by M. Never
“Well, then,” my father stares coolly at Ryan, “because of that small, but vital piece of information, we have a problem. I’m a by-the-book kind of man, Mr. Pierce, and when I say by-the-book, I mean, I want to throw it at you. If I had known you had any affiliation with my daughter, this case would have never even skimmed across my docket. Because of that fact, and the conflict of interest it poses, I have no choice but to declare a mistrial.”
A mistrial?
“Holy. Shit,” my uncle mutters under his breath. He’s astounded, as are the rest of us.
“Ryan Pierce, you are hereby acquitted of the charges brought forth against you by the state of New Jersey, and free to go. Court adjourned.” My father bangs the gavel, and my heart suddenly jump-starts back to life.
I don’t know who to look at first, so I do a quick glance around the room and every facial expression is the same: one of sheer shock.
I don’t remember standing, or walking, or even breathing, for that matter, but I suddenly find myself in Ryan’s arms. He’s hugging me tightly, murmuring how much he loves me and it starts all over again, like I’m being sprayed with a goddamn super-soaker, the tears just won’t stop.
“Mr. Pierce,” my father announces authoritatively, “I’d like to see you in my chambers.”
No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
Ryan runs his thumbs across my cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.”
“You haven’t. No one has,” I sniff.
“Don’t stop.”
“What, crying? Why?” I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
“Because I want to kiss away every tear.” He gently swipes his lips over mine. “I’ll be back.”
“You don’t seem nervous.”
“I’m not. The only thing that scares me is not being with you.” He runs his hand down my arm, heading off in the direction of my father’s chambers.
I think I need to lie down. Is this really happening? Maybe I should pinch Emily to make sure I’m not dreaming.
I watch, dazed and confused, as Ryan strides over to where Miles is waiting in the back of the courtroom. He disappears, and I just can’t help myself. I walk brusquely after him, past the bench, and up to the closed door. I press my ear against the wood, wishing I had a warrant and a wiretap right now.
“That’s incredibly rude,” Miles bristles.
“Your existence is incredibly rude,” I retort, continuing to eavesdrop.
It surprises me how clearly I can hear their voices through the dense wood. “Alana has told me some interesting tidbits about you and your brother. I don’t take my daughter for a liar, Mr. Pierce, but I would like to hear it from you.”
Ryan is silent for a brief second before he launches into the story of him and Sean.
Sean. Ryan doesn’t know about Sean yet, and I dread having to be the one to tell him. This day is nowhere near close to having a happy ending.
The last thing I hear Ryan tell my father is, “Sometimes I feel sorry for him, sometimes I feel fed up and tell myself it was his choice to ruin his life.”
There’s a long pause.
“That must be a very difficult thing to live with,” my father comments.
“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it is,” Ryan responds.
Then another long pause.
“How emotionally invested are you in my daughter?” my father asks bluntly. No beating around the bush with him.
“I want to marry her, sir,” Ryan replies openly, and it makes me wish my father would officiate right on the spot.
“And is my daughter aware of this?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s agreed?”
“Um, no, not exactly.”
“Would you like to explain that statement, Mr. Pierce?”
“She didn’t tell me yes or no. She just said I had to ask in order to find out her answer.”
I hear my father grunt, and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. “I see. And were you going to ask my permission first?”
“No,” Ryan is frank, “but I did ask your brother’s.”
What? When the hell did he do that?
“My brother?” my father counters, as surprised as I am. “Do you know John well?”
“Yes, sir. I designed the logo for his law firm.”
More silence.
It’s maddening.
“I’ll be honest,” my father finally speaks, “you’re not my ideal choice for Alana. Not by a long shot. But she was willing to risk everything for you, and because of that, I’ll give you one chance. One.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is that really my father in there?
“One is all I need, Sir.”
“Fine, then. Good. You can go,” my father dismisses Ryan. Now there’s the man I recognize.
I step back from the door right before Ryan opens it. I spring into his arms as soon as he walks out, my body craving the feel of his.
“What did he say?” I play dumb.
“Nothing much, just some guy talk. He’s a really outgoing guy once you get to know him.” Ryan laughs.
“Mr. Congeniality,” I quip.
“Alana!” my father’s voice resonates.
Oh, shit.
I look at Ryan wide-eyed. “Are you ready to pick up the pieces?” I ask quickly.
“Yes, and I know exactly where each one goes.” He kisses me lightly, liberating the emotions I’ve suppressed deep inside.
I glance at Ryan one last time before I walk into my father’s chambers.
“Shut the door, please.” He waves from behind his desk while concentrating on some paperwork.
I do as he asks, but I don’t take one step closer to him. I just stand there in my black pants and white, oversized collared shirt, my heels digging into the dark green rug like they’re sinking in dirt.
He looks up at me with his eyes only. “Interesting choice of a significant other.”
“I know he’s not your ideal applicant, so let’s just get this over with.” I steel myself against the door. “I’ll go. Erase myself from your life and never look back again. I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment.”
“Who says you’re a disappointment?” My father scoffs.
“You don’t have to say it. I can feel it.”
My father doesn’t flinch.
“Alana,” he addresses me sternly, “today, for the first time, in a long time, I was scared.”
“Of what?” I can’t fathom him being scared of anything.
“Losing you.”
“What?” I squeak.
“I always thought you were like me, but I was wrong. You’re your mother.” His eyes almost look warm when he mentions her. “You have her fire, and her affection, and her courage.”
“What?” I repeat blankly, because I am totally floored right now.
“I’m not good at conveying my emotions,” he squints as if it physically hurts to admit his flaws, “but you were wrong when you said I wished it was you and not her, because the only thing worse than losing your mother, would be losing you.”
I have become a statue, unable to move. Who is this man? He looks like my father, he sounds like my father, but the words he’s speaking are not my father’s.
“Your mother and I had a very special relationship, Alana.” He looks away uncomfortably. “She was the only one who ever loved me.”
I step forward rigidly. “She’s not the only one. I love you.”
I think that was the most difficult sentence of my life.
My father pauses for a long moment and then looks back at me. “And I, you.” His face is still stoic, but his eyes are warm pools of chocolate brown, the reflection of mine. And I know then that was the most difficult sentence of his life, as well.
There’s another lengthy pause. And the only sound that can be heard in the room is the rushing of my blood through my hot veins.
“What now?” I ask unsure.
“Do you still want to finish law sch
ool?”
“Yes,” I reply automatically. “You’re not disowning me?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
“No,” I answer without hesitation. “But why not, exactly?”
This is so uncharacteristic of my father I think I might be in shock, maybe denial, definitely disbelief.
My father sighs. “Alana, sometimes it takes one instant to change an entire life’s perspective.”
“Oh?”
“You walking out that door was mine. So, no, I’m not disowning you. I would, however, like to ground you,” he shares dryly.
I smirk, amazed. When did my father become a comedian?
“You said Ryan’s brother died. I’m under the impression he doesn’t know?”
“I haven’t told him yet.” I wring my hands together.
“Then maybe you two should talk.” My father stands up. “You can use my chambers. I’ll utilize Judge Reynolds’ until you’re finished.”
“Thank you.”
He walks toward me and my heartbeat accelerates by the overbearing presence of this this huge, strapping man with salt and pepper hair and a face chiseled out of stone. There’s no physical exchange as he stands in front of me—no touch or hug or kiss, just a small, barely discernible smile. And although that may not mean much to anyone else, to me, it feels like the crevasse in the Earth that separates us just became a little narrower.
I watch as my father walks out of the room, and Ryan walks in. The two most important men in my world, the one I’ve loved my whole life, and the one I’m going to love for the rest of my life.
There’s no wavering on Ryan’s part, he doesn’t stop striding until our bodies are pressed together and our arms are wrapped around each other. His touch feels so good, like the first few raindrops after a year-long drought.
Ryan kisses me repeatedly, on my forehead and cheeks and lips. “I love you, I love you so much, baby,” he repeats, almost reverently.
“I love you, too,” I respond, trying to figure out a way to break the worst news imaginable. “Ryan—” I start, but he suddenly drops onto one knee, sliding his hands down my body.
Oh, shit.
“Alana, I know I don’t have a ring, and this probably isn’t the most ideal place.”
“Ryan—”
“But I love you, undyingly and—”
“Ryan, please, stop.” I grab his hands tightly, silencing him, and watch as his expression becomes crestfallen. “Ryan—” I panic seeing the dejection on his face. I drop down in front of him, his beautiful, blue eyes large, confused, and teetering on heartbroken. “There’s something I need to tell you.” My voice is shaky and so are my hands.
“Alana?”
I look down, trying to string the right words together. “They found Sean.” I sweep my eyes up at him gravely.
“Found him?” Ryan trembles.
“He was already gone.” My voice is so tiny and my vision is blurry as tears well in my eyes. “There was nothing they could do.”
“No.” Ryan shakes his head vehemently, rejecting what I’m trying to tell him.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“No!” he shouts, and then the dam explodes—tears unleashing in devastating sobs.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.” I yank him into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur over and over, the two of us on our knees, me supporting Ryan’s full weight as he weeps on my shoulder; his pain is as potent as the eye of a hurricane, the emotional surge leaving catastrophic destruction in its wake.
I just want to take it all away—the pain, the suffering, the regret—but I don’t know how, or what else I can do, so I just give him me. All of me. All my strength, all my love, all my support, hoping it’s enough. Praying it’s enough.
Ryan cries until my knees go numb, and my shirt is drenched with tears. When the last drop of salty fluid falls, he slumps back wearily onto the floor.
He drops his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees, and breathes like there isn’t enough oxygen in the room. I crawl onto his lap so we are face to face. He sniffles and sighs, trying desperately to compose himself. I wipe away some residual tears and wait until he’s ready to talk.
“Are you okay?” I ask delicately.
“No,” he answers truthfully, “but I will be.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He looks up at me with tear-soaked eyes and a wrung-out soul. “I have you.”
“Yes, you do. And you’re not the only one who knows where the pieces go.”
“Good, because I’m going to need someone to help me with this puzzle.” He blows out some hot air and drops his head back. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he expels mournfully.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because now we’re both free.”
“Oh, Ryan,” I choke, grief-stricken from their tragic end. “I’m sorry it feels that way.”
“I’m not.” He rests his head on my shoulder and I hug him tightly, imprisoning him in my arms. “He was never going to get better.”
IT’S THE SATURDAY after Ryan’s court appearance, and we’re burying Sean. It’s a cold, cloudy, January day, the air is prickly and the ground is soggy from the relentless snowfall. It’s ideal weather for the solemn event happening before us. There aren’t many people here—Ryan, his mother, a few of Sean’s friends, my father, my Uncle John, and Emily. We couldn’t find Ryan’s dad. I know Sean’s funeral has nothing to do with me, but my father coming means everything. It’s a gesture, an indication he’s supporting my relationship, which is encouraging for both me and Ryan.
“May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.” Mrs. Pierce sobs inconsolably into Ryan’s chest as we each lay a rose atop Sean’s coffin. I tilt my head up, letting the snow touch my cheeks while the tears stream down my face, then I look at Ryan. I’m heartbroken over his loss, but so much more grateful for his gain. Sean told me he was afraid Ryan would end up like him, and for one split second, in the darkest hour, I believed him. But not anymore, and never again.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” the priest decrees, making the sign of the cross over the casket that’s about to be lowered into the ground.
“Amen,” is the collective response.
IT’S BEEN TEN months since we laid Sean to rest, six months since I graduated from law school, four months since I took the Bar, and three months since Ryan and I moved to Las Vegas.
And tonight is the grand opening of Culture: Las Vegas Strip, the Strip’s premier Male Revue and women’s fantasy nightclub.
It’s a 20,000-square-foot facility, designed and decorated by world-famous nightclub engineers (who knew there was such a thing?). It’s set up like an amphitheater, with a semicircular floor plan so no matter where you stand, you can always see the stage. There are several tiers with large bars along the walls. Some tiers are strictly for dancing while others have tables and couches for more of a lounge feel. This more casual part is very much like the Culture in New York, where half-naked men mingle with the crowd in their signature shiny blue shorts. But unlike in New York, the stage is the main attraction. It has floor seating, which is reserved in advance, usually by bachelorette or birthday parties, or really anyone who just wants to party. There are three shows a night, each one lasting an hour and a half with Ryan headlining. Tonight is completely sold out, and it has been for weeks.
Ryan has been rehearsing for the last two months with professional choreographers on intense routines. It was never like that in New York, he just sort of went out there and did his thing. But here, it’s so much bigger and more theatrical. The tables have definitely been turned, now he’s the one gone night and day putting all his effort into making this work.
I know it’s unorthodox, his profession, but I can’t help but be proud of his recognition and hard work. The show hasn’t even premiered, and he’s already being hailed as the next big thing on the Strip. And
here, it’s not so taboo, it’s sought after. But I will admit, it’s still kind of weird. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a theme park.
“Alana? You have something for me?” My new boss jolts me out of my thoughts.
“Ah, yes.” I hold out the blue folder I have in my hands. “It’s the Pennington Brief you asked for, Mr. Duncan.”
Yup, that’s me. Working at Duncan and Mires, a medium-sized law firm on the Strip that handles some highly irregular cases. This morning I went to the Las Vegas Police Department with an associate and his client who was called in to look at a lineup, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except that it consisted of Marilyn Monroe impersonators in drag. Like I said, irregular, at least for me.
James ‘Slim Jim’ Duncan went to law school with my Uncle John and was the prospect he mentioned when I announced I was moving to Vegas. Ryan and I came to Nevada in July so I could take the Bar and interview with James. I was nervous as hell as I sat across from the overly tan man who wears Hawaiian shirts to the office. He asked me two questions, then shut the notebook sitting in front of him. I knew the interview was over then. What I didn’t expect was for him to give me the job right on the spot. He said that I’d impressed him with just the mere elegance of my speech. Which I find ironic since my internal monologue is littered with slang and curse words. I’m sure being the niece of a respected lawyer and the daughter of an esteemed judge didn’t hurt either. So, I’ve been working here since the end of August, and even though it’s not some high-profile New York City law firm, I love it just the same.
“Thanks, and I’ve told you, call me Jim, please. Mr. Duncan is a retired old geezer who spends his days playing eighteen holes.” He takes the folder graciously and smiles. “Have you heard anything from the Bar association yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, not to worry, you should find out any day now.” He reads though the brief.
“I hope so.”
“Nice job.” Jim closes the folder and looks up at me with warm brown eyes. “Is Ryan all ready for tonight?”
“Yes, I think so. I was just going to go so I can catch him before he leaves.”
“Fine. Tell him good luck.”
