Ex-Con Times Two

by Jay S. Wilder

  I lean over to kiss her cheek so I can finally get out of there, now that she’s calmed down, and she slaps me hard across the face from out of nowhere.

  For a split second, I’m stunned.

  “Why were you eavesdropping on Parker and me?” she asks.

  I leap off the bed and jump away from her. “What? Seriously? I stood there to make sure you were okay. What the fuck, Claire? What’s wrong with you?”

  I don’t even wait for an answer. I bolt out the door, out of that house to my car, and I’m driving like a speed demon to put some distance between me and what just happened. Maybe she was letting off some steam from Parker’s confession. I don’t know what it was, but I sure didn’t deserve that.

  Monday goes from bad to worse when my dad tells me what I’ve got to do, and then the lawyers get jittery. Now I just want to forget I ever woke up this morning.

  Chapter 8

  Rebecca

  Kara takes us back to the office. I can barely think, but I don’t get paid to be flustered, so I pull it together. I spend the next two hours catching up on a legal brief and clearing up the backlog caused from being out of the office almost the entire day. I stay back an extra hour, and like many nights, I decide to take a break, go for my evening run, and come back refreshed later that night.

  The thing I have to be grateful for is I live less than twenty minutes from the office. My father’s parents and grandparents were life-long New Yorkers. My father’s living inheritance, although not monetary, consisted of a mortgage-free, two-bedroom, fifth floor Manhattan condo unit in an ancient building. It was less than seven blocks from Central Park.

  My father is astute. He knew the unit was worth its weight in gold, and had rented it out for a killing for years. He often joked that the rental profit from the unit is what paid for me to go through law school. I realized after I started looking for Manhattan apartments that it was probably no joke. For a week after Kara hired me, I had been searching for a decent place to rent, and had resigned myself to living in Brooklyn or the Bronx to make ends meet.

  It’s funny—I had just accepted an offer for job with a six-figure starting salary, and it still wasn’t enough to cover my rent in the average, Manhattan bachelor apartment. It was frustrating. That afternoon, my dad phoned. He said he and mom were in town, and they wanted me to meet them for dinner. I knew something was strange. Neither of them ever took time off, let alone traveled together.

  After dinner, as the server brought our desserts to the table, he slid a set of keys over to me. It was the keys to the condo he kept rented. He apologized, because he wanted to give them to me when I had passed the bar, but it took a while to get the tenants to move. I don’t think I ever hugged my parents as much as I had that night. He told me to consider it my inheritance, and to make sure I didn’t spend it all in one place. I moved in the very next day, and my ritual of going home and returning to the office at night was born.

  I get to my apartment and make a beeline for the closet. I need to take a run outside to clear my head. Jonathan is still on my mind, and a run will take care of all that misplaced sexual energy that’s running rampant through my body. I send a text to Sarah to see if she’s interested in joining me. She replies by the time I put on my running gear. She says she’s dying to take her dog out, so we agree to meet in front my building in ten minutes.

  Sarah’s family is old money. It’s a complete coincidence she lives a block from my place. Her parents got it for her when she announced she wanted to open her own hot yoga studio—they cover the lease on her yoga studio too. I’m thrilled to have a good friend living nearby, though. With all the millions of people hustling and bustling around in the city that never sleeps, New York City can be a lonely and isolating place.

  I get downstairs and Sarah is already waiting. She’s in a black and hot pink track suit with matching running shoes, and has her long blonde hair up in a ponytail. Her dog, Buddy, is a gorgeous golden retriever with the calmest disposition ever. In no time, we’re warmed up and headed to the trails inside Central Park.

  “So how’s it going?” she asks as we run side by side, with Buddy leading the way. “Do you realize I haven’t seen you for almost three months?”

  “Has it been that long?”

  “Uh-huh,” she confirms. “We went for drinks to celebrate your new job, and poof, you fell off the face of the earth.”

  “Sorry about that. I guess I got busy.”

  “It’s the new job, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It’s pretty intense.”

  “No doubt. Maybe you should come to a couple hot yoga classes from time to time. It’ll relax you.”

  “Nah. Running’s my thing.” I see she’s a little disappointed by what I said, so I add, “I’d love to come and check it out. Maybe a Saturday morning or something.”

  “Cool. So fill me in on the job.”

  “Ahhh, it’s pretty crazy all round.”

  “I heard,” she replies. “My dad said that Kara Henry chick is one tough cookie. Well, he actually didn’t call her cookie, but let’s save the profanity for later.”

  “Really? How does he know her?”

  “Their firm handled a civil case for his company a few years ago, I think. He said the place was a revolving door. People got fired for the stupidest things.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So tell me what your first week was like. I run a yoga studio, remember? There’s nothing glamorous about watching twelve women and the odd guy doing downward dogs all week.”

  “I hear you,” I say, laughing through faster breaths. “Okay this part was cool. I show up on the first day, and before they even assign me an office or cubicle, the assistant hands me a piece of paper and says “Go there and ask for Angela.” I’m confused as ever, but I do what I’m told. Every request is a test in places like that.

  “I get to the address, and it’s a tiny but expensive clothing boutique. I ask for Angela and this woman comes out, looking like she runs a bordello. I mean, she’s coifed to the hilt. I get nervous, thinking, maybe this is some screwed up hazing ritual to initiate the newbies. She looks me up and down, then says, “That should be fine” and leads me to a set of large change rooms at the back. She points me to the one I’m assigned to, and tells me to try everything on and let her know what fits.

  “I walk in, still a little nervous, and the change room has a rack of about twenty business suits, shirts, pencil skirts, trench coats, and talk about shoes.”

  “You mean they pick out the clothes you have to wear to work?”

  “Yes. It was insane. Anyhow, I tried everything on—they all fit to a tee, by the way—and I get my clothes back on and tell her they’re all fine. She has two younger cashiers pack everything up and tells me they’ll be sent to my home or office. I ask her if she needs an address, and she tells me she has what she needs.

  “I get back to the office to start my day, and it’s normal. It’s just like it was when I worked for Barnaby. I get home that night, and the two girls are waiting for me outside my door—with two rolling racks of the clothes I had tried on. They tell me it’s all there, that I can keep the racks, and they leave.”

  “Sounds disturbing to me.”

  “Here’s the worst of it all. I get into work the next day, and in my office is another two racks of the exact same clothes. They pulled two of everything for me.”

  “That’s plain crazy, but to be honest, if it ain’t crazy, it ain’t New York. Enough of this stuff. I was hoping for something juicy.”

  “Like what?”

  “Any workplace romances yet?”

  “What? No. I mean, I’d never get that personal at work, and there’s no one I’ve seen so far who is my type.”

  “How about clients? I hear Kara defends some of the hottest gangsters in town.”

  “Oh God, no. Sorry, Sarah. I’m afraid my life is as vanilla as yours.”

  “Dammit,” she says as we reach the leash-free dog park. “You know what? We’r
e going to have to change that. We’re in New York City! It’s time the two of us have some excitement in our lives.”

  She lets Buddy off the leash, and he goes running to socialize with some of the other dogs. “What are you doing this Friday?”

  As we’ve stopped, I take the opportunity to stretch my muscles and walk in place. “No plans. I’m probably working late, though.”

  “No matter what time you wrap up, let’s meet for drinks. Deal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on. Live a little.”

  “I’ll have to check my schedule. I think I may have a long day—”

  “Come on, Rebecca. Do it for me, then. No, no. Do it to show Bryce.”

  I’m laughing inside now. After all these years, his name still gets a rise out of us. In the grand scheme of things, Bryce was irrelevant. He probably doesn’t even remember that night. Yet to us, his name is a rallying cry that gets us ready to stand up and fight. His name holds a special significance for us, and Sarah knows it.

  “You don’t have to go that far, Sarah, but fine. We’ll do it to stick it to Bryce. I’m in. Now let’s get back. I’ve got to get some work done at the office.”

  She whistles. Buddy comes running over and she put his leash on again so we can leave. The run back is quieter. We’re both in our own thoughts. Now I can think, but instead, I find my rhythm and take in the sights and sounds. Anyone who’s familiar with running in Central Park knows it’s the best place to get a natural high.

  Normally my route is to start with what most people call the six-mile loop, and end with the two-mile Reservoir path—it’s breathtaking along the reservoir. Because we’re running with Buddy, we decide to take the Boathouse route, which we run counterclockwise from the Hundred and Second Street Traverse, down past Seventy Second Street and back to the Boathouse before heading home.

  We start to walk to cool down from the run. From this side of the park, my place is closer than her building, so we turn onto my street. We get closer to my building entrance, and I have to do a double take. Standing at my building’s front door is Jonathan Sloan. He’s wearing a crisp white dress shirt and dark grey slacks. He looks incredible—and he’s waving at me.

  “I thought you said nothing interesting was going on with you at work?”

  “It’s not.”

  “So why is Jonathan Sloan waving at you?”

  “He’s my boss’s client. How do you know who he is?”

  “It’s a small world, Becky. His family and mine know each other. By the way, he sure looks like he’s into you.”

  “I—I don’t think—”

  She cuts me off before we’re within earshot of him and says, “Watch yourself with this one. Bryce has nothing on him. I’m calling you tomorrow for the blow by blow, so you’d better pick up your damned phone.”

  We get to the steps of my building, and Sarah nods at Jonathan before leaving with Buddy.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  “Good evening to you, too. I’m here to take you to dinner.”

  Chapter 9

  Jonathan

  Something tells me Rebecca is not going to be like the other women I date. She’s looking at me, eyes flashing and posture letting on a little more than disdain. I take it in stride. She looks sexy as hell now—so sleek, yet curvy in that sports bra that hugs her in all the right places.

  She’s got her zippered sweat shirt wrapped around her tiny waist, and her legs, Jesus. My eyes take a steady glance down her body-hugging tights to take it all in, all the way from her hips to her sneakers. They’re long and slender and firm and just perfect for wrapping around my waist. She looks so damn good.

  My mind didn’t need to go there, but hell, after the time I had in Long Island, I’m surprised I could think at all. I needed something to get Claire’s misstep gone from my head. All afternoon after getting back to the office, it was all I could think about. I try to explain it away, defending Claire by telling myself it was poor judgment after such a difficult trauma. Parker’s admission was enough to send any woman over the edge.

  It had me retracing my steps, overanalyzing all the time I spent with her since she was twelve. I keep asking myself what I might have said or done to make her feel I was anything other than a good brother. I had never once seen her become physically violent. Whatever it is, she owes me an apology, but I sure as hell am not going to see her in person for another one of her palm prints on my face.

  I bury the thought again and return my attention to Rebecca. She’s eying me now that her friend is gone. I know she’ll fall in line eventually, though. Probably once she realizes Sloan and Fairchild business accounts for around twenty percent of her firm’s revenues.

  “Jonathan,” she calls to me, her breathing still a little quickened. “What do you feel we’ll accomplish by having dinner?”

  I can hear the subdued hostility in her tone. Her violet eyes are stunning as they narrow and pierce through me for answers. She’s folded her arms over her stomach too.

  “Is that how Henry, Miles and Rothman employees treat their top clients these days?”

  Her composure changes in an instant. Suddenly she’s dropped her hands to her sides. She opens up her stance and smiles nervously.

  “I apologize, Mr. Sloan. No, it’s not. It’s the first time a client has presented themselves at my home and invited me to dinner, so forgive me if I’m unprepared.”

  “It’s okay. There’s a first time for everything. So how long will it take for you to get changed for dinner?”

  She’s studying me now, weighing options and consequences before she answers. “Probably twenty minutes. May I ask what we might discuss during our dinner meeting?”

  “Whatever you’d like to know.”

  “Alright. So will you wait here, or are you coming up?”

  “It’s a nice night. I could probably wait here, but I’m a history buff, and I’ve never seen the inside of one of these historical buildings. Thanks for the invitation Miss Clark. I don’t mind if I do.”

  She opens the main door and we take the elevator up to her floor. When we get to her front door, she pauses, and turns to me like she remembers something.

  “Sorry about the boxes and the mess,” she says. “I just moved in and haven’t had much of a chance to unpack.”

  She opens the door and I’m instantly reminded of my early days in the frat house. When twenty grown men who were used to fulltime maids and cleaning ladies lived together, the outcome was about the same as what’s now in front of me in Rebecca’s place. It’s not dirty—not at all. It’s chaotic.

  “Not to worry. You know I could refer an excellent cleaning service,” I say. “If you’re new to the city, I imagine it’s hard to trust some stranger in your place. God knows, Kara probably has you at your desk most of the time.”

  Her face goes red, and she nearly lets the door slam behind me.

  She glowers at me. “Have a seat, Mr. Sloan. I’d offer you a drink, but it’s hard for me to trust some stranger cleaning my kitchenware too. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a shower and get ready for our dinner meeting.”

  “Wait a minute,” I say as she moves away. I know she’s doing her best to contain her fury, but I’m getting a kick out of it. She stops and does a quick half-turn to face me. She spins so fast, her long hair whips around her shoulders.

  “Yes?”

  We have a momentary stare-down. I’m looking at her, she’s glancing back at me. Our eyes don’t lose contact for at least half a minute. She finally looks away, but before she does, I swear I hear her breath hitch.

  “Yes, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Relax, Rebecca. I don’t bite…hard. Unless you like that kind of thing.”

  She flashes daggers through her darkened blue eyes and turns sharply, shouting a brief “Be right back” before walking away. She heads farther inside the apartment, disappearing down the hallway. Smiling, I have a seat on her sofa to wait. Her apartment is a little dated,
but well-decorated, considering the age of the building and the lived-in feel. I notice some framed photos along the hallway and get up again to take a look. There are pictures of her as a child, all the way through high school and college. Her family seems normal—if there is such a thing.

  My phone has been buzzing since I left work. This time when I check it, Claire has left two texts. She’s apologetic and regretful. She wants to see me in person tomorrow to talk about what happened. I shake my head, because I’ve already decided I won’t meet her. There’s more than enough dark clouds looming over the Fairchilds and the Sloans. It’s better for me to chalk it up to bad judgment and move the fuck on. I put the phone back in my pocket and continue walking down Rebecca’s memory lane.

  I’m about to head back to sit down when I hear a loud shriek coming from down the hall where Rebecca disappeared. It’s immediately followed by a louder thump, and the repeated clanking of metal. There’s no mistaking it. It’s the sound of someone who’s fallen in the bathtub and pulled the shower curtains down with them. The porcelain echo is instantly recognizable.

  In three quick strides, I’m knocking outside the bathroom door.

  “Are you alright in there?” I call out.

  I knock again when she doesn’t answer. “Rebecca? Is everything okay?”

  When she gives no reply on the third knock, I try turning the door handle. It’s locked—of course. I brace myself and pull back, then ram it with my shoulder to open it. The door lock gives way with the first try, and I charge in to find Rebecca spread-eagle in the tub, her left hand grasping the shower curtain tightly, and her head has hit the porcelain edge. She’s completely naked and out cold. The water is still cascading down onto her. If she weren’t unconscious, she’d be breathtaking to watch.

  “Rebecca?” I shout to her.

  She’s not responding. On instinct, I grab a bath towel and place it over her. In case she wakes up, she won’t want to know I had the pleasure of gawking at her gorgeous body. I feel like I’m tensing up. Familiar and panic-filled feelings surface and wash over me, just like they did that night Stephen died. I debate whether to call 9-1-1 or see if I can bring her out of unconsciousness first.