by Scott, S. L.
Kill me now.
6
Rad
“No.” I storm down the sidewalk in front of the steakhouse, pacing as my mind tries to process this mess. The clicking of Marlow’s heels has haunted me on each pass, except this one. I stop and turn back. Crossing my arms over my chest, I take a stance. “Absolutely not. This is bordering on unethical.”
“It’s not unethical, Rad.” She smiles, tilting her head. “It’s a favor for a friend, at best.”
“At worst, it’s fucking with my job.” Her dad left already, leaving us standing here to sort this disaster out. Pointing toward the restaurant, I add, “Your dad admitted he only hired me because he thought we were together. Why would he think that?”
“I don’t know.” Crossing her arms, she matches my stance, facing me head-on. Marlow’s never been the damsel in distress. “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never said or insinuated anything was going on between us. I really don’t know why he’d assume that.”
“Me being the one sitting by your side at dinner doesn’t help quell any assumptions.”
Marlow cringes. “I understand why you’re mad. Mad Rad.” Her slip of a smile eases the edges of irritation. “Look, we can both benefit from this plan. If we just pretend for him, for just a little while, I get an apartment—an investment in New York real estate, which is priceless. And you look good to your bosses, getting you one step closer to that partnership.”
“Bob gets the cover of attorney-client privilege by working with me, and you’re protected from the paparazzi until the case is settled. And then what?”
“And then some celebrity will screw up and grab the headlines back.”
Somehow, this farce started to make sense while we ate our three-course meal. But now, back in reality, not so much. So why am I considering going along with it? She assumes it will all go as planned, but it has the potential to go bad.
What if the gang finds out? What do we say? Maybe we should tell them and be up front. Once we start this, how do we end it? And more importantly, how will this affect my new situation with Tealey?
I roll my neck to the side and then the other to release the tightness of my muscles.
“Please, Rad. This only works if you’re on board. I won’t blame you if you’re not. It’s nuts, for sure. But it will mean everything to me if you do this one little thing for me.” She uncrosses her arms and then says, “No kissing involved because ew.”
“Thanks for the unsolicited ego check,” I deadpan. Although she is right.
“You’re like a brother, so definitely no kissing or anything weirdly romantic.” She pats me on the shoulder as if I have cooties to prove the point.
Cocking an eyebrow, I say, “We agree on that.”
Hope flashes through her eyes. “No romance. No flowers or dates or anything even remotely relationship-y.” She shivers. “Even thinking about that grosses me out. No offense.”
“None taken.”
She sighs. “Look, I can see you don’t love this. I don’t either. But think of it this way—my dad uses people to get what he wants all the time. Hence, the fifth marriage you’re about to dissolve. So, let’s use this to our advantage.”
She must sense my frustration waning because she goes in for the kill.
“We can use this to set ourselves up for the future,” she says. “Purchasing my apartment is nothing to my father, but it would be everything to me. It would . . . it would allow me a breather and allow me to catch up on some other expenses. I make decent money at the gallery, but you know how high the cost of living in this city can be.”
She has a point. Several.
“And you, Rad Wellington, were born to be partner. You’re living the bachelor life to its fullest, but maybe one day you’ll want a wife and kid. It could happen,” she says, biting her lip. “Maybe. Anyway, what position do you want to be in when that day comes, if that day comes? Working eighty hours a week for base pay or working forty and making a cut of the profits? You’ll have more time to pursue your other interests and more income to do it. It’s a chance that some never get. And honestly, it hurts no one. It’s only a little show for my dad. He’ll be back in LA before you know it, and then I can tell him we broke up. This is ours for the taking.”
I tilt my head back and look at the sky. She’s right. I hate it that she is.
If I do this and it works—I’ll definitely make partner. I’ll have another successful case under my belt and making partner before I hit thirty would allow me to relax a little and have a life again. More time to watch games with the guys, visit my mom more often in the Hamptons. It would set me up for life and would be the cherry on top of a dream I’ve had since I was seven years old.
Images of spending time with Tealey on the weekends crowd my other thoughts. My head snaps back to Marlow as I shake those thoughts out of my brain.
I need another drink. I can’t get ahead of myself.
“So, what do you think, Rad?” What do I think?
I think this is nuts.
I take a deep breath. “If this charade is only for your father and not the whole damn world, I’ll agree.”
Raising her hands in surrender, she replies, “That’s all. I swear.”
No matter how many times I try to riddle through this mess, I know there’s no figuring out something that will never make sense. I give up and finally relent for a friend. “Fine.”
“We agree not to tell my dad until that deed is in hand and you’re the star of the firm.”
“I’m already a star.”
“Come on, Rad. Promise me.”
“Okay. I promise.” We shake on it.
“Tealey always said if there’s one person we can always count on, it’s you.” She does? Why do I like that she thinks so highly of me? Marlow adds, “She’s right. I knew I could count on you.”
She’s trotting toward a cab at the curb, so I’m not left with enough time to change my mind on this scheme. “Hey, where are you going?”
“I have a date.”
I check the time, and it’s just gone nine. I give her respect for double stacking her night. She handled her business, and now she’s off to have fun. I should follow her lead.
Swinging the back door open, she waves. “You’re the best, Rad.”
I tuck my hands in my pockets and smirk. “So I’m told.”
Laughing, she adds, “Don’t wait up for me.” She’s grinning when she ducks into the back of the taxi.
While Marlow’s off to see some guy she’s actually dating, I’m standing on the street corner like an idiot. That’s my cue to leave, and hopefully, I can catch the end of the game with the guys.
I don’t get four blocks when Jackson texts me the final score and types: Thanks for the payday, sucker.
Sighing, I text: Remind me to never let it ride.
Jackson: Why would I do that when I just won from your poor judgment?
I chuckle. Me: Cade still there?
Jackson: He just left.
Me: I was heading over there, but I think I’ll head home instead.
Jackson: Early morning for me, so I wouldn’t be good company for long anyway. There’s a game on Thursday.
Between my caseload, Tealey moving in, and now this Marlow madness, I reply: A lot going on this week. I’ll check my schedule.
Jackson: All good. Have a good one.
Me: You too.
Although I’m heading in the same direction as my apartment, I’m not ready to go home. I lean forward and tell the driver, “Change of plans. Brooklyn.”
Cars honking. The city lit up at night. People crowding the sidewalks. It doesn’t matter if it’s a Tuesday or Saturday night, the city is always awake and thriving. The thrum of New York beats inside me, and I sit back and let it fight against the adrenaline coursing through me. That’s something I usually reserve for court but going against the Marchés is similar. The only difference is I think I just lost my case.
Tealey asking if I’d eve
r considered leaving has me looking at the city again. I’ve become so used to the hustle of the streets that it had become a blur in my mind, a place I was sleepwalking through to get to my job or go home with not much life between.
If someone were to ask her, she’d detail out some exciting life that she imagines I lead. It’s interesting enough to pass time, but is it fulfilling in the ways humans desire?
I think it used to be.
Now, I’m not so sure.
As we cross the bridge, a new rush runs up my spine. I shouldn’t be fixated on Tealey like I’ve been since we’re just friends, but I’m starting to believe that she might put some excitement back in my life.
Friend.
Roommate.
Whatever we are, I’m liking this energy she’s injected.
Deep in the borough away from the bridge, the cab turns down a street and then cuts across another. I recognize the block, though I don’t think I’ve ever been here at night. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve been in Tealey’s apartment at all.
I pay the driver and get out. Looking down the street in one direction and then the other, it’s distinctively quieter on her block than the parts of Manhattan we drove through to get here.
After verifying the address once more, I walk to the door. I’m about to knock, but some guy on the first floor smoking a cigarette asks, “You don’t live here. Who are you here to see?”
“Tealey Bell in 3B.”
The lines in his brow are smooth, and his expression lifts. “Why are you here to see her?”
“We’re friends. Good friends.” Since that doesn’t seem to satisfy the old guy, I add, “She’s moving in with me this weekend.”
“Chad Mellington, or something like that.”
“Close enough.” That Tealey’s talked about me has to be a good sign.
He stamps the cigarette on the brick windowsill and says, “I’ll buzz you in.”
I wait only a few seconds before I hear the buzz and the lock release. I pull the door open and enter the building, only to be greeted by the same guy. “She tells me you have a nice place.”
“I do. It’s not too far from Central Park.”
Rubbing his fingers together, he oohs. “Money. She deserves better than this dump.” He pats the wall. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on up.”
I go but stop on the bottom step and turn back. “What’s your name?”
“Meisler. Joey Meisler.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meisler.”
Nothing impresses this guy. Without another word, he eyes me up and down and then returns to his apartment.
Dilapidated is an understatement. The handrail wobbles, and the stairs sound like they’re about to break under my feet. There’s a distinct smell of old cigarettes and chemical cleaner in the air. On the second floor, the sound of a gameshow blares through the thin and dusty walls as I climb higher. When I reach Tealey’s floor, I glance down the hall to see the apartment number—3B.
There’s no sneaking with floors this creaky, but it’s noticeably cleaner, and the bad odors don’t linger up there. I knock on her door and then shove my hands in my pockets to wait.
The door swings open, and there she is—hair twisted in pink rollers and a T-shirt that hangs to her knees, fuzzy pink slippers, and what appears to be a face mask. Without looking up, she says, “What’d you forget—Oh!”
I smirk.
Her fingers rip the white sheet from her face, and she starts scrubbing her fingers across her skin. “What are you doing here?”
“I was nowhere near your neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by.”
Her shoulders ease as she laughs. “Well then, since you’re here, come on in.”
7
Tealey
“Did I interrupt?” Rad asks, his voice as smooth as jazz, as is his smile that leaves me weak in the knees. It’s probably just the glass of wine I had earlier.
“No. No. Not at all.” What’s a little lie? I wasn’t prepared for Rad Wellington to be standing outside my door, much less showing up out of nowhere on a random Tuesday night. I can’t say I’m bothered by his presence, but a little notice would have been nice.
I take a deep breath and steady myself when he steps inside.
“So, yeah, this is my apartment.” I rush to toss the mask in the garbage. Bending down, I use the side of the toaster to check my appearance. Oh crap! I wipe the food from my face, but when it doesn’t disappear, I lean in for a closer look, only to discover it’s a crumb stuck to the toaster.
I shake my head and quickly swipe over my face again, rub in the serum, and then start plucking the rollers out of my hair. Of all the times I decide to use my spa supplies before the move, naturally, it had to be the night he stops by.
Not that this will do much to make me feel better about how I look right now, but I still try. I toss the rollers in a basket beside the bed and then sit down at the end, trying to act like I’m not freaking out inside. “What brings you by?”
He’s sporting a charcoal-gray suit and white shirt, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck. His dark hair is disheveled, and there’s a distinctive dusting of scruff covering his jaw from a long day’s work. As if he couldn’t get more handsome, he proves me wrong. “I always considered you more of a Monica,” he replies, his gaze skimming over me.
I shift awkwardly, resting one fuzzy house shoe–covered foot on top of the other. “It’s a sleep shirt. Wait, really?”
“Really is it a sleep shirt?”
“No. You think I’m more of a Monica than a Phoebe?”
“Sure,” he replies casually.
Glancing down at the shirt, I’m reminded of when we found these from a street vendor in Times Square. I love my I’m-a-Phoebe Friends shirt despite its thin fabric and threadbare hem . . . I just don’t love that I chose to wear it tonight. It’s not my fault, really, considering Cammie was wearing something equally comfortable. How was I supposed to know Mr. Eligible Bachelor of the Year, or whatever that award is, would show up on my doorstep. “Marlow bought these for us.”
“Let me guess. She got Rachel, Cammie got Monica, and you were left with Phoebe?”
“You’re very good, Counselor.”
“Thanks. It’s really just that Marlow is predictable.”
I’ve always considered that part of her charm. She’s . . . reliable that way, which allows me to manage my reactions to some of her outlandish ideas. Like the time she talked us into pretending we worked for the hotel where Chris Hemsworth was staying so we could try to meet him. If our street clothes didn’t give us away, the lack of key cards and ability to explain what we were doing to the manager did.
When Chris saw us being berated by the manager, he came over and said we were with him. We scored a meeting, a photo, and he had his driver take us back to our dorm. “I’d say she’s predictably unpredictable.”
Narrowing his eyes above a slight grin, he asks, “Marlow or Phoebe?”
“You’re probably right on both.” I hold up a finger. “Also, I like Phoebe. She’s great—funny and artistic. I’m okay with being a Phoebe in my trio. But whatever.” I wave away the nonsense filling my brain.
As if he’s afraid to take another step, he remains standing near the door.
“The futon is covered, but you can sit here?” I pop up and offer him the end of the bed. “Or I have a chair over there if you’d like?”
“I’m good.” After he takes in my tiny apartment, his brown eyes land back on mine.
I don’t make apologies for what I can’t afford, but a tinge of embarrassment winds its way through my veins. He lives in the lap of luxury, and here I am, not even making ends meet in my one-room apartment. I shift under his curious gaze and look down.
“What brings you by?”
Bending, he catches my eyes. “You okay, Bell?”
There’s been no judgment on his behalf. There never has been, so I’m not sure why I would feel even a hint of shame. I raise my chin
and nod. “I’m fine.”
“I wanted to see how the packing was going.” He can easily see over my head to scope out the place because he’s tall like that.
Tall and dark.
Handsome.
Intelligent.
I digress . . . “I’m almost done.” I move to the kitchenette to busy myself. “Make yourself at home. It’s a mess in here, so you’re welcome to sit wherever you find space.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says as he walks toward the window. Moving the curtain to the side with his fingers, he spreads the blinds and looks down the street.
Rad Wellington is too big for this space. He’s meant for wide-open lofts, penthouses, and rooftop terraces. It’s utterly fascinating to see him in my apartment. The entire place could fit in his spare room. Makes me wonder how it will feel to be living in his space—airy and spacious or like I’m staying in an Airbnb, where it gives the façade of feeling at home. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here, huh?”
Glancing back, he says, “I don’t know that I’ve ever been here.” He moves around a stack of boxes and finds the end of the futon in front of him.
I get two bottles of beer from the fridge, and when I turn back, I catch him searching the apartment. I’m assuming over the lack of space a man his size requires. “It’s a . . . cozy place.” He’s polite enough to call it cozy versus tiny. “Why haven’t I been here before?”
Shrugging, I set the bottles on the counter and dig through a drawer for the bottle opener. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s completely out of your way?” A draft breeze runs across my bum, and I lower my arms, realizing I’ve been flashing him my ass. I duck behind a smaller stack of boxes and tug at the hem of my shirt. With my shorts being closer to him than me, I’m stuck.
His eyes narrow as he runs his fingers through his hair. “What are you doing?”
My spine stiffens. “Just standing here?”
Touching his chest, he angles his head. “Are you asking me?”
“The English language deems that it was indeed a question, but I didn’t mean to pose one.”
