by Lauren Layne
I want to. God, how I want to. I just need one night to forget that the carefree life I enjoyed just a month ago is turning to complete shit.
If only I could get a little excited about the prospect.
A waitress in a silver sequin bra and short skirt saunters over to us. “Another round?”
I hold up my empty cocktail glass in confirmation that I want another without taking my gaze off the scene below. Reserving a table requires bottle service, so there’s Grey Goose and mixers on the table, but I’m enough of a regular for the staff to know to keep the Negronis coming.
“So, what’s our plan?” Matt asks, dropping both arms around the back of the booth and studying me.
I turn my attention from the dancers to my friend. I’ll give Matt credit. He’s doing a damn good job acting like this is any other night out on the town. Like me, his shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbow, tie loosened, suit jacket long gone. He’s trying for casual, but he comes up short because his eyes are guarded and watchful as he studies me.
Still, at least he’s better than Kennedy, who didn’t even bother with casual. The man looks just as buttoned up at midnight as he did at noon.
“Well, we’re never going to get anywhere with him looking like that,” I say, gesturing at Kennedy.
“I want to agree, but we’ve seen too much to the contrary,” Matt says. “One of life’s great puzzles, why women dig a nerd.”
“Indeed,” Kennedy says. “Nearly as baffling as why they love boy wonders.”
Matt flips Kennedy the bird, then shifts his attention to me. “Okay, let’s have it. Spit out what’s really bugging you so we can get on with our night.”
“I’m frustrated,” I admit, blowing out a breath. “McKenzie doesn’t have shit on me. If she did, she’d have laid it out there already, escalated her case, and brought in a subpoena. Instead, she’s just pushing papers around. It’s like she’s trying to manufacture something happening just by perseverance and stubbornness.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Kennedy mutters.
I give him a look and open my mouth to snap back, but Matt interrupts.
“You said she’s angling for FBI, right? Maybe this case is a make-or-break thing for her.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I muse.
“That why you made her cry?” Kennedy asks. “Kate said—”
“I didn’t make her cry,” I ground out. “Look, I wanted a night out to forget what’s going on in my life, not rehash it. I appreciate the concern, but it’s not what I need right now. Either back off or leave.”
A moment of silence stretches across the table, and the relentless throb of the music does nothing to ease the tension.
Finally, Kennedy nods and tosses back the rest of his drink. “I get it.”
I give him a wary look. “You do?”
“Yeah. If I were in your shoes, I’d be doing the same. Well, not this,” he says, waving at the scene around us. “But I’d be trying to maintain some semblance of my normal life as well.”
“So you’d be at home with some hideous philosophy tome?” Matt asks.
Kennedy flashes a quick grin. “You guys mind?”
“Go,” I say, gesturing with my glass. “I need to get laid, and you’ll only crash my game.”
Kennedy leans forward. “Worried I might get the girl?”
I snort. “Get out of here, old man.”
“Going,” he says, pushing his empty glass toward the center of the table and standing. “See you Monday. Try not to get arrested or dead.”
“I make zero promises,” I call after his retreating back. “What about you?” I ask Matt after Kennedy leaves.
Matt cracks his knuckles and surveys the room. “I’m not going to leave you alone at a table for six. Let’s get you some female company.”
“I’m too old to need a wingman, dude. Besides, I thought you wanted to get laid, too.”
He gives me an idle smile. “Who said I’m not?”
My eyebrows lift. “You work fast.”
He holds up his iPhone. “Booty text.”
“Anyone I know?”
Matt finishes the rest of his drink. “Lynnae.”
I groan. Lynnae Silverton is one of Matt’s many blink and you’ll miss her ex-girlfriends. She’s hotter than hell and twice as psycho.
She’s also the least of my concerns. I can’t manage my own love life these days, much less his, so I wave him away. “Go.”
He stands but hesitates, running a hand over his neck. “Ian, if you want—”
“I’m fine,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Really.” And I mean it. The entire point of this evening was to escape the mess of my life. I need a break from the constant overanalysis, even if my friends mean well.
Matt studies me for a moment in a shrewd, assessing way that reminds me why he’s so damn good at his job. “You’re fine,” he says.
I throw up my hands. “That’s what I just said.”
“Yeah, but I’m the genius.” He smirks, patting my shoulder. “Means more when I say it.”
I roll my eyes as he laughs and goes off to hook up with his ex.
A few minutes later, I’m all alone at my VIP table. Any other time I’d be on the move, looking for a lady—or three—to keep me company, but I’m not in a hurry tonight.
For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve got a moment of solitude that’s not actually solitude. It gives me a second to catch my breath, a break from bullshitting, and yet the pulse of the music, the hundred people around me keep me from being alone with my thoughts.
I’ve never particularly been one for being by myself. Too much time to dwell on shit that shouldn’t be dwelled on. But I like it even less with the SEC on my ass. My thoughts are split fifty-fifty between going to jail and Lara McKenzie, and I’m not sure which one is more troublesome. Especially since the latter is the one who wants to put me in the former.
I spin my cocktail glass idly without taking a drink. I came here tonight to get obliterated and laid, and I don’t feel like doing either. There’s something about having your life turned upside down that makes you stop and look at said life.
Honestly? I don’t know if I like what I see. I won’t say I have regrets, per se. It’s pointless to dwell on what you can’t change, and on principle, I’m still a fan of work hard, play hard.
But I always figured I could play as hard as I wanted until I didn’t want it anymore. That I’d have a chance for the wife and kid and Disneyland vacations when the time felt right.
Now? I’m a little terrified I won’t even get that chance. Not unless I can convince Lara that while I may be a womanizing bastard, I’m not a law-breaking one.
Shit.
I take another sip of my drink and shift to scan for the waitress and close out. I should be at home working on that damn list of people who might have framed me, not pretending I’m twenty-four without a care in the world.
The room’s more crowded than it was just a few minutes ago, and I don’t see my waitress through the tight asses in tiny dresses and bros unsubtly trying to make their move.
In the sea of bare female legs, a denim-clad pair catches my gaze—both because they’re long and damn good legs and because they’re unusual. Jeans in a club? Maybe in January. On a sticky summer evening, most of the women are wearing short skirts or dresses.
The woman stands up from her table, and my eyes travel from the sexy heels up the dark-blue of the tight jeans, lingering on a great ass. The yellow top’s both slinky and a little bit prim, with a crisscross back and preppy lace.
The hair’s long and blonde, the face . . . Come on, darling, turn around.
The woman heeds my silent command, bending to pick up her purse and turning so I can see her profile . . .
I spill my drink all over my shirt.
Worse, it’s a red drink on a white shirt.
“Motherfucker,” I growl, wiping stupidly at the stain, my mind reeling. What is she doing here?
Pearl is quite possibly the last place I’d ever expect to see Lara McKenzie. Maybe it isn’t her, just a look-alike.
The waitress apparently decides to take pity on me, because a wad of small square cocktail napkins is dropped onto the table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing a couple of napkins and swiping futilely at the red blotch on my chest.
“I’ve heard club soda works for red-wine stains. Not sure about the fruit punch thing you’ve got going.”
My hand goes still. That’s not the waitress’s voice.
I lift my head, and my gaze collides with familiar blue eyes, fears confirmed. Not the waitress. Lara.
“It’s not fruit punch.” My tone’s just a touch childish, but I don’t care. This is not what I need right now.
Lara’s eyes drift down to my shirt and back up. Her lifted eyebrows say it all: Looks like fruit punch.
“It’s a Negroni,” I explain, as though that’s what matters at the moment.
“Oh right,” she says. “My grandmother used to drink those.”
Fantastic, I think as I rub at the shirt. Now I remind her of her grandmother twice over—first with the orchid, now with my cocktail of choice.
I glance up again, and Lara’s gone. I’m torn between disappointment and relief that she didn’t stick around to witness more of the train wreck that my evening’s becoming.
I pull out my wallet, hoping I have enough cash to cover everything so I can get the hell out of here without having to wait for the waitress to find her way back to me.
“Holy crap, that’s a lot of cash,” Lara says, returning to my table.
I blink in surprise, first at the cup of clear liquid that’s set in front of me, then at the woman who slides into the booth across from me.
“Club soda,” Lara says, nodding her chin at the cup. “Let’s see if it works.”
I give it a skeptical glance. She reaches across the table and pushes the glass closer.
Reluctantly I pick up a clean napkin, dunk it unceremoniously into the soda, and then rub at my shirt.
The result is a wet ring around the red stain that fades . . . not at all. Now my shirt’s red and wet.
I look up and see that she’s withholding a laugh. Barely.
Crumpling the napkin into a ball, I throw it across the table at her, and she bats it away before it hits her chin, the laugh slipping out.
No, not laugh. Giggle. The SEC investigator is giggling. And not an annoying, high-pitched girlie giggle, either. Just a feminine sound of enjoyment . . . at my expense.
“Sorry,” she says, still smiling.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you?”
Her gaze drops to the stain, then meets mine again. “Not really. How much is it bothering you to look less than perfect right now?”
I grin. “Are you saying I look perfect other times?”
Her smile disappears, and I realize I pushed too far, was too flirty, especially after our argument earlier.
“I should go,” she says, scooting toward the edge of the booth.
I reach out a hand to stop her, almost touching her arm but not quite. “No, stay. You can point and laugh. I’ll even let you take pictures.” I soften my voice. “Just . . . don’t leave.”
She hesitates, and my stomach clenches with the realization that she’s going to walk away.
I should be used to it. Most of my life’s been spent braced for the moment where I’m shipped off to the next home, or told that scholarship kids aren’t welcome, or that I need a sponsor to get into whatever bullshit club only takes people related to the Rockefellers.
I thought I’d grown used to it—that rejection or dismissal no longer has the power to hurt me like it did my nine-year-old self or even my nineteen-year-old self.
But I’ve never wanted—needed—anything like I want her to stay.
To want me back.
Lara sighs, and then tosses her purse onto the seat beside her. “Okay, I’ll stay. But no pictures.” She holds up a warning finger. “I shouldn’t be seen with you out on a Friday night, and there definitely shouldn’t be any photo evidence of it.”
Slowly, the tightness in my chest loosens, the tension replaced by something even more dangerous. I clear my throat to hide my reaction.
“So, I, um . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.”
I look up in surprise. “What?”
“I should have done my research before I came barging into your office today,” she says, holding my gaze. “I should have contacted Veronica Sperry first, seen if it was even a valid piece of evidence. I’ve looked into it since then, and I was . . . wrong. She laughed it off as a drunken moment, said she doesn’t even remember that night, much less the kiss.”
I feel a surge of hope. “Does this mean you’re dropping the case?”
She hesitates, and I deflate slightly.
“Never mind,” I mutter.
“Mr. Bradley—”
To change the topic from whatever SEC line she’s going to feed me, I nod in the direction of the table she left, where a very hot woman is talking to a guy with dark hair. “Friends of yours?”
She glances over her shoulder, her eyes assessing. “Gabby. That’s her ex.”
“Ah. Explains the intense conversation,” I say, noting the way the woman’s hands move furiously as she talks. Even from across the room, everything about both of their body languages screams unfinished business.
“I’m giving them space. They dated for a year. She was crazy about him, and she thought he felt the same. But he got a job offer in Amsterdam and took it.”
“She didn’t go with?”
“She wasn’t asked.”
I study her for a moment, trying to assess her mood. She seems nervous, but I don’t think it’s me. In fact, I get the distinct sense that it’s the club that has her slightly on edge, and I’m the familiar safe space in the room.
The theory pleases me more than I care to admit.
“Drink?” I ask, gesturing at the bottles of vodka and mixers on the table.
“Oh, I shouldn’t.”
I reach for one of the clean glasses and pour a splash of Grey Goose into it, as well as a scoop of rapidly melting ice from the bucket. “Tonic? Soda?”
“Mr. Bradley—”
“Lara,” I interrupt, and her gaze collides with mine at my use of her first name. “Have a drink with me,” I say, my voice a little gruff.
She swallows before her gaze darts to her friend’s table. Finally, she sighs. “Tonic. Please.”
I fill the glass with the tonic and slide it toward her.
She looks up. “You’re not having one?”
“I only like Negronis.”
“Perhaps you should reconsider,” she says, her gaze dropping to my shirt. “To something clear.”
I pretend to think this over. “Valid point.”
I make myself a vodka tonic as well, not because I particularly want it but because I want her to feel more at ease.
I lift my glass in a toast. “To . . . Well, hell. I don’t know that I’ve got a damn thing in my life to toast to right now.”
“That’s not true,” she says softly, putting her glass down. “You’ve got great friends. Your assistant would die for you. You probably make more money in a month than I will in my lifetime.”
“And I’ve got the SEC just waiting to take it all away,” I say. Not to punish her but to remind her—to remind both of us—just how much power she has over my life.
“Mr. Bradley—” She takes a breath. “Ian. I’ve told you since the very beginning that if you’re guilty, I’ll find the evidence. But if you’re innocent, I’ll find that, too.”
I force a smile. “How long until you think you’ll drop that if?”
“You’re frustrated. I get that. It’s a long process, and there are a lot of moving parts. A lot of them out of my control.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
She sighs and rubs her fingers tir
edly through her hair. “Meaning this case is wearing on me, too. And that’s all I can say about it.”
I stifle the urge to do what I usually do—push until I get my way.
It’s different with her, and I haven’t quite figured out how to navigate it—or if I even want to.
I gesture at her hair to change the topic. “You look different with your hair down. And without the glasses.”
I bite back the urge to tell her she looks hot as hell. I’ve had many dirty thoughts wondering what Lara McKenzie’s skin looks like, and though her top is modest for club standards, seeing her bare arms, shoulders, and a subtle amount of cleavage is enough for me to know it’s every bit as smooth as I’ve imagined. Her hair, too, begs for a man’s fingers to tangle in it, but . . .
I miss the glasses. Not just because they’re my favorite fantasy material these days but because they’re her. I’d bet anything the glasses are the real Lara, and this smoky-eyed, lip-gloss version is her way of trying to escape herself, just for a night.
Much like I am.
“Yeah, I’m a regular Clark Kent,” she mutters.
I sip my drink and try not to wince at the sweetness of the tonic. “Come again?”
“Metropolis? You know, Superman? Clark Kent’s glasses being his disguise?” She waves her hand. “Never mind. So, do you always buy bottles of vodka for yourself?”
“Nah, Kennedy and Matt were here earlier. Both bailed on me.”
“Why?”
“They got sick of my company.”
“Hmm.” Lara nods behind my shoulder. “There’s a group of women over there who I’m sure wouldn’t mind taking their place. Or mine.”
I don’t turn around. Don’t take my eyes off Lara. “I’m fine like this.”
“Sitting in a club with an SEC investigator?”
I shrug. “She’s a pain in the ass, but it turns out I find her a little compelling.”
“I know how that goes,” she says, running a finger around the rim of her glass in a gesture that shouldn’t be erotic but has my body humming all the same. I want her to touch me like that.
“Do you?” I ask, my voice a little bit lower than usual.
She meets my eyes. “Hypothetically, I may know what it’s like to be aware of someone who’s completely off-limits.”
