Hot Asset_21 Wall Street

by Lauren Layne

  “I hate him,” Lara whispers as we all watch him get led away.

  “I don’t.”

  She looks up at me, eyes wide. “Really? He was going to perjure himself with the sole intent of sending you to jail.”

  “A dick move,” I acknowledge, sliding my hand to her waist. “But I still don’t hate him. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I press my lips to her hair and tell her the truth. “Because he led you to me.”

  34

  LARA

  Week 5: Friday, Dinnertime

  “Damn, Ms. Lewis. This is some good shit,” Matt says, looking appreciatively at his champagne flute and then bending to look at the bottle.

  “Call me Vanessa,” Ian’s lawyer says, handing a glass of champagne to Kate. “And I didn’t buy this. Ian did.”

  Ian pauses in the process of sipping his champagne. “I did?”

  “It’ll be on your bill,” Vanessa says with a wink.

  Matt clinks his glass to mine and grins.

  I smile back automatically. Even amid my own issues, it’s hard not to feel jubilant at our victory over corruption. And yes, I realize that’s very superhero-delusional of me, but, well . . . yesterday’s win felt good.

  Was our plan a bit outside the lines? Absolutely.

  But if getting to know Ian and his friends has taught me anything, it’s that fighting for what’s right isn’t always as simple as following the rules. Sometimes you’ve got to bend a couple to get the bad guy.

  Sabrina sails through the front door of Ian’s apartment, air-kisses Kate and me, then heads straight for the champagne bucket. “Dom! We really are celebrating.”

  “Hell yes, we are,” Vanessa says as she and Sabrina air-kiss. “And may I just say, denying both those men a plea bargain? Highlight of my year.”

  “How’d they think they had a chance at that?” Kennedy asks.

  “They figured they’d get brownie points for a written, tell-all confession,” Vanessa says. “But since both were willing to sell out the other, neither had any bargaining power.”

  “You know the part of this that’s killing me the most?” Matt drops into a chair at Ian’s kitchen table. “How the hell didn’t we think to look at Ian’s hookups first? Should have known it’d be his dick that would get him into a mess.”

  Ian flinches, and I set a hand on his arm. He hasn’t said much about it, but I can tell it bothers him to know that someone he thought was a harmless fling was not only married but that it came back to bite him in the worst way possible.

  Ian pulls my hand up to his lips, presses a kiss there, while Sabrina swats Matt on the head.

  “Right, because you’re such a celibate monk. And Whitney was a long time ago,” she says with a pointed look at me.

  I smile, appreciating the sentiment, though it’s not really necessary. I don’t exactly love thinking about Ian’s romantically prolific past, nor do I care to think about what it means for his future, our future . . .

  But I’ve got bigger issues to deal with.

  Ian’s mess is cleaned up, and I’m grateful. Thrilled.

  My own mess is just beginning.

  Ian pulls me closer, pressing his lips just above my ear. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly before he pulls away to head into the kitchen.

  I’m glad, too. Not just because of him and us but because of everyone else here. I don’t think he can possibly know just how starved I’ve been for friends. I have Gabby, of course, but if I’m being totally honest, I’ve always been aware that she and I probably wouldn’t have ever been friends had we not ended up living together.

  This group feels different. It feels like a group I could be a part of—a group I could truly belong to.

  If things were different.

  “Lara, your phone’s buzzing,” Ian calls from the kitchen.

  I walk toward him, letting out a squeak when he tosses me my iPhone. “What are you doing? Do I look sporty?”

  “Caught it, didn’t you?” he says with a slow smile.

  I did. But it probably won’t happen again.

  I glance at the phone, hating that I feel a pang of dread instead of my usual excitement at the name on the screen.

  “Hey, you mind if I take this in your bedroom?”

  Ian waves the gin bottle in a go-ahead gesture.

  I step into his room and close the door. “Hey, Mom.”

  “Lara. I’m so sorry, sweetie. Dad and I just got your voice mail. You quit? Tell us everything. You’re on speakerphone.”

  I lean against the door and slide all the way to the floor, blocking out the cheerful voices on the other side to bite the bullet and finally tell my parents about the utter mess I’ve made of my life.

  35

  IAN

  Week 5: Friday, Dinnertime

  After checking to see that Lara’s still in the bedroom talking with her parents, I approach my lawyer.

  “Vanessa, you got a sec?”

  “Sure,” she says, holding up a finger to Sabrina to indicate she’ll be right back. “What’s up?” she asks as we wander to the far side of the living room.

  I scratch my cheek, a little out of my element here. I’m not in the habit of asking for favors—especially ones for my girlfriend.

  Or the woman I hope will agree to be my girlfriend.

  “It’s about Lara.”

  “Ah, yes,” Vanessa says, sipping her champagne and lifting her eyebrows. “You know, without her . . . Let’s just say she was instrumental in this working out in your favor.”

  “I know.” I’m grateful. Beyond grateful, and yet . . . hardly glad. Because I also know exactly how much this cost Lara.

  I got exactly what I wanted. She got screwed.

  “So, listen,” I say, running a hand over the back of my neck, trying to figure out how to tell my attorney that I’ve been sleeping with the SEC investigator.

  Vanessa takes pity on me and smiles. “It’s okay, Ian. I went to Princeton. I think I can tell when two people are in love.”

  The word jolts me. Both because it’s the first time I’ve heard it out loud and because I’m terrified that it feels . . .

  True.

  “We’re not . . . we’re just . . . Shit. I don’t know what we are.”

  I only know what I want her to be—mine.

  “Did you know she lost her job because of all this?” I ask Vanessa.

  “Sabrina told me she quit.”

  “Yeah, because she has integrity,” I snap, even though it’s not Vanessa I’m mad at. It’s those shitheads who set me up, who forced Lara to choose between her dream of the FBI and her morals.

  “I know,” Vanessa replies quietly. “What do you need from me, Ian?” She studies me. “Ah. You want your girl to get her job back.”

  “Yes!” I say a little too enthusiastically. “I mean, yeah, if it’s a possibility . . .”

  “It’s not impossible,” she says slowly. “But the SEC is scrambling right now. Even if Lara didn’t actually do anything wrong, her boss did a damn good job of smearing her rep.”

  “But he’s guilty for corruption of justice, accepting a bribe, and being an immense dick! His word doesn’t mean shit.”

  “I know that. You know that. Everyone in this room knows that. But that’s not how this world works, Ian. It’s a perception thing. Investment brokers can come back from it. Hedge fund managers can come back from it. But SEC investigators suspected of sleeping with their suspect . . .”

  I shake my head. “We waited—”

  “Nobody’s going to care about the timing,” she says gently. “I suspect Lara knew that all along. It speaks highly of her feelings for you.”

  The words should make me elated. Instead, I’ve never been so miserable.

  What’s the point of clearing my name, of getting my life back, if she’s not in it?

  That’s not even the worst possibility, though, I realize as I look at the closed door to my bedroom. Worse than no Lara in m
y life would be having her but her not having the SEC or the FBI because of her relationship with me.

  I swallow, feeling the urge to throw my drink at the wall.

  I remember now why I’ve never wanted to be in a relationship.

  They fucking blow.

  36

  LARA

  Week 6: Sunday Night

  Of all the treks I’ve made to Ian’s apartment over the past couple of weeks, this is without a doubt the hardest.

  He opens the door at my knock, and it takes me a moment to register the sight of a wooden spoon in his hand, the smell of garlic permeating the apartment.

  “Are you cooking right now?” I ask, a little bit stunned.

  He gestures me in with the spoon and kisses my cheek. “I am. And you should be both flattered and worried that this is a first for me.”

  “Why worried?” I step inside and shut the door.

  “Because I’m ninety percent sure I burned the garlic. I couldn’t find shallots in the grocery store, so I subbed capers, which I later learned were not even close. And let’s just say deboning a chicken is a hell of a lot harder than YouTube makes it look.” He glances over his shoulder as he turns back to the stove. “Wine?”

  “I’m good,” I say, going to the counter and praying for courage to do what I came here to do.

  He’s already making it so hard. He’s cooking, for God’s sake. For the first time. For me.

  I wouldn’t have imagined there’d be a hotter sight than Ian in his suit or, better yet, Ian naked. But this Ian does something dangerous to my heart. This Ian has ditched the tie and jacket, rolled up his dress sleeves, and looks perfectly at ease.

  No, not just at ease. Happy.

  And for one brief moment, I wonder if maybe this could be our life . . . together.

  But then I remember it’s too soon, this happened too fast, and now we don’t have the time we need.

  “How’d the résumé updating go?” he asks, stirring whatever’s on the stove.

  I flinch. I’d told him I wanted to spend the day at the library updating my résumé, looking for jobs.

  I’d lied.

  “And are you sure you don’t want wine? It’s an excellent Malb—”

  “Ian.”

  He turns toward me, and the second he sees my face, he flips off the burner and drops the spoon into the skillet. “What?” he asks, coming toward me and taking my hands. “Tell me.”

  “It’s good news!” I say, forcing myself to smile.

  He frowns, probably because my smile feels like a sad imitation of happiness.

  “Just rip off the Band-Aid, Lara,” he says squeezing my hands. “I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

  Not this.

  “I got a new job,” I say.

  He furrows his eyebrows in confusion, then gives a tentative smile that breaks my heart. “That’s great. Fantastic. Right?”

  I nod enthusiastically, but like my smile, it doesn’t feel right. “It’s with the FBI. But—” I hold out my hand before he can get the wrong idea. “Not as an agent. As an analyst. It’s a desk job. Bottom of the food chain, paper pushing, etc.”

  “Ah.”

  Yeah. Ah.

  I have no issues with administration work. Hell, those people work harder than anyone I know and are some of the smartest.

  But it’s not what I wanted. It’s not the dream. I know it. Ian knows it.

  “With all that’s happened, I’m no longer on the track to be an agent. My parents talked to some people, explained the situation, but . . . Well, like I said before, Quantico’s competitive. My reputation right now? Mud.”

  He winces. “God, Lara. I’m so sorry—”

  “No, it’s okay,” I interrupt, and this time my smile is a little more real, because it will be okay. I’m determined it will be. “It’s still closer than I’ve ever been before. The job’s in the white-collar division, so I’ll get a ton of exposure and make connections. And every year, Quantico accepts analysts looking to become agents. It’s not the way I thought I’d get in, but I’ll get there.”

  “Then, hey, it is good news,” he says softly. “But”—he bends slightly to look more closely at my face—“you’re not happy. Why?”

  I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t updating my résumé today. I was packing.” I say it quickly, directed at my feet.

  His hands tense around mine. “Come again?”

  I force myself to look up and meet his eyes. “I was packing. This FBI job . . . it’s in DC.”

  His head snaps back in surprise. “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  He releases my hands and locks his behind his neck as he begins to pace, as though trying to work out a solution he likes better. “There’s a branch of the FBI here, right? White collar, even.”

  “There is. But they’re not the ones hiring analysts. And they’re not the ones my dad has a connection with.”

  He stops pacing and drops his arms. “Your dad got you the job?”

  I lift a shoulder. “My résumé got me the job. But yeah, he helped.”

  Ian smiles, and it’s genuine. “That’s great. Really great. It’s taken him a while, but he’s finally gotten behind your dream.”

  I study his face and see nothing but happiness. For me. Even as I walk away from him.

  My eyes water, because it’s in that moment that I know I love him. Because it takes a hell of a guy to put someone else’s happiness above his own. To want something for me more than he wants something for himself.

  He frowns when he sees my tears. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “Happy tears.”

  Happy about the job, sad to be leaving you.

  “Hey,” he says, pulling me in for a hug. “Don’t cry. This is a good thing.”

  I nod, letting myself sink into his embrace, to absorb some of his strength and steadiness.

  I hear him swallow, and his hand comes up to cup the back of my head. “Sucky for us, though.”

  I wrap my arms around his back. “Yeah. Sucky for us.”

  We hold each other for a long while. Not talking, not kissing. Just holding.

  I wonder if he’s doing what I’ve been doing for the past twenty-four hours, trying to figure out how to make it all work. His job. My job. Us.

  If he is thinking that, he apparently doesn’t come up with a solution, because he slowly eases me back. “What do you need from me? I can get a pizza. Help you pack.”

  I’m tempted—horribly tempted—just to have a little more time with him. But I don’t think I can survive it.

  I press the back of my hand to my nose to try and ward off the worst of the tears, but they come anyway. “I think I need a clean break,” I manage.

  His face crumbles for a second, and he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor then back up at me. “Right. Yeah. I get it.”

  We stand still in mute misery for a long moment.

  Then he reaches for me, and I go to him, our mouths colliding in a kiss that’s as hot as it is sad, a frantic melding of lips that’s both a promise and a goodbye.

  Don’t go, his kiss says.

  I have to, mine answers back.

  When we pull away, we’re both breathing hard, his hands on my face, his forehead resting on mine.

  I have the fiercest urge to cling and an even more damaging urge to change my mind. To say the hell with the FBI and everything I’ve wanted and worked for my whole adult life for a guy who wants me but I think is still a long way off from loving me.

  “I should go,” I whisper. I have to go.

  Ian nods and slowly releases me until his arms drop to his sides, letting me go.

  I make it as far as the door before he says my name, the word both frantic and hesitant.

  “Lara, what would you say . . . what would you do . . . if I asked you to stay?”

  I could do it. The guy has more than enough money. I could ask him for a loan, and I know he’d give it to me in a heartbeat, though he
’d be a pain in the ass about letting me pay him back.

  And then what? I move in? Live off his salary? Become the kept woman known for trading her integrity for a man? It’s not true, but the reputation would be there, and even if it weren’t . . .

  I need more than to be Ian Bradley’s woman. I need to be Lara McKenzie, and Lara McKenzie still wants to be in the FBI.

  “Don’t,” I whisper. “Please don’t ask.”

  He nods and lets me go without another word.

  I make it all the way to the back seat of a cab before I start crying for real.

  37

  IAN

  Three Weeks Later: Thursday Afternoon

  “You’re doing it again,” Kennedy says.

  I look up at him in irritation. “Doing what?”

  Matt is in the chair beside me and counts his fingers. “Grinding your teeth, muttering under your breath, glaring at anything that moves, snapping at anyone who looks your way . . .”

  “So feel free to get out.”

  “It’s my office,” Kennedy says from the other side of the desk. “You get out.”

  “I thought we were debating who gets the other Mets ticket,” I say.

  Matt shakes his head and points at Kennedy. “I choose him. You’re too much of a downer, man.”

  “Fine,” I snap, standing.

  Matt sighs. “Hold up. You need a distraction. Come to the game, but you have to promise to have a beer and at least try to have a good time.”

  “I don’t want to go anymore,” I say, knowing I sound like a petulant child and not giving a shit.

  I haven’t given a shit about much in the three weeks since Lara left New York.

  And yeah, go ahead and accuse me of being the guy moping over a girl. I can take it because it’s true.

  I just don’t know what to do about it. My job is here. Hers is there. I love my job. She loves her job.

  I love her. She doesn’t love me.

  Damn it.

  “Is this the end of my lecture?” I ask them. “If there’s more, feel free to send me an e-mail with my flaws. I promise to read it never.”

  Kennedy and Matt exchange a look but wisely say nothing.

  Kate sticks her head into the office to bark at me that I have a call on line two. She disappears without another word, and Kennedy and Matt stay silent, waiting for my explanation.