, Jesse? Can you hear me out?”

  But my time is up. I’m feeling trapped. And the more I look at my surroundings, the more caged I feel inside the strip’s club VIP. Like, everybody is looking at me.

  My pulse starts to pick up, paranoia working its way under my skin, and the paranoia solidifies into poison when the writhing dancer in my lap clamps down even harder, hissing softly in my now-reddened ear.

  “Just relax, baby.” I can feel her smile spread against my skin. “David told me to make sure you stick around, have a good time.”

  My mouth twitches. Stick around? Good time, huh?

  This was looking more and more like a ploy—a plot. I watch as the waitress orders another whisky for me, convinced I’m too torqued up by the paid-for ten-dollar dalliance to notice. I don’t like where this situation is heading. I stand up immediately, setting the blonde stripper to the side, and she collapses against the pleather sofa with a soft thud, her pink mouth set into a surprised “O.”

  I glare down at Jesse.

  “Jesse, do me a favor.”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “I’ve gotta book it. Next round’s on me.” I take out a Franklin-printed bill, setting it at the table. “Next time, you’re tempted to meet me here for a business meeting…” I smirk, my voice lowering. “Don’t. It’s too fucking dangerous. Give me a five-minute head-start before you head out. Don’t talk to anyone on your way out.”

/>   I shrug farther into my coat.

  Without another word, I head down the stairs of VIP, storming towards the front door. But two bodybuilder-types in black block the front double-doors. I stretch to my full six-three height, tightening my fists.

  Tie on or not, I’m every bit the street kid my spoiled father didn’t want me to be. I’ve never backed down from a brawl. I meet their beady eyes.

  “Boys…” I add on an exhale. “Let’s skip the ‘We can do this the easy way or hard way’ bullshit, and get right to it. Either move out of my way…” My eyes sink into slits, my pulse thrumming. “Or I’m going to make you move.” The room grows hot around me. “It’s your choice.”

  The air thickens for a second, the lights seeming to dim. The bouncers at the door wait a few beats, as if processing what I’ve said, and as offense finds its way up their red necks and to their furrowed faces, they stomp slowly towards me, their chins jutted outward. Providing my fists with an easier target. I raise my hand to take aim.

  Until someone grabs it. And I turn my head, my eyes disbelieving what I’m seeing behind me.

  The dancer.

  She’s younger than I noticed before, her eyes bright. Beneath her blonde curtain of bangs, she peers at me—all brown-eyed doe, and I lower my already-bruised arm, my gnarled knuckles dropping to my side as she squeezes them.

  I see the plea in her eyes.

  “Don’t.” She whispers up towards me. “That’s what they want you to do.” She lowers her lashes, flicking them up once again. “You’re being watched.”

  She nods at Bouncers Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber, and they part ways. But not before she hands me a slip of paper.

  I expect the name, Candy, to be printed on its surface along with a number. Tempted to chuck it away, I take it instead. And what I read on it makes every hair on my body stand on end, the very blood in my veins run completely ice cold.

  I hit the double doors, running—my head pounding as loudly as my feet.

  Chapter 25

  VIOLET