“Who is this?”
“This is Jane Lefferts,” I said bluntly. “I’m a friend of Skylar Crosby’s. We, um, we’ve met before, a few years ago.”
“Oh!” The instant familiar tone calmed my heartbeat immediately. “Hey, Jane. How are you?”
“I’m good,” I lied. “Just great. Hey, random thought. I don’t know a lot of people in New York, and I’m here for the next few months, so…I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink, or…” I winced again. I sounded like an awkward teenager feeling out a movie date, not an almost-thirty-year-old woman who could buy an entire theater if she wanted.
But to my surprise, Zola replied, “Sure, that sounds great. How does tonight sound?”
“Tonight?”
“If you’re free. I need to get out of the office anyway.”
He suggested a lounge on the Lower East Side, to which I readily agreed, since that part of town was pretty much the polar opposite of its uptown cousin.
“Perfect,” I said a little too eagerly. “It’s a date.”
* * *
Two hours later, I was putting the finishing touches on my hair just before I exited the bathroom wearing one of the YSL dresses from Celeste. Don’t judge. You’d put on an original Mondrian dress too if it was dropped on your doorstep in mint condition. After practicing my cat-eye makeup for a solid hour, I had just popped in my contacts and finished teasing my hair into a bouffant half-updo that was one hundred percent shagalicious and went perfectly with the window-paned print and primary colors. I was a one-woman Mod Squad.
“Jesus!” I cried as I walked smack into Eric, in unexpectedly early. “Where the hell did you come from?”
His hands clasped my shoulders to steady me, and a cloud of cologne, soap, and a light scent of dust floated between us. God, he smelled good. And…suspiciously female.
I sniffed. “Chanel No. 5? Really, Petri dish? You could be a little more discreet.”
Eric glowered as he took in my dress, hair, and makeup. “I was with Nina, finishing going through Grandmother’s storage. I see you went through the clothes.”
I looked down and back up at him. “Yeah. Well. A classic is a classic. No one in their right mind turns down YSL, even if it comes from you.”
He folded his lips together. “Nina actually thought you would like it.”
I really didn’t like the way that idea hurt. I mean, Nina was nice and all. And shouldn’t I have preferred that Eric wasn’t trying to win me back with vintage fashion?
I should have. I should have, but I didn’t.
The realization robbed me of any quips. “So that’s it? It’s all Garrett’s now?”
Eric shrugged off his jacket and hung it on the back of one of the chairs at the breakfast bar. I took in the navy pants covered in dust, the way his blond hair was uncharacteristically ruffled, and the smudges of grime on his white shirt.
“The estate planner will finish the job, but yeah. We’re done going through the rest. Garrett is changing the locks this week.”
I watched silently as he moved around the kitchen, locating a glass and taking out his favorite vodka from the freezer.
Then my eye caught the corner of a couple of new boxes stacked next to the door, as well as a large, paper-covered package. “What are those?”
Eric turned from where he was pouring himself a stiff vodka. “What? Oh. Just some other things I wanted. Books mostly. Didn’t you see the other box I brought yesterday?” He nodded toward a cardboard box next to a bookshelf.
I shook my head. “I must have missed that.” I wandered over to the new boxes and snorted when I picked out the first book. “Rilke? Do you even read German?”
“First editions aren’t meant to read. They’re to collect.”
“The only person who would say anything like that would have to be as rich as Midas, and just as bored. Which, I guess you are. Or will be in another six-ish weeks.”
Eric just gave me a long look over his glass, but didn’t reply.
I set the book back in the box. “What about that?” I asked, pointing at the larger package.
Eric tossed back the vodka and poured himself another. Dang. Collecting books must really be taxing.
“Open it and see,” he said.
So I did, because I really wasn’t interested in the way just his posture, leaning rakishly over the counter, made me want to unwrap him instead. What the hell was it about the man and dress clothes? I’d worked for years alongside all manner of stodgy men in suits and ties—not once had they done anything for me. But all Eric had to do was lean over with his shirtsleeves rolled up and top collar unbuttoned, and I was ready to jump a man whom I hated more than just about anyone right now.
Elbow porn. If it’s not a thing, it should be.
“Be careful,” he said behind me. “It’s really fragile.”
I didn’t turn around. “Thanks, Dad.”
But as soon as I had opened the package, it was obvious why he wanted me to be cautious.
“Is this…is it…”
“It’s real.”
Inside was the painting. My painting. The one I’d admired every time I’d been to Celeste’s penthouse. The gorgeous original Gustav Klimt that hung in one of her many hallways. Two beautiful figures locked in a scattered embrace. Broken and splintered when you looked at them closely, but such a lovely whole together.
It was my favorite item in that apartment. I looked forward to seeing it every time I visited.
Eric pushed off the counter and came to stand next to me to look at the painting, now perched on top of the boxes and leaning against the wall. It wasn’t a large piece—maybe sixteen by twenty-four inches. Just a mid-sized portrait. But so, so beautiful.
“It’s for you,” he said. “Apparently she told Garrett that she wanted you to have it and forgot to put it in the will. The old guy always hated it anyway and decided to make good on the promise.”
“That’s very generous of him,” I murmured as I floated my hand over the gold leaf. “He could have gotten a fortune from Sotheby’s.”
Eric shrugged. “Maybe he thought he had enough.”
“It should probably be in a museum.”
“If that’s what you want.”
I turned. “Do you want that?”
“I think you should have it,” Eric said. “I always liked the look on your face when you saw it. Like you were sharing a secret with these two.” He looked up. “Consider it an early birthday gift.”
We watched each other, and for a second, I thought maybe we were leaning into each other.
“That dress,” he said, his words a little more drawn out than usual. “I like it.”
I looked down at the seminal black and white print, with its primary colors blocked in strategic corners. It was structural and overt—Yves Saint Laurent was known for his use of “masculine” aesthetics during the sixties, even in women’s fashion. The red matched the violent streak in the back of my hair. In it, I felt strong, but still classic. Like I could say “fuck you” to the dauphin here without feeling like a coarse peasant.
“Well, I didn’t wear it for you,” I said, pushing past him to retrieve my clutch from an end table.
Eric blinked, finished the remainder of his drink, and walked back to the kitchen to mouse around for some food and a third finger of vodka.
“Still,” he said. “You’re awfully dressed up for a night at home, even for you. What are the big plans?”
“I’m going downtown for dinner. Orchard Street, I think.”
“Oh, nice. There’s a great bar down there called the Green Goose. Order a Manhattan. I was just there the other night, and Corinne makes the best in the city.”
And there it was—the reminder that Eric was already back to his old ways. Boozing and whoring himself out like a dilettante prince while I sat at home getting carpal tunnel. Not from that, you fiends. From online legal practice tests.
“Are you taking a cab?” he said, following me into my
room, where I was filling up my clutch. “Why don’t you take my driver? You look too good to be walking around downtown alone.”
Eric watched as I brushed my skirt down and checked my painstakingly curled hair. I pulled out my makeup for the final touch-up. He didn’t move.
“What are you doing?” I demanded with a mouth still held in an o-position.
Eric shifted uncomfortably. “Do you really have to do that right there? All the goddamn time? This is hard enough as it is, living together.”
“You don’t want to see it?” I asked. “There are three other bedrooms in this apartment open to you. Move to one of them.”
He remained where he was, however, hypnotized as I reapplied my liner and lipstick. His pupils dilated, and he made no attempt to hide the fact that the front of his pants was getting pretty tight.
Ha. About damn time.
“So who are you meeting?” he asked after he sipped his drink a little too quickly.
“A friend.” I examined my eyes, making sure my liner hadn’t smeared. I wasn’t sure if this new magnetic stuff was for me, but it was working so far.
“Which friend?”
“I have a date.” I turned around triumphantly and looked around for my phone. Ah, there it was, on the bed. I tried not to think about the time Eric had stripped me down. Right there. On that exact corner.
Eric’s gray eyes narrowed. “You have a date?”
I lifted my chin. “I—yeah. A dinner thing. With Matthew Zola, Skylar’s prosecutor friend.” It was only a half-truth, of course. Yes, Zola and I were having drinks and probably food, but that was about it. And yeah, I was overdressed. Maybe for this exact moment.
“A dinner thing?”
“Why do you keep repeating everything I’m saying? Did you turn into one of Celeste’s myna birds while you were going through her stuff?”
“Because I can’t believe you’re saying it!” He tossed back the vodka like it was water, not 100-proof liquor.
“Please.” Suddenly he was much too close. “Like you give a shit. Don’t worry, I’ll come back here tonight. We won’t break any rules, I promise. You’ll still get your bazillions.”
I pushed him in the chest, but he didn’t move. The gold chain swung between the folds of his open collar.
“Maybe you should be a little more worried about yours too, pretty girl.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Eric said, “that I’ve had a lifetime of practice dealing with assholes who only wanted to line their pockets with the de Vries name. Get ready, gorgeous. They’re going to come after you, too. And last I heard, assistant prosecutors don’t make shit. What do you think, should I come with you? Ask Zola to marry me too?”
My hand flew out before I could help myself, but Eric was too quick. He ducked out of reach, and I ended up going flying, right onto my mattress.
“You’re an asshole!” I yelped as I struggled to get up.
“Never said otherwise,” he agreed nonchalantly, though his face was reddened, as if he’d just run up several flights of stairs.
“How many times over the past few weeks did you tell me, again and again, that we weren’t married?” I asked as I chased him back into the kitchen.
Eric’s back tensed as he opened and shut the cupboards, presumably looking for food. “I don’t know, but—”
“And did you not just insinuate that all I care about was your money anyway?”
“Yeah, but that was just—”
“And did I or did I not just tell you that I would stay here platonically for the next two months, despite the fact that it is clearly killing both of us to do it?”
Eric turned with a deep scowl. “You also said you’d go out of your way to make my life a living hell. Is this what you meant? Dressing up like a hot go-go dancer, off to fuck random men while I give myself cirrhosis wondering where you are?” He gulped the rest of his vodka, as if to prove the point.
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from the man guzzling martinis all week with God knows how many crabs-infested barflies. I hope you’re double-bagging it, Petri. You’re going to need an extra-long lab visit next time.”
Eric’s face darkened even more. “You have no clue where I’ve been, Jane.”
“And I don’t need to. I can hear your crooked steps. And I know you, Eric. You only wear the Tom Ford cologne when you’re looking to get laid.” I leaned across and sniffed again, ignoring the way the familiar scent caused tingles to run up and down my legs.
When I stood up, he was practically vibrating with anger. Good.
I grabbed my coat off a barstool and threw it over my dress in a decidedly dramatic fashion. Lauren Bacall had nothing on me tonight.
“I guess I’m keeping both my promises,” I told him. “Don’t wait up.”
Fourteen
I took an Uber with a complete stranger just to piss Eric off. It worked—his tall shadow was shaking in his bedroom window as we drove away. Point Jane.
Zola was waiting for me at a lounge in the Lower East Side. It wasn’t until the driver pulled up to the address I’d provided that I realized it was in fact the Green Goose, the exact place Eric had recommended. Dammit. Point him.
“Who the fuck names a bar after an off-color water fowl?” I muttered to myself as the car pulled away from the curb. “Goose is the least sexy name on the planet.”
But when I entered the bar, I immediately felt at home. The Lower East Side was a long way from the tall, posh buildings that surrounded Central Park. The lounge itself was nestled in the basement of a sagging brick walk-up that had the beaten charm of a building that used to be “bad,” but was now repurposed to New York’s young bohemian contingent who either hid their Wall Street wealth under ripped jeans and concert tees or lived five to a bedroom just to afford Manhattan rent. As I looked around the lounge, I was just as likely to see biker jackets as crinoline, combat boots as ballet flats. Vintage labels mixed with full-sleeve tattoos, and there were mohawks and bobs alike.
I smiled. These were my people, eclectic and weird. And not for the first time, I wondered what life would be like once I could trade the radius of Central Park for a bit more…diversity.
I approached the bar and flagged down the server, a cute, femme guy with a nose ring.
He gave me a look that should have set my dress on fire. “What’ll you have, gorgeous?”
I wrinkled my nose—not just because Eric sometimes called me that, but because this guy looked young enough to be my offspring. Okay, maybe not that young. But close enough.
“Just a PBR.” I set a five on the stained bar top.
Nose ring nodded lasciviously. “Vintage. I like it.”
I scowled, unsure if he was referring to me, my dress, or my beer choice. My thirtieth birthday was in three days, just before Thanksgiving. I wasn’t particularly happy to be entering the more “mature” stage of my life. Weren’t people supposed to have their shit together by thirty? My life was messier than ever.
“I had to stop drinking that stuff a few years ago. Gives me heartburn.”
I turned to find my “date” for the night taking a seat at the bar next to me, looking a hell of a lot better than any public servant had any right to look.
I’d met Matthew Zola a few times. After the trial that involved Skylar’s family, he remained friends with the Crosby-Sterlings, attending their random extravaganzas with the rest of the ragtag group of family and friends they had assembled over the years. He looked the same as ever—about six feet, but with the bearing of a taller man, lean and wiry with shiny dark hair combed neatly back, penetrating eyes fringed with long black lashes, and a full mouth that was always curled in a slight smirk. Zola was a good guy, as clean-cut as it got. But sitting there in a plain leather jacket, white t-shirt, and jeans, he still had an edge that, like his five-o’clock shadow, couldn’t quite be erased.
I grinned. “Hey there, stranger. Nice to see you again.”
He offered a d
istinctly European kiss on each cheek—I knew his family was Italian or something, so I wondered if he’d picked it up from them. Then he ordered a beer for himself. The bartender gave him the same firestarter look he’d given me, served the drink, and dashed off to flirt with the other clientele. Zola smiled at me with certified bedroom eyes. And I almost scowled.
Because despite the fact that I was enjoying a drink with a man whom I had flirted with off and on for years, I felt nothing. Nothing.
My mojo, that finicky, conniving little bitch, had decided to go missing. Again.
“You’re a bit underdressed for the office,” I remarked, pushing all negative thoughts to the side.
Zola looked down at his casualwear and smirked. “Sunday. No court. You look…wow. Really great.”
“Do you live far from here?”
“Oh, a bit, yeah,” Zola replied. “But it’s all right. You gave me an excuse to come into the city. I don’t get out of Brooklyn much. Traffic, you know.”
I nodded, though I really didn’t know. Despite having spent the last six months in New York, I wasn’t very familiar with much beyond the basic Manhattan neighborhoods below 125th Street. And, of course, one neighborhood in Queens with a rock-climbing gym.
“Where, ah, where in Brooklyn are you from?” I asked, though I wouldn’t really know the difference.
Zola finished his sip of beer. “Well, I’m from the Bronx originally, Belmont. My parents still live there, but the rest of us left.”
I smiled. Bronx neighborhoods were basically Latin. “The rest of you?”
The lawyer smiled, his mouth twisting sheepishly. “I have a few brothers and sisters.”
“How many is a few?”
The smile widened. “Ah, five.”
I blinked. “Bit of a stereotype, aren’t you? Big Italian family?”
“Italian and Puerto Rican, for your information,” he said. But his grin informed me he wasn’t irritated by the question. “They’re like roaches—I can’t get rid of them. My sister lives with me in Brooklyn. Sheepshead Bay. We couldn’t afford to be any closer to the city. She’s a teacher; I’m an assistant prosecutor. Public servants, you know?”
The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Page 15
