by Hazel Parker
“Right now, I’m going to advise you first to do what I told Splitter to do, and that is to lay low,” I said. “That means no parties. No parading the motorcycles around. No going around town and starting fights. Nothing like that. You do your work as car mechanics or whatever you do here, and nothing more.”
Trace smirked at me, sighing, and folding his fingers together.
“Club members are not going to like that.”
“I know that, and I understand,” I said, even though I came nowhere close to understanding it. I came from such a different world it wasn’t like I was speaking English and him Mandarin; it was like I was speaking English and he was speaking a language from another world that did not involve vocalizations. “But there’s going to be a lot more that your club does not like if you keep on causing problems. If you keep flouting things in the face of law enforcement, they’re going to find obscure codes to get you with. They will dig through the rule book. Heck, I would bet that they can find a way to fine you or punish you for something as simple as swearing in public.”
“Shit,” Mr. Cole said.
“Case in point,” I emphasized.
Trace bit his lip.
“And then what?”
“As best as I can recommend, Mr. Cole, in times like these where the government is set on trying to get you to break, the longer you are good, the more bored they will get. Eventually, they will reach a point where they just feel like they’re wasting their resources and they will move on. At that point, you can throw your parties. But for right now? If you want to avoid getting arrested or shut down, lay off on the parties.”
Trace nodded, bowed his head, and chuckled.
“Funny thing is, the two of us, the president and the vice president, we’re fine with it,” he said. “I’ve got my girl. Splitter is facing legal trouble and knows he has to lay low. But the other boys?”
“Teach them some self-discipline, I guess.”
Both Splitter and Mr. Cole burst out laughing so hard that even I had to laugh at the absurdity of what I had just said. I supposed that while the bikers were many things, “disciplined” was far from one of them.
“In any case, Amber, I appreciate you helping me out,” Mr. Cole said as he rose from his chair. “Splitter, the place is yours for the night. I’m going to meet Jane.”
“You got it, brother,” he said.
I watched the two embrace and felt a slight twinge of envy; I had never grown up with any siblings and thus had never had a brotherly or sisterly love like Mr. Cole and Splitter had. Of course, they weren’t actual brothers, but their profession made them so close that it was as if they were. Meanwhile, the legal field, starting with my pre-law days at Yale all the way up to the present, was so competitive and so fierce that the notion that I could ever have such close relationships with anyone in my field was too sad to think about.
Mr. Cole nodded in my general direction as he left. I watched him leave, curious as to why he had set up something like this—the advice I had provided was not especially concrete, and it seemed as if he had already known the advice was coming before I even gave it.
And then the door slammed shut, and I realized that Splitter, looking hot as hell, and I were alone.
Remember your three rules. Remember especially the first one. No touching. None whatsoever, Amber.
But we could also do whatever we wanted. No one’s watching… except God. But I mean, do you see the temptation lying before me?
Wow!
“Well, you’re going to become the most loathed person in this club,” Splitter said with a laugh. “Telling the boys they can’t throw parties, you might as well have told them everyone needs to become vegan.”
“That bad, huh?” I said, somewhat wondering if these boys would have a liver by the time they reached fifty years old.
“For some of them, oh yeah, especially the younger ones,” Splitter said. “We have a guy here named Krispy. New guy. He’s not super young, probably in his early thirties. But I have never seen someone so obsessed with drinking and raging as he is. It could be morning, and he’ll be having his morning Irish coffee. And then at night, he’ll bring over a couple of gals and do his own party if the club isn’t.”
I smirked at the first thought that came to mind.
“So your first fight won’t be with the authorities, but with each other.”
“That…” he said, trailing off when he realized how right I was. “Damn. You’re right.”
I didn’t bother to call him out for swearing. Such a move was now becoming patronizing, and he was already doing much better about avoiding the worst of the words. Or maybe I’m just going soft on him because of my feelings for him.
“Well, it’s just something we will have to deal with,” he said. “In the interim, can I get you a drink? We have a full bar.”
“Oh, no, I’m good,” I said instinctively.
“Do you not drink either?” he said. “Are you that much of a real saint?”
I laughed and blushed at the comment, but he had not quite hit the mark.
“No, I do,” I said. “Just in moderation. I think the drunkest I’ve ever been was maybe five glasses of wine at my best friend’s wedding. And that was a one-time thing.”
“Well you definitely would feel very out of place at our parties,” Splitter said with a chuckle. “Five glasses of wine are what we call the prelude to the warm-up to the main event.”
I didn’t need any more elaboration to get a sense that I probably would not make it past the first prelude, let alone the warm-up.
“However, this is not one of our parties; after all, someone told us no more parties, and we’re not about to question them,” Splitter said, arching an eyebrow. “This is simply a shared drink. What say you?”
Well…
It was not one of my rules. I could do this.
But…
“OK, fine,” I said, drawing a clap of excitement from Splitter. “But I’m judging you on the quality of your drink now!”
“As you should,” he said, already heading for the bar. “What kind of man would I be if I couldn’t make you a proper drink?”
We… most certainly have different opinions, but I can see where you’re coming from. I think.
“What would you like?”
“A whiskey soda,” I said.
“Simple and easy.”
I watched him with admittedly more attention and curiosity than I probably should have. It wasn’t a difficult drink to make. Grab a rocks glass, put some ice in it, pour a couple ounces of whiskey, pour some club soda in, and done. There was no science to it, no timing of blends, nothing like that.
But my Lord, seeing his arms flex as he held up the bottles of whiskey… seeing him so focused on the task at hand… oh, this was bad. This was not good for the sake of what I had told myself. Still following the three rules so far. Haven’t violated them. Let’s keep it that way and stay focused.
Splitter came back with two glasses, both of whiskey sodas. He put mine in front of me, held his aloft, and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I said, clinking glasses with him and taking a gradual sip. “I did not peg you for a whiskey drinker.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Splitter said. “But when in good company, you let them pick. And you are a sophisticated and smart woman. I think you’re on to something here.”
“Aww,” I said, then silently berated myself for reacting in such a way. “Would your boys ever drink anything like this?”
“Nah. They’d drink it straight from the bottle.”
Images in my head from Yale and Duke of the deranged students drinking liquor on a dare from the bottle or doing other things I thought insane, like funneling, shotgunning, and keg stands came to mind. They were in their twenties; the men in the club were mostly in their thirties, some older. I guess if you can be young forever…
Or, more appropriately, if you can look like Splitter forever…
“But that’s a topic fo
r another day, ideally a day when the police and authorities aren’t hounding us at every opportunity,” Splitter said. “What was your text all about? I’m just curious as to why here and not at your office?”
I thought, again, about telling him about my divorce. But now there was a new reason why I didn’t feel great about it; I wondered how Splitter might view me personally if I confessed to it. I had already gotten emails of disappointment from some people back in South Carolina about how if I had gotten a divorce, I must have turned my back on my faith and what I believed in. I don’t think Splitter could have differed any more than those folks, but it still was not something I wanted to face. Judgment from my peers… it hurt. It hurt a lot.
“You know I work with some high-profile clients, and as a result, the cameras follow me to a lot of places,” I said as I took a gulp of my drink. “Well, while we were in the car at the bagel place, someone took a photo.”
“Are you kidding me?” Splitter growled. He’s becoming emotional again.
“I think he followed me to my front yard or jumped ahead of me, because when I got there, a cameraman was waiting for me with photos. Here’s the thing.”
I leaned forward. I knew this was putting me in a spot to violate my own first rule, but at this point? Who cared?
“The photos themselves weren’t that incriminating, but it’s the idea that I’m being followed everywhere I go that’s so bothersome,” I said. “Unfortunately, at this point, it’s just a part of life for me. I’m not going to try and fight their presence because to do so would only encourage more of them. They’re like wasps; they’re annoying when you don’t attack them, but swat at them and they will quickly turn violent and gang up on you.”
“Bunch of fuckers,” Splitter growled. “Sorry for swearing, but not sorry for the intention.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Is the alcohol really already getting to me? Or… is Splitter just having that effect on me?
“Being famous seems like the kind of thing that might sound cool when you’re young or even when you’re not it,” I said as all of the feelings of the moment came to me at once. “Admittedly, I never really sought out fame, but when it first came to me because of some of my clients, I began to feel a certain thrill about it that was unlike anything I’d ever had before. My faith kept me grounded, but fame has a way of lifting up even the most grounded of people.”
“I can imagine,” Splitter groused.
I sensed… almost a sort of resentment in him, not at me, but at the people who had fame. This was somewhat common, but it seemed more personal, almost more deeply embedded than those who just trolled online websites with comments and snarky posts. I wanted to figure it out.
Maybe that was the alcohol speaking, but Splitter was just a guy I wanted to get to know better, plain and simple. If it helped me…
OK, slow your roll, Amber. This is really the alcohol speaking.
“But you know what? I’m with you. I don’t want to be famous,” he said, then smirking. “I just want another drink. Would you care for one as well?”
I was surprised to notice that my glass was all but a couple of sips away from being empty. I had drunk much faster than I had realized, which I supposed was typical with alcohol. I had a feeling, though, part of me was wanting to get drunk, wanting to have an excuse for what was probably going to follow.
“Sure,” I said, smiling.
Splitter got up and started pouring one.
“Just out of curiosity,” he said. “I know you said you hate fame. I take it that you value privacy then?”
I nodded, unsure of where this was going.
“Privacy is very important to me,” I said. “Most often, I think of it as privacy with my clients. I know things about so many people in this city that I could write a bestselling book.”
“But privacy and what’s between me and someone else is as sacred to me as love and faith. So yes, it’s pretty important to me.”
“Makes sense,” Splitter said. “Let me ask you something, then. Is there anything that I should know about you that you haven’t said already? Any reason why the paparazzi would have such a keen interest in you?”
He knows. Or he wants to know about the divorce.
I had a couple of seconds to think as Splitter finished pouring the drinks and walking them over. I weakly thanked him when he put his cup beside mine, but I still didn’t have an answer. On the one hand, for all of the things that he told me, I felt I needed to share my secrets with him—most notably, the secret of the divorce.
But on the other… what did the divorce have to do with us professionally?
Nothing.
But that wasn’t really the question at hand, was it? That wasn’t the question dancing in my head as I had my second drink in private with Splitter at his club house, was it?
It’s what it has to do with us personally.
But…
“Nothing professionally,” I said.
Splitter arched an eyebrow at me. A long, awkward silence filled the room as he either waited for me to crack or I waited for him to drop it. I wasn’t even going to pretend that I had a leg to stand up on here; I was just not wanting to face something that had happened just… not even a week ago. It was so fresh!
And yet here I was…
“Well, I think there’s something there personal,” Splitter said. “I think you’re playing coy because you’re trying to maintain some professionalism. And I understand that. I’ll blame this on the alcohol later, but I happen to think that you are an incredibly attractive woman in more ways than just the looks department. And, damnit, I can’t help myself but swear, I think there’s something here.”
Oh, boy. He’s putting it out there.
“So I would like to know what secret you are hiding personally,” he said, smirking at me.
Oh, goodness. I’m blushing so bad right now. This is so bad.
“But then again,” he said, with too much comfort for it to not have been planned. “You are my lawyer, and we do have to maintain some distance, of course. I mean, I would not want us to compromise what we have, you know. It would be such a terrible shame if we acted on our feelings. So, I’ll make a deal with you.”
I did not know how I looked in that particular moment—if I looked well put together or if my face gave everything away—but inside, I felt like everything was flooding out. The alcohol probably didn’t help matters, but more than that, it was the gradual culmination of things that had led to this moment.
In our first meeting, a conversation like this never would have happened. If it did, I would have had the distance and space to shut it down immediately; and, even if I had not had the self-control to stop it there, I would have removed myself from the case, citing moral obligations or something to that effect.
But our conversations, our gradual touching, our innocent words that were not innocent only in the specific context in which we said them were now leading us to this spot. And I could now do very little to turn back.
I certainly was not going to quit the case, not with everything Splitter had told me. For better or worse, what he had said to me in the car was almost an odd way of equating to marriage vows; it sealed the deal for us as a lawyer-client marriage.
“What’s the deal?” I said, forcing the words out.
“The deal,” Splitter said, speaking very slowly. “Is that if you have one more drink, I will not bother you about the secret.”
That’s… it?
There’s got to be a catch.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it’s fine,” Splitter said. “I’m just looking for you to loosen up and relax a bit. You’re tense! I know a lawyer’s work is tense, but there’s something else going on.”
Goodness, that obvious?
“So, let’s loosen you up a bit. What’s one weekday of drinking going to do? Not much.”
I knew there was no reason to fight other than appearances, which had been shot out of the window by th
e way that Splitter had spoken to me just now. In public, we’d have to have a very clear set of behaviors. Here, in private, though?
“Alright,” I said, giving a “screw it” smile. “But don’t make it strong. I do have to drive home tonight.”
It was my way of ensuring there would be no future drinks and that I would leave sharp at eleven.
Except that it was almost fifteen minutes until ten, and there was no way I was going to wipe away the effects of such a drink so quickly. I was screwed.
But maybe I needed to get screwed to uncork all of the emotions in my head.
Splitter just nodded, rose, and put a hand on me as he passed by. He poured out a drink, sat down, and put it by me. I hadn’t even gotten halfway through my second drink.
“Oh, how rude of me,” he said as he stood back up, pouring himself one. “A man should never make a lady drink more than he is. Now then, for what I was actually getting at. Why don’t you cross-examine me?”
“Hmm, OK,” I said.
This wasn’t the most ideal circumstance to do it in, to say nothing of me being drunk, us feeling some sort of attachment, and the general romance in the air—I wanted to say erotic, but that just felt a touch too much for me—but I wasn’t about to charge the Savage Saints for having drinks with one of their own.
“Where were you the night of the warehouse bombing?” I said.
“Why, I was at home.”
“OK, that’s the first thing,” I said. “You can’t be saying things like ‘why’ or ‘well’ or anything of that nature. It makes it look like you’re buying time so you can make up something. It’s far better for you just to be direct. ‘At home.’ Leave it at that. Nothing more.”
“Got it.”
“OK then,” I said, finishing my second drink and putting the third in front of me. “Where, Mr. Reddings, were you the night of the warehouse bombing?”
“At home.”
I almost wanted to give him an A-plus for not reacting to me calling him by his last name.
“That’s interesting, because we have numerous eye witnesses who claim you were at the scene and that you shot two people.”
