I did know. Man, oh, man, did I know. Chicago was almost as expensive as New York, and I did not relish the idea of going back to a studio. Nope. Wasn’t happening. Not if the next almost-six weeks killed me.
But even so, it was nice sitting here with Zola, listening to him talk about completely normal things like his family’s crowded townhouse and the price of rent in Brooklyn. It was the first time in months I’d had a conversation with anyone who didn’t consider forty-five-dollar steak a cheap meal. I liked it. I missed it.
I drained my PBR and signaled to the bartender for another.
“Someone’s looking to get sloshed,” Zola remarked.
I shook my head. “Just letting off some steam. So…Skylar mentioned you work in the racketeering bureau here still.”
“Oh, yeah. She said you might be interested in a job. The new DA wants to beef up my bureau, actually.”
“Oh?” I had no experience with organized crime, but I wouldn’t say no to an option.
Zola waggled his dark brows. “Wanna go after some big baddies?”
“Like who?” I asked. “The last big case that made the news were those rich people who paid their kids’ way into Harvard and USC.”
“Well, we did help the feds a bit on that one. None of them were de Vries, by the way, but we did hear whisperings…”
I remained silent. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest to find out that anyone in Eric’s family had bribed their kids into college.
“Most of the crime we have is on a smaller scale, sure,” Zola rattled on. “But you’d be surprised. Every now and then, someone big turns out to be involved. There was this heroin ring in East New York that was ninety percent small-time dealers, plus a basketball star for the Nets. It’s crazy, you know? Like these fat cats would rather risk their lives to stuff a few extra thousand in their pockets that they wouldn’t even notice.” He shook his head. “They do it because they can.”
I nodded. I’d heard of similar kinds of thrill-seekers in Chicago too.
“So, are you taking the bar in February or have you applied for reciprocity?” Zola asked, referring to the potential to waive the UBE because I already had admission in Illinois.
I nodded. “I applied, but in the meantime, I’m studying for February. I have to take the NYLE in December anyway.”
Zola waved away that concern. “My dog could pass the NYLE.”
“You have a dog? What kind?”
He scoffed. “I’m a lawyer. I don’t have time for a dog. I meant that figuratively.”
I grinned back. Zola was cute when he was awkward. Cute, and yet, still doing absolutely nothing for me. Which was weird, because the man was fucking gorgeous.
He arched an eyebrow at me. “So, here’s my real question, though. Why in the hell do you want to practice law when you just married into one of the most powerful families in New York?”
I sighed. “You heard about that, did you?”
“Jane, it was on the cover of every paper in the city. The whole world heard about it. But I, uh…” He pointed his beer bottle at my hand. “I can’t help notice there’s something missing there.”
I examined my naked finger, then tucked it into my lap. “You want to hear the real joke?”
He cocked his head, waiting.
I shrugged. “It’s fake. All of it. Eric had to get married for money…and now that Celeste died, we found out that she adjusted her will. We only have to cohabitate through the end of the year, and then we’re done. No marriage. Nothing.”
“Ah,” he replied. “Which explains why you want to work. You want out of their shadow.”
I held a finger in the air like a lightbulb had just appeared. “Bingo.”
Zola examined me for a moment, tapping his lips. “Don’t hate me for saying this, but that doesn’t look like the face of someone who’s only marrying for money.”
“Oh?” I asked. “And what kind of face does it look like, then? Inexplicably fabulous, I hope.”
“It looks sort of like someone with a broken heart,” he said, then turned his attention back to his beer. “So why did you really call me? You could have just sent me your resume if you wanted a job.”
“I need…” I looked up with sudden awareness. “Hold on.” I pulled a dollar from my purse and handed it to him. “Can I trust you?”
Zola looked at the dollar. “Ah, shit, Jane. You know I can’t take that.”
“It’s not against the law.”
His slim black brow rose. “Actually, it is. Prosecutors can’t have a private practice here. I guess you’re not that far through the course yet, are you?”
I sighed and withdrew the bill. When I set my hand back on the bar, Zola covered it with his own. I looked up.
“I can’t be your lawyer,” he said. “But I am a friend. And you can trust that. Are you into something?”
I shook my head, causing my hair to move around my face. “No, not…not me.”
“Eric, then?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
Zola’s dark eyes were earnest, but kind. “Tell me.”
For a moment, I was struck with indecision. This was exactly what Eric was scared of. That I would share his secrets, my biological father’s secrets, and imperil both of us. He was convinced that Carson had some way of listening or tracking or seeing whether or not we were telling the truth.
Gingerly, I removed my phone from my purse and stared at it for a long time. I felt paranoid just wondering about it. Not like I-had-one-too-many-hits-on-a-bong paranoid. Like Edward Snowden paranoid.
But Zola didn’t seem surprised when I dropped the phone camera-first into my glass of water.
“You know, you could have just asked the bartender to put it in the microwave over there,” he remarked as we watched it sink to the bottom of the pint glass.
I sighed. “Some say I have a flair for drama. They might be right.”
His black brow rose again. “I think you better tell me exactly what’s going on, Jane.”
I took a deep breath, then checked around the bar. Yeah. Even with my phone deep-sea diving, I still didn’t feel safe. “What do you say we go for a walk?”
Zola chuckled. “You’ve watched too many gangster movies.”
“No, I’m just antsy. Come on, Matlock, let’s get some air.”
* * *
We meandered down Orchard Street, and Zola shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket while he waited patiently for me to speak. I recognized the trick. Sometimes when you question a witness, the best thing to do is wait them out.
We turned right onto Houston, and it wasn’t until we passed Katz’s, the famous diner where Meg Ryan faked an orgasm in When Harry Met Sally, that I finally started talking, soothed by the hum of traffic.
“Have you ever seen anything to do with secret societies?” I asked.
Zola peered at me. “What, like the Illuminati? I didn’t take you for a conspiracy theorist, Jane.”
I shook my head. “No, not like that. More like Skull and Bones.”
“Those Yale assholes?”
I chuckled. “It’s a real thing.”
“Yeah, I know it is,” Zola said. “Half the criminal defense attorneys in the city went to Ivies like that. Meanwhile, I made do with CUNY.”
I nodded, but didn’t mention my alma mater. Since Zola knew Skylar and Brandon, he also knew that Thanksgiving at her house was basically a Harvard alumni party.
“So, what?” he asked. “Eric’s in a society, and you don’t like it? Don’t those guys just dabble in some mild vandalism and wear hoods and shit?”
I giggled. Then sighed. And then opened my mouth, and before I realized it, the entire story flooded out. The wedding. The coin around Eric’s neck and the other strange men who wore ones just like it. My biological father, John Carson. And my mother, who was scared shitless of him.
The way Eric seemed to be too.
“So, wait, you’re telling me Eric was abducted for ten fucking day
s by a bunch of Latin-loving assholes who wear matching jewelry?”
I chuckled. I quite liked that characterization.
“And no one reported it?” Zola prodded further. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
I rolled my eyes. “I was a little mad, you know.”
He shook his head. “That’s cold, Jane.”
“Skylar called for us.” I stared at the sidewalk, ashamed. Why hadn’t I looked harder?
“And what did they say?”
“Later that evening, they received a call from Eric saying he was fine,” I said. “Only that he wanted us to leave him alone, and he’d be back for the funeral. They dropped it.”
The family had bought it, mostly because he had done it once before. So I bought it too. It had stung like hell, but somehow I’d swallowed that pill right alongside being left at the altar.
“And now this…society…headed by your long-lost dad…is forcing you to live together without sex for sixty days?” Zola frowned.
I did too. It did sound weird. “I just…something is off. Why would Eric agree to it if they hadn’t done something to him? Something really, really awful? His face was all messed up when he came back. And then Carson threatened me too, you know. Plus that stuff he told my mom.”
“Jane, that’s speculative at best, and you know it. What if Eric was just pissed and wanted some space? What if—and I really hate to say this—what if he realized he just didn’t want to get married?”
“Because he said he loved me!” I shouted, loud enough for a couple of passersby to startle. But as soon as I was done, I immediately felt exactly like someone I had never wanted to be—that girl. The one who says her asshole boyfriend is an angel when everyone’s not looking. I might as well have yelled “you don’t know him like I do!”
Zola, to his credit, just continued walking, unruffled. But I knew what he was thinking. And I was right.
“Jane,” he said after another block had passed. “I’m going to suggest something you’re probably not going to want to hear. I don’t know you. And I don’t know Eric. But I do know that people do weird things when they are grieving—”
I shook my head. “No.”
“And a lot of guys will say a lot of things to get laid—”
“No, no, no—”
“And from what you’ve been telling me, it sounds like you two have a history of maybe being a little vindictive with each other. So maybe—”
“Listen,” I snapped. “Eric left me one way and returned ten days later with a black eye and some pretty insane paranoia. I guarantee if you saw us together, you’d understand what I’m talking about.”
Zola gave a long, low exhale. “What makes you think that I—”
“Because half of what you do is read people, Zola,” I interrupted for the last time. “I know that because I used to do it too. You’re telling me that after, what, seven, ten years cross-examining people who are determined not to snitch, you don’t know if someone is lying? If they are feigning indifference? If they care about something when they say they don’t?”
We stopped, finding ourselves at last at the end of the island. Across the FDR highway and the East River twinkled the lights of Brooklyn. To the south lay the Williamsburg bridge, under which I could see the tail end of a small container vessel. It wasn’t one of the de Vries boats—they were all much bigger and operated out of South Street and New Jersey. But it still made me think of the man who owned them all.
“Fine,” Zola relented at last. “Fine, I’ll take a look. But, Jane?”
I turned. “What?”
“When I tell you there’s nothing there, you have to believe me, all right?”
I smiled. “When you tell me that, I’ll believe you. But you won’t.”
Fifteen
Zola and I meandered back down Houston and split a pastrami sandwich at Katz’s—I couldn’t resist—before he took the train back to Brooklyn. I got a cab back uptown and considered the best way to sneak back into my room, sight unseen. My rage had faded, and now I just felt full and tired. I wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower, curl up in my bed, and try to forget the other, much more comfortable bed where I had spent most of the last six months happier than I’d ever been.
That was the real loss. It wasn’t a ring on my finger or millions of dollars. It was that in the darkness with him, when I had watched the moon cast its blue light over his smooth skin, I had felt for the first time in my life that I wasn’t just a black sheep, rebel daughter, quirky friend. With him, I had found my niche, like a crooked jigsaw piece snapping into its place. I had belonged. Until he cast me out.
I entered the dark apartment with heavy feet. Eric was out, I realized with an even heavier heart. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I had thrown my date-that-wasn’t-a-date in his face, and he had already been half drunk when I left. It would have been completely in character for him to finish the bottle and find someone else to temper his frustration. Probably on her knees.
I hated that I knew that’s what he would do.
Maybe Zola was right after all. Maybe I was just a pathetic, jealous ex.
“Did you have a nice time?”
“Ahhh!”
I jumped at the sudden sound of Eric’s deep voice reverberating through the darkness. I dropped my purse and whirled around. As my eyes adjusted, I spotted him in one of the Danish chairs by the big bay window. The moonlight cast his face with that bluish glow I’d just been remembering, making the tips of his blond hair appear almost metallic and the rest of him—half-clothed in nothing but his slacks from earlier—look like a carved statue.
A work of art.
I pressed my hand to my racing heart. “What are you doing here?”
Eric slouched further and toyed with something in his hand. His necklace dangled from his fingers, the streetlight reflecting off the gold coin as it twisted and turned on its chain.
“I live here,” he said acerbically.
I rolled my eyes, then hung my coat in the closet and set my clutch on the foyer table. “I know that. I just mean, what are you doing here, sitting in the dark? You look like you’re ten seconds from shoving your head in the oven.”
Eric snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t like the serious undercurrent in that suggestion, and suddenly I felt guilty for even joking about suicide.
“I was just sitting here thinking about our little situation,” he said, his tone almost dangerous. “Torturing myself. Coming to terms with the fact that I just might be a bit of a masochist.” He blinked, his eyes two bright, angry stars. “I always choose women I can’t have. First Penny. Now you. It’s like a sick fetish.”
I stared at him, unsure of what to make of this. Eric wasn’t usually the type for drama—that was my card.
“But,” he continued, “if I’m going to be a glutton for punishment, I might as well finish the job.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
Eric rose slowly from the chair and padded across the dark room. He looked a mess—rumpled hair, shadowed eyes—but an absolutely gorgeous, shirtless mess as he stalked toward me.
“I’ve been trying to make this easy on you,” he said with every careful, if slightly wobbly step. “But you are fucking determined to make it as hard as you can, aren’t you?”
“You asked for this,” I replied, taking a step back. “I would have just walked away.”
Eric tipped his head back, causing a few rumpled blond locks to fall back, and emitted a harsh laugh at the ceiling. “I suppose that’s what you’re good at, right? Just walking away?”
My rage returned. “I’m sorry, but I was the one who was jilted at the altar, asshole. Not you.”
Eric’s head jerked upright like it was attached to a rubber band. “You will never understand what that cost me, Jane. What you cost me.”
“You’re right. Not if you don’t tell me.”
He stared at me for a long time, quivering a bit,
whether from anger or drink, I couldn’t tell.
“Do you have any idea what I went through when I was…gone?” he growled. “For you? Do you?”
I stilled. This was the first time he’d said more than a few words about what had happened to him during those ten days. Apparently, he’d had enough vodka that it turned into truth serum, but only with vague, ambivalent bullshit.
“How much?” I dared him. Tell me. Don’t tell me. Tell me something.
“They wanted me to forget about you,” he said before taking another long swig from the bottle. “And they were willing to hurt me to make sure I would. And they did. A lot.”
I remained quiet, waiting for him to tell me more. As an ADA, I had seen more evidence of physical crimes than most ever would, but the idea of someone hurting Eric made me feel sick. And violent. And furious. So much more than I felt toward him.
“It hurt so much. But not as much as knowing you were fucking some other man tonight.” His voice was like gravel, coarse and cruel. He took another step forward, caging me against the counter. “Knowing some other asshole was right where only I am supposed to be. Fucking. Killed.”
I scrambled onto a stool. Eric moved between my legs, but still didn’t touch me. He just…hovered.
Desire sliced through me. I wanted to shove him away and yank him close at the same time. Kiss him and slap him all at once. And Eric, ever the statue, didn’t move a single tensed muscle.
“Pain,” he whispered. “Pain is all I feel. Except when I’m with you. But now, that hurts too.”
One by one, my defenses fell.
“What if…what if I told you we did nothing?” I asked
Eric’s hot gaze carved a path up and down my body. “Is that the truth? Don’t lie to me.”
I nodded. “It’s the truth.”
“Did you want to?”
I wanted to say no, but my voice was frozen by the harsh hold of his eyes. Eric sucked in a breath, then brought the vodka bottle to his mouth and slowly licked around the edge before tipping it up and emptying it completely. His full lips wrapped around the thick glass, and I stared enviously at the sight of his tongue, small and pink, slipping inside the bottle. Twirling. Teasing.
The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy Page 16
