by Cecy Robson
Tiago chokes on his beer. He wasn’t expecting that one and neither was Murphy. “You don’t have to be a bitch,” he says.
“And you don’t have to be a whore,” I counter. Murphy storms away in a huff. “See you at the Children’s Hospital next week. Oh, and don’t forget to write a nice speech.”
“What the hell, Becca?” Tiago says, laughing.
I laugh with him. Subtle is something I’ve never been accused of being in social circles. Why start now?
My laughter fades as his does. I turn in the direction he’s looking. No, not . . . uh-uh.
The quarterback, Zack Anson, strolls in, his confident smile cutting through the dimness. His team members scramble to attention, just short of bowing before him.
Tiago doesn’t bow. He doesn’t offer so much as a curtsy for his life-long best friend. Oh, no. He’s too busy eyeing Marilyn. Zack’s girlfriend.
I whip back toward Tiago, his chin briefly lowering before he takes a purposeful swig of his beer. “You’re in love with Marilyn?” I ask.
His eyes widen briefly before his frown returns. “Tiago . . . don’t go there,” I warn. “He’s your best friend—Jesus, so is she.”
Tiago doesn’t respond, returning dutifully to his beer. “Tiago?” I press. “Tell me you won’t go there.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get it, Becca. I loved her long before he did.”
And unlike Zack, I’m betting Tiago would have remained faithful.
I’m not certain whether to cry with or for him.
Vulnerability tends to come at the most inopportune times and when you least want it. Maybe it’s the atmosphere or the conversation we were just having, or maybe it’s the combination of innocence, beauty, and kindness Marilyn effortlessly carries. It could be all of it. Whatever does it, for the first time since I’ve known this imposing man (who’s always been comfortable letting his friend Zack take the spotlight, all the while guarding his back on the field), that vulnerability spills out.
“Tiago,” I say, searching for the right words and the compassion he needs. “Be careful. Even I can’t spin that.”
“There’s nothing to spin. I’m no fool. I won’t ever let anything happen. No matter how bad I may want it.”
My eyes flicker towards Marilyn as she approaches, smiling. She’s happy to see Tiago, and maybe a little relieved. But there’s something else. A look she gives him that’s foreign from the way she looks at Zack. Damn. Maybe she loves him, too.
I slam back the rest of my drink and slip off the stool, greeting Marilyn briefly as she makes her way to Tiago.
Marilyn isn’t like the rest of the women who come here. She’s nice. It’s not to say the other women are heartless. They just have different priorities, like landing a Sugar Daddy and achieving WAG status. I don’t fault them, exactly. I suppose I just recognize that the fall-outs and the headaches outweigh the prestige and celebrity status.
As I near Zach (and yes, he does eye my rack), I can’t help but turn back to Tiago. There’s no scowl in his expression. Not with Marilyn near him and not given how softly she appears to speak to him. This isn’t a man looking to cheat with his best friend’s girl. This is a man in love with someone he can’t have.
“Hey, Becca,” Zach says. His focus once more darts below my chin. “I wanted to discuss the visit to the Children’s Hospital next week.”
I don’t hear his next few words, not when my attention latches on the flat-screen above his head.
It’s a media shit-storm. Camera lights creating a strobe affect as Hale Wilder is led into a courthouse in handcuffs.
Zach says something about footballs and autographs, but it’s all white noise, my full attention on the news anchor. “Hale Wilder, also known as the Anaconda of Wall Street by the way he puts the squeeze on the competition, was indicted on multiple charges of embezzlement and stock manipulation today . . .”
My body shudders, thinking back to that horrible night. No, sir, that’s not why he’s called the Anaconda.
“Becca? Are you listening?” Zach asks. “Hey. Are you all right?”
“Shit,” I mutter. My eyes sting with tears that shouldn’t be there. It’s over between us. All my screw-ups made sure of that . . .
“Becca? Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Marilyn asks.
Tiago is here, too, reaching for me as the doors to the courthouse slam shut behind the cluster of FBI agents escorting Hale. My heartstrings break apart and my stomach does another flip when I realize Sean is calling me.
“Becca?” Sean says, not bothering to greet me or wait for me to mumble a response. “Hale’s in trouble. Fuckin’ A, Becca. Are you there? Hale needs you . . .”
Chapter Four
Hale
You ever watch the People’s Court? Judge Judy? That kind of thing? Okay, picture it in real life. Instead of a few rows stuffed with nosey people likely paid to be there, imagine multiple rows of nosey reporters waiting on Judge Stein here to beat my balls with the gavel.
Judge Stein could have her own show. Not because she’s pretty or elegant, but because she has that, “Take no prisoners, I don’t care if you die, attitude,” required of all T.V. judges, near as I can figure.
“How do you plead?” she asks, her hawk-like stare targeting me.
“My client pleads not guilty,” Mason answers for me.
I have to give it to Mason. He’s a criminal trial attorney representing gangbangers from some of the shittiest communities in Philadelphia. He has no experience defending anyone charged with a white collar crime. But he’s my friend, who passed the bar in both PA and NY. For now, that’s good enough for me.
“Bail is set at five-hundred thousand,” Judge Stein declares, more like a warning than a ruling. She narrows her eyes. “I’ll allow the defendant to return to Kiawah, South Carolina, under the condition his bank and credit accounts are frozen and all assets, including properties, electronic devices, vehicles, and personal belongings, are barred from sale once bail is set.”
Are you fucking kidding me? My glare on the judge turns on Mason. He gives me a firm shake of his head. In other words, don’t argue, this is as good as it’s going to get.
The Feds argue flight risk, etc., just as they did the first time Mason made a motion to return me to Kiawah. Where am I going to go? Judge Stein stripped me of every dime I have.
Thank God, the reporters are still waiting on me when Mason, Sean, and I walk out. I haven’t had enough humiliation for one day.
Sean leads the way, the long arms of his lanky body swinging casually, even as he narrows his eyes at anyone who dares to get too close.
Mason takes a protective stance beside me, his deep, booming voice assuring the press of my innocence, affirming that justice will be served. What he should say is that I’m going to find the fuckers who did this and bash their damned faces in.
The door to the limo Sean secured slams shut behind him. And since Sean was in charge of securing the limo, there’s a damn stripper pole right in the middle.
Sean lifts his arm, gliding his hand up and down it. “I feel sorry for dem strippers who have to perform in here,” he says thoughtfully. “I mean, there’s like, not much room to spin.” He frowns, glancing up. “Not to mention, they must have to wear helmets or some crazy shit so as not to bang their heads too hard. Helmets can’t be an easy thing to pull off as sexy, s’far as I’m concerned. What do y’all think?”
If you think Sean’s epiphanies are flying out of his mouth because I’ve had a rough few days, he thinks I could use a laugh, or is trying to distract me, y’all are giving Sean too much credit. Sean is being Sean and he’s damn good at it.
I look at Mason. Unlike Sean, he’s not contemplating the dangers of pole dancing in limos. “You’re fucked,” he says quietly.
“That’s the spirit,” I mutter, rubbing my face and leaning back against the seat. I don’t think a minute passes before I sit up again. Unlike Sean, w
hose added bulk has only gone to his stomach, the muscles lining Mason’s shoulders, back and chest, make him look more Marvel hero than lawyer.
“I’m serious, Hale,” Mason says. “I’m the last person you should have called to represent you.” He flips through his phone. “Trin and Callahan opened up an account in her name for your legal defense fund. They dropped a hundred grand in it, her brother, Landon, dropped in another hundred grand, and their daddy is texting he’s adding another two and to let them know when you need more.”
I mutter a curse. “They didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, they did,” Mason says. “They’re your friends. Friends who recognize you need the cash for a lawyer who can help you out of this mess.”
I meet him square in the face. “I’ve got one. I trust you, Mace, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if the helmet was clear to match the heels those ladies like to wear,” Sean adds, giving the pole another stroke. “That’ll work better, won’t it? Women like to match their outfits.”
Mason ignores him, scrolling through his messages. “Trin’s letting you stay at the house she and Callahan flipped last summer. It’s by the water. She says you’ll love the view.”
Trin and her family hooked me up with funds and a place. Not Emer and Carson, my brothers. They’ve waited years to watch me fall on my face. I can’t imagine which one of them is laughing the hardest or celebrating my downfall more. Then again, they probably don’t care enough to do either.
“Trin’s a good friend,” I manage. I should ask Mason to reply with a thank you or call her to tell her as much. But with Trin always comes Becca and . . . God damn it. Becks is the last person I should be thinking about. It wasn’t okay to think of her during the best of times. When I had money, a reputation, and women ready to claw eyes out to get to me. It’s sure as hell not good to think of her now when I’m being framed for shit I’d never do. I may be an anaconda like Wall Street dubbed me—never backing down and crushing my opponent—but I’m also ethical. I’m not sure what upsets me more. These charges or what these charges have done to my reputation.
“Do you think they should charge more?” Sean asks. “To cover the cost of the helmets? They can’t be cheap if they’re clear. Otherwise, more strippers would wear ‘em. The floor in here is hard. But a stage strikes me as harder and more dangerous.”
Mason glances up, grimacing. “Sean, I don’t think now is a good time.”
“I know.” Sean’s expression grows sad and weary. “Just worried, y’all.”
It’s not his comments that make Sean a real friend. It’s his heart. “Me, too,” Mason agrees, nodding softly.
I glance away. It hurts knowing they hurt for me. “Where’re we headed?” I ask.
“A hotel on the upper west side. Your PA is waiting for us and is in the process of securing a private plane to take us to Kiawah by the end of the week.”
“Us?” I ask.
“We need a better plan than we have,” Mason says. “That will take some time and I may need to file a few petitions while we’re still here. We’ll get you settled in Kiawah and then fly back here.” Mason swipes at his short, buzzed hair, sweat glistening along the crown of his dark skin. “If you’re hellbent on me representing you, I have a lot of research to do and attorneys to consult with. I’ll need to get a team together, other counsel, private investigators, whatever it takes.”
“Thank you. Get who you need,” I say.
“I will,” Mason promises. “I’ll take care of it.”
I believe him. Not that the hole burning its way through my gut lessens in severity. I’m innocent. I am. We’ll find a way out of this mess. Someone was smart enough to frame me. With any luck, he or she will be stupid enough to get caught.
My issue is, people don’t soon forget scandal. I learned a long time ago how much people value money and how they’ll cut you to pieces if they learn that you messed with theirs.
Shit. Wasn’t it just the other day I was in my office taking millions and making them billions? Wasn’t I telling the finance world to bite me and enjoy the slow chew? Now, every client I have thinks I screwed them, even sweet Mrs. Valez, who went from cleaning houses to cleaning up at the bank.
The tension, the hate I’m feeling, it becomes too much, especially for Sean.
He holds out his arms. “Let’s hug it out, bitches.”
Two more hugs and more than his share of much needed back pats later, we reach the hotel. I haven’t seen Sean this upset since his parents split up and we spent an hour washing his puke out of Trin’s hair. We were in high school and half running, half-staggering from a busted keg party. We can laugh about it now. But that’s about all we can laugh about.
Just like back at the courthouse, the reporters are right there. Oh, and look, so is what has to be a throng of paparazzi. Pris is New York’s celebrity socialite. As much as we’re no good for each other, it pissed me off that one of those leeches snapped a picture of her sobbing as she left her apartment and smacked it on the front cover beside an old picture of us.
I called her and told her I was sorry about putting her through this. She told me, “Fuck off. I hope you rot in prison.”
Good to know she’s taking our breakup well.
Neesa sprints across the lobby as we shove our way through the press. “Hale. Jiminy Cricket, I don’t know how they found out you’re here—”
Neesa grinds to an awkward stumble, her hip and knee twisting in a way that seems unnatural. I snag her arm, steadying her.
Her eyes are wild, her eyelids peeling back behind her head. I turn around, expecting more FBI and another set of cuffs. I do a double-take when I realize Neesa, my go-to, my consummate professional, my never sweat in the face of danger, my super assistant minus the cape, is gaping at Mason and tripping over a word that sounds like erpaw. That’s right. Erpaw.
I cock a brow. “Mason, this is Neesa. Neesa, this is Mason. I thought y’all had met.”
Mason’s nod is barely perceptible, unlike Neesa’s stammer. “He-lo-lo. No, we’ve only spoken on the phone.”
Mason gives my sweet little princess the once-over. Great. He likes what he sees, too. Mason steps forward, lifting Neesa’s hand and kissing it gently. I’m still holding her. In case you’re wondering, it feels as awkward as it sounds.
“Why haven’t we met?” Mason asks, his deep voice as solid as the marble tile at my feet. “After all these years of talking, how is it possible?”
Women love Mason. They always have. This here display is a good example of why.
Neesa giggles. Giggles like a little girl, then nods like she’s having a seizure. I’ll give her this, it’s a better response than the “erpaw”, or whatever the hell first came out of her mouth.
Sean clears his throat. I don’t think he so much cares about what’s happening between Mason and Neesa. Sean is like a Hobbit and he’s probably starving, having missed his third lunch to stand by me in court.
“Oh,” Neesa says, suddenly remembering that she’s not alone and that yes, I’m still holding her.
“Yup, I’m still here,” I remind her. She shoots me a dirty look and addresses Sean. “Nice to see you, again, Sean.”
“Hey, Neesa,” Sean says. “While we’re on the subject, do you have an opinion on strippers and safety gear?”
Neesa doesn’t know Sean well. But she’s interacted enough with him to not be too surprised by his comments. She smiles politely. “I haven’t given it much thought,” she says, looking back at Mason and blushing.
Christ, help me. I love Mason. I do. Most likely he and Sean will be Godparents to my kids if I ever accidently knock someone up. Except, the last thing I need right now is my attorney making babies with my PA. That shit don’t mix in a time of crisis.
“This way,” Neesa says, blushing again.
Mason watches Neesa walk off as if she’s trying to keep a tennis ball clutched b
etween her knees. He smiles, approvingly. Evidently, I’m not the only one who considers Neesa a queen among peasant folks like me.
I exchange glances with Mason, following closely behind Neesa as she heads toward the elevator. “You all right there, Lavina?” I ask.
She stiffens at the name. “Fine,” she squeaks, attempting to pry her legs apart. “We’re in the penthouse. It has plenty of room for you and Ma—I’m mean, your friends.”
I think she meant Mason, “your hot, sexy, I wish you weren’t here so I can get naked with him, friend.” I want to ask her about it, but I’m not happy with how hard she’s struggling to hold herself upright.
“Did you hurt your knee?” I ask. Damn, when she saw Mason, it’s as if she hit an invisible wall. For all I’m joking, I think she might be hurt.
Neesa’s leg does this jerky thing that can’t possibly be human. “New shoes,” she says.
“You wear those all the time,” I counter.
That’s about when the shy schoolgirl Neesa has warped into vanishes and Sasha Fierce returns with a vengeance. She hits the button to the penthouse, even though she already pressed it, speaking through her teeth. “They’re new,” she insists.
I snatch her arm when she loses her footing while Mason presses a hand to her back. I’m not exactly shocked it’s Mason Neesa looks at. I am, however, dumbfounded by the way she reacts.
I’ve never seen a woman truly swoon. I used to think it was a gross exaggeration of how women fall all over men. That shit can’t be real. Well, I’ve been wrong before and it appears I’m wrong again. Neesa is swooning over Mason. Now? Today? Could they have maybe picked a less disastrous time in my life?
Sean shoves his way between us when the doors swing open. “I’ve got this,” he says, lifting Neesa into his arms like Tarzan would with Jane. I almost expect him to do the Tarzan yell or maybe do the Chewbacca howl. Sean’s all sorts of talented.
His talent and strength sadly go unappreciated by the lovely Jane. Neesa kicks her legs like a little kid learning to swim. It’s all she manages before she covers her face with her hand.
