by J. Kenner
If she weren’t so flustered about both their negative reactions to her new life plan, Selma would actually be feeling a little gooey at the moment.
As it was, she felt on pins and needles. Like she had to justify her decisions. Which, of course, she didn’t. But apparently she was going to anyway, because she tapped the table top for their attention. “Hey,” she said when they looked at her. “Don’t bring me down, okay? I know what I’m doing, and I’m ecstatic about this offer. I’m going to make a ton of money on the sale, the brand I built will live on, and I’ll have the freedom to do cool things. Like go work for a few months in Scotland. Then maybe work in a winery in France. Or take painting lessons. Or learn to sail in Monaco and practice my French in Nice. The whole world becomes my playground. How is that a bad thing?”
For a moment, Tyree said nothing. Then he pulled a chair over from a nearby two-top. As he sat, he rested his hand on hers, his big palm completely covering her smaller one. “It’s not,” he said. “And I’m glad to hear that you’ve thought this out.”
“I have,” she said, probably a little defensively. “I never expected Free-Tail to grow so big so fast. I’d always assumed I’d have the freedom to walk away for a few months, take long vacations, all that kind of thing.”
Tyree nodded slowly. “Makes sense. At the same time, it’s a testament to your talent that it has grown so fast. You’ve built the distillery into something to be proud of.”
“And I am proud of it. Just like you’re proud of The Fix.” She looked around the bar, with its rustic Texas interior. The cavernous main room that played host to dozens of strategically placed tables. The long bar and the wall of glass shelves that displayed an array of sparkling bottles filled with liquor, including bottles from her own distillery.
Tyree had renovated the property and opened The Fix on Sixth about six years ago, and the place was really turning into an Austin staple. Selma knew it had been touch and go for a while, but now that the bar was running a bi-weekly calendar guy contest, she was pretty sure they were firmly in the black. She hoped so; she loved the bar and would hate to see it close its doors.
And to be brutally honest, once she sold her distillery and moved to Scotland, Selma knew she’d miss this place. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be locked to it anymore than she wanted to be locked to her own business.
“You did an amazing thing here,” she told Tyree. “You wanted to save this place so badly, and you managed to pull it off in a big way.” Recently, the bar had run into financial trouble. The calendar contest had been part of an overall plan to turn the bar’s financials around.
“We’re not quite there yet,” he said. “But I think we’re on track.”
“I’m sure you are,” Selma said. “And after fighting so hard for what you built, I can see why you think I’m nuts. But I’m not ready to settle down yet. Not with a man or a career.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m a leaf on the wind, and I want to see where the breeze takes me next. Besides,” she added with a smug smile, “the offer is from a huge publicly traded company that owns a lot of labels. They’re going to keep my brand alive and pay me really well.”
For a second, she thought Tyree might argue, but then he nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Does that mean you’ll help me?”
His mouth curved down into a frown. “Not sure how I’m supposed to do that,” he said. “But if I can, I will.”
“That’s why I came here this morning. I need to find an attorney to handle the sale of the distillery. And everyone I’ve talked to suggests the same man. I wanted to find out who you’d recommend.”
“Well, I’m not sure who you’re being referred to, but if it were me, I’d talk to Easton Wallace.”
Selma’s cheeks almost cracked from the force of maintaining her smile. “Actually, he seems to be the perennial favorite. I’ve heard rumors he’s going to run for election in the next judicial race. Considering how popular he is, I’m guessing he’s going to win.”
Across the table, Elena leaned forward. “But he’s not popular with you?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. Easton’s great.” She felt the warmth creep up the back of her neck and hoped that she wasn’t turning red. Since she so rarely blushed, the possibility was especially mortifying. “It’s just that we knew each other back when he was in law school. And I know that he works out at Matthew’s gym,” she added, referring to her brother and the local gym he owned. “And I figure it might be simpler to have an attorney you don’t know in real life. I mean, I’m opinionated. What if he doesn’t agree with the deal points I want to raise?”
That was a legitimate concern, but she was more afraid of not being able to pay proper attention to the legal issues. Selma had a strict no-return policy with men. But she’d walked away from Easton far too early in the game. She knew that because even after all these years she hadn’t forgotten him. Not him or all the wicked things he’d done to her body on their one night together.
Tyree waved her concerns away—or, rather, he waved her concerns about legal disagreements away. “Not an issue. Easton’s as professional as they come. He’ll tell you his opinion, but he’ll also fight for the deal you want so long as it’s legitimate and legal. I’ve hired him for a number of things. Trust me, he’s the man you want.”
That, of course, was the trouble. She still wanted Easton. She’d been left with a perpetual itch that needed scratching. An itch that was surely the by-product of her too-hasty departure. But still persistent enough that she was tempted to break her own rules.
Because when you got right down to it, if she was about to haul herself all the way to Scotland, then maybe—just maybe—she owed herself one hell of a send-off.
Chapter Two
“Ten days. Two weeks maximum.” Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals Judge Desmond Coale stroked his gray-streaked beard as his deep gray eyes—still sharp despite his eighty-plus years—focused intently on Easton. “Anyone who’s paying attention knows you’re planning to run, but we still want to be deliberate with the timing of your formal announcement. There’s an advantage to being first out of the gate. We both know that.”
“We do,” Easton agreed, feeling a bit like the twenty-four-year-old law grad he used to be, and not the thirty-five-year-old accomplished attorney he’d grown into. Accomplished enough, in fact, that he now occupied a corner office in one of the most prestigious firms in Texas, if not the country. And though he wasn’t yet a partner, that wasn’t for lack of skill or invitation. Instead, he was remaining a salaried employee so that he would have no formal ties to any particular firm when he officially threw his hat into the ring for the Travis County District Court judicial election.
At the moment he was standing in front of his coveted floor-to-ceiling corner windows looking down Congress Avenue toward the Texas State Capital building. Who knew? Maybe one day he’d be seated there during a legislative session. Certainly, if Judge Coale had his way, Easton would. And his mentor hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
He turned away from the window and looked at his friend, mentor, and former boss. The judge was seated in one of the leather guest chairs that faced Easton’s massive desk, the top of which was completely clear except for a single yellow legal pad. As far as Easton was concerned, a cluttered desk meant a cluttered mind, not to mention a scattershot lifestyle. And he prided himself on being sharp and laser-focused.
The judge pushed his half-rim glasses up his nose. “If we both agree on the value of being the first to announce, then do you want to tell me why you’re still mucking around?”
Easton almost laughed. That was one of the reasons Judge Coale had made a reputation for himself as a federal appellate court judge—the man didn’t pull his punches. And that was one of the reasons that Easton considered the older man both a friend and a pseudo grandparent.
“I didn’t realize I was.”
“Don’t bullshit me, son. You’ve grown into a damn fine poker player, but I’m still a bett
er one.”
“That you are, sir,” Easton said, hiding his grin.
“This is what we’ve been working toward since the first day you stepped into my office, all puffed up and ready to save the world one trial at a time.”
“No argument. Except possibly about the puffed-up part.”
The judge chuckled. “Twenty-four years old and certain you were God’s gift to jurisprudence. And, honestly, you may have been right. You’re one of the most talented young lawyers I’ve run across. And those first couple of years in the district attorney’s office were a smart move. But I’m glad you’ve become more strategic about your practice. If your path is going to take you to where I’m sitting—and let’s be clear, I think you have what it takes to be a Federal judge—then who you know is at least as important as your legal mind. You can’t get appointed if you’re not noticed.”
“Agreed. And the first step is to sit on a local bench.” Easton had made up his mind to be an attorney when he was thirteen years old and watched as his blue-collar parents had lost everything—including their house—because a major corporation stepped in to request eminent domain over a crappy section of land on the outskirts of his small northeastern hometown.
Despite the fact that a state’s power of eminent domain shouldn’t—and technically didn’t—extend to forcibly buying property for the use of a business entity, the deal went through. The government bought the land, then rented it to the corporation.
His parents—who had a long-term lease on a section of the property from where they operated a popular hamburger stand—were tossed off with no recourse. They’d lost everything following that debacle, including the house Easton had grown up in, and it had taken the rest of their adult lives to recover.
That’s when Easton had decided that he’d become a lawyer no matter what the cost. He’d pursued a clerkship with a Federal judge with relentless energy, knowing that the connections and skills—not to mention the prestige of the position—would only help him in the future. After his two-year stint with Judge Coale, he’d aimed his attention toward criminal law, knowing he could get the best education as a trial lawyer in the fast-paced criminal world. He’d moved next to the prestigious mid-size firm where he now worked so that he would have exposure to several sub-practices of law. His ultimate goal had been to open his own firm and specialize in plaintiff’s work, helping people like his parents who’d stood in the shoes of David while facing a corporate Goliath. And Easton would stand in as the stone with which David toppled the giant.
The way had been paved since he was thirteen and he’d dutifully walked the path until he met Judge Coale. The judge had invited him to dinner about two years ago and planted the seeds of the judiciary. It hadn’t been something Easton had initially considered, but there was no doubt that a judge had influence, both on and off the bench. And what better way to help people like his parents than to be the arbiter on their final battlefield?
So he’d accepted the judge’s proposition. Judge Coale would make sure Easton knew all the right people and the right steps toward securing a seat on the bench. And the judge knew his stuff. He’d started his career as an elected probate judge, then stair-stepped his way up to serve many years as an elected justice on the Texas Supreme Court before receiving a presidential appointment to the Federal Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals. With those kinds of credentials, Easton figured he couldn’t have found a better mentor.
Currently, Easton was planning to make a bid for a new district court seat in Travis County that had been established in the last legislative session. Since the seat was new, he didn’t have to challenge an incumbent, and so far his drip campaign was working well. He’d garnered a lot of support among key players in the city, both in and outside the legal community.
Now he just had to keep up the momentum.
“What’s on your agenda the rest of this week and next?” the judge asked. “Let’s get you seen everywhere for the ten or so days, then waltz into the county clerk’s office and formally announce a week from next Tuesday. We can put a bug in the ear of a few reporters so that The Austin Chronicle and The Austin American Statesman both run a story.”
“And the Daily Texan,” Easton said, referring to the University of Texas’s daily newspaper. “Don’t forget the importance of the new voters. Especially since I’m a UT law grad.”
“I like the way you think.”
“You should. You trained me.”
The intercom on Easton’s phone buzzed, and a moment later the thirtieth-floor receptionist’s voice filtered over the line. “There’s a woman here to see you,” Sandra said. “Says she’s an old friend and has a contractual issue to discuss.”
“Did she give you her name?”
“Jean,” Sandy said. “Jean Rockwell.”
Easton glanced at the judge, then shrugged. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. But tell her I’m in a meeting but will be out to see her in a minute.”
She promised to do that, then the line went dead.
“I should probably get back to work,” Easton told the judge. “I appreciate the lunch, though.” He glanced over at the remains of the Franklin Barbecue take-out that still littered the top of his small conference table. The popular East Austin barbecue joint with its insane lines had become a destination for celebrities and politicians, with everyone from President Obama to Kanye West visiting the place. How Judge Coale had managed to get take-out without waiting for six hours was anyone’s guess.
“We’ll talk soon,” the judge said, rising. “Your week is full?”
“Tomorrow morning I’m in Dallas for depositions, then at a fundraiser for the Austin Opera in the evening. Friday I have dinner with Senator Todd. And Saturday evening I’ll be speaking at the literacy benefit at the Exotic Game Ranch.“
“And Sunday?”
“Drinks with a friend,” Easton said, then held up his hand. “He owns a gym and knows pretty much everyone in town. I’m not going to specifically ask him to chat me up, but he’s a good enough friend that he will without asking.”
“Then by all means, don’t ditch him.”
Easton tapped his nose. “Exactly.”
“And tonight?”
“Booked,” he said.
The judge nodded. “Deposition prep, of course.”
That wasn’t Easton’s plan, but he didn’t bother to correct his mentor. Somehow, Easton doubted that the judge would find attending this week’s Man of the Month contest at The Fix on Sixth to be an appropriate candidate event. But his friend and client, Tyree Johnson owned the bar, and Easton was friends with a number of the bar’s employees and regulars. Including Detective Landon Ware and Taylor D’Angelo, the woman Landon was protecting. Considering Easton was the one who suggested that Landon enter the contest as bait to flush out Taylor’s stalker, Easton thought he ought to at least make an appearance.
He’d even seen Selma Herrington there a few times, and hadn’t that been a punch in the gut? More than ten years had passed, but sometimes as he was falling asleep, he still trembled from the memory of the way her skin felt as her body slid over his, not to mention the magical things she’d done with that wide, hot mouth.
The judge slipped on his blue seersucker jacket. “And who’s accompanying you to the fundraiser and the benefit?”
Easton cleared his throat, wishing the act would clear out the memories that were making him uncomfortably hard. And wouldn’t a woman like Selma be interesting—and dangerous—on his arm?
That, however, wouldn’t happen. For one, Easton wasn’t stupid. He knew that playing it safe meant playing to win. And Easton never did anything if it wasn’t with the goal of winning.
For another, Selma had disappeared on him after one of the most amazing nights he’d ever shared with a woman. A small fact that had pissed him off at the time.
He was over it now. But definitely not inclined to track her down and ask her out again just to end up rejected. In that direction lay madness. “Actually, I was
planning on going stag.” Easton kept his voice level. He and the judge had been over this ground before.
“I’m not suggesting that wedding bells need to start ringing, but taking a date gives you a—what do they call it?—a wingman. Someone starts asking you incendiary questions, she can subtly change the subject. You get trapped, she can signal to you from across the room. Trust me, son, a competent date can be one of your best election tools. And who knows where it might lead? Look at Deborah and me.”
The judge and his wife had met when the senator who’d mentored Judge Coale had suggested that his own daughter accompany him to various charitable and local functions. And, Easton had to admit, they were the perfect couple.
Easton, however, saw no one similarly appropriate on his personal horizon, as he’d told the judge several times.
“Take Marianne,” the judge stated, referring to another lawyer in the firm, and clearly expecting the order to be followed. “You need someone who’s presentable and well-spoken. Someone who can hold her own in a conversation and knows how to avoid the quicksand of certain politically charged topics.”
“Yes, but Marianne is—”
“She’s perfect, son. And don’t tell me you’re not interested in her. That’s not the point. This is a game, as you well know. Hell, as she well knows. She won’t be expecting matrimony. She’s savvy enough to realize that being your regular date means she’ll have a chip to call in later with you.”
“I don’t—”
Judge Coale held up his hands. “I can’t tell you what to do, son. I can only tell you what you should do. It’s your choice whether you play the game right or not.”
Easton managed not to crack a smile. “Subtle.”
“I do my best.” The judge pulled open the door. “Now I’m going to go see what Jordan’s up to,” he said, referring to the firm’s senior partner.
“As always, it’s been a pleasure.”
“We’ll talk soon,” the judge said, then turned to walk down the hall as if he owned it while Easton went the opposite direction toward reception.
