Unearthed

by Cecy Robson

  For the most part, I lead a happy life, having learned long ago to shove my pain away where it can’t debilitate me. Today, following the arrival of those hounds, my fear broke through the vault where I’ve locked it away. Marco hasn’t quite mastered his grief. On days like this one, so close to his wedding anniversary, he’s almost intolerable.

  Well, to anyone but me.

  “You think he still mourns his wife, darling.” Dahlia isn’t really asking. She knows that’s exactly what I think. If anything, she’s trying to change the subject for our benefit.

  There isn’t a Fae alive who doesn’t fear Death. How can there be? With more than a dozen forms, all vicious, all hungry, all on the prowl, it’s a wonder our kind has made it this long.

  Humans are lucky. Their version of Death only claims those who’ve reached the end of their lives, are injured beyond help, or who fall terminally ill like Marco’s wife, Marion. He did everything to save her, but it wasn’t enough.

  My gaze drifts to the silver frame on Marco’s desk. Marco can’t be more than thirty in that photo. He’s a little leaner, his hair thicker, and his attire impeccable. Marion rests in his arms, her red hair blazing against her champagne wedding gown. She wasn’t someone men crossed traffic to speak to like Dahlia. She wasn’t thin nor heavy. If it weren’t for her hair, she likely could have entered a crowded room and gone unnoticed. But her eyes were kind, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and her happiness as palpable as Marco’s. Marion was beautiful. And she loved Marco.

  “He misses her every day,” I finally answer.

  “He does,” Dahlia agrees. “Which is why you’re the only one who can handle him, darling.”

  I toss the empty packaging into the recycling can. “Not the only one.” I roll my eyes. “You should see him around Captain Awesomeness.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ryker,” I clarify. “There’s something odd about him, Dahlia.” I scoot closer to her. “Haven’t you noticed how people around here fall all over themselves to make him happy, even though they seem afraid of him?”

  Dahlia gives it some thought. “I don’t think afraid is the right word.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Dahlia giggles. “Livvie, the guy is a walking piece of sculpted marble. He intimidates just by breathing.”

  “He doesn’t intimidate Marco,” I reply. “They have some kind of bromance going on.” I deepen my light voice as much as I can manage. “Hello, sir. Let me flex my Herculean muscles so you can see how magnificent I am.”

  It’s a pathetic attempt to mimic Ryker’s voice, not that it discourages me from trying to imitate Marco. “Olivia. Stop your hard work and come bask in Ryker’s splendor. Hurry up. He’s flexing!”

  Dahlia throws back her head, her laughter echoing like a chorus of bells. I hold out my hands. “I’m not exaggerating,” I tell her. “Marco even refers to him as ‘son.’”

  Dahlia sighs and reaches for her iPad. “Darling, Marco has every right to praise him. Ryker is making the firm an outrageous amount of money. He’s brilliant and a real shark in court.” She smiles. “And don’t get me started on that rock-hard ass of his. You could crack an oyster on that beauty.”

  “Thank you.”

  We jump at the sound of Ryker’s throaty timbre. “Mr. I Can Shuck Oysters with my Butt Cheeks” arrived like a shadow.

  I’m not sure if Dahlia is blushing, but I certainly am. She practically falls off the desk in her haste to scramble away. “D-d-do you want a sandwich?” she asks him like a dumbass.

  “No.”

  “Okay, bye.” She runs. Yes, runs down the length of the hall. Her admirers shoot out from their perspective offices and cubicles to get one last look.

  Jane stops her so-called typing just to turn around and laugh at me. Nice. I thought girlfriend was on my side.

  I whirl around and return to my computer screen, scrolling through the icons as if I have some life-altering memo to write and doing my best to ignore the piercing blue eyes searing a hole into my back. I click on my legal documents file and pretend to review the one that pops up.

  “I’ve been offered a new case,” Ryker says, his voice irritated.

  I ignore him.

  “It’s high profile,” he adds.

  I start typing more information into the brief. Not that it needs it.

  “You’re going to help me with it.”

  My fingers slow to a stop over my keyboard. Anger dissolves what remains of my humiliation. I swivel my seat to face him, griping the arm rests to keep from hurtling a paper weight at him. “You have an army of associates and legal assistants at your disposal. Command one of them to help you.”

  Ryker squares his jaw. “I don’t want an associate. I want a paralegal and admin who knows what the hell she’s doing.”

  “You already have one,” I remind him.

  “Chelsea is barely competent on her best days and embarrassing on her worst. I want you.”

  I stand hard enough to roll my chair away and shove my hands on my hips. “Well, you can’t have me. Marco’s in the middle of a huge case―”

  “We spoke before he left.” His gruff voice deepens. “He said if I need you, I could have you.”

  I count off five names, using my fingers. “Tara, Willow, Amy, Kimmi, Sue. They’re all excellent. Pick one of them.”

  “No.” He clenches his teeth, his tone bordering on lethal. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

  It takes all I have not to punch him in his perfect nose.

  Chapter Three

  I spend the next two weeks seeing to Ryker’s every need. Well, in between dashes to Marco’s office to make sure he doesn’t wear the same suit to court every day. I expected my time with Ryker to be tension filled and cutthroat at best. At first, it was. I’d only speak if spoken to or if there was an issue that needed his immediate attention. Things changed when his client’s case unfolded, and her needs took precedent.

  Brielle is the wife of a New York aristocrat, Pence Chandler. She met him when she was seventeen and waitressing. As a broke, high school drop-out, she was the perfect person for a predator like Pence to target. He wined and dined her. He also took her virginity against her will.

  Anxiety ridden and emotionally traumatized from decades of abuse, Brielle is painfully fragile and addicted to oxycodone. She’s hard to calm and even harder to focus.

  Ryker’s patience with Brielle surprises me. He remains calm and gentle even when she falls into hysterics. Yet, it’s not enough. Brielle is terrified of Ryker. He has to sit across the room when we meet while I sit beside her, holding her hand and serving as a buffer.

  “Don’t worry about taking notes,” he told me before our first meeting. “We’ll record our sessions and address her issues later. “Soothe her with your voice and praise any show of strength she demonstrates. Most importantly, never leave us alone. Every man Brielle has known has harmed her. To her, I’m just another potential abuser. I need her to trust me. It’s the only way I can help her.”

  ***

  I lower a fresh cup of coffee on Ryker’s desk. “Why are you helping her?” I ask.

  I feel him watching me as I return to my seat. But as I settle, I realize the only thing on his mind is work. He scrolls through his computer, his focus intense.

  We spent the morning discussing an incident with Brielle in which Pence locked her in a dog kennel for several days. Brielle couldn’t brave through the session and we were forced to end early.

  Ryker reaches for the coffee as he flips through the file I composed earlier. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt are rolled and hug his muscular forearms. He ditched his tie around four o’clock. It lays over the armrest of his leather couch beside his jacket.

  He furrows his thick brows. “She’s a client.”

  I tug the hem of my olive tank dress, keeping my legs crossed although he can’t see them beneath my new desk. That’s right, my new desk. It wasn’t enough to work directly with Ryker. I
was moved into his office.

  He reasoned that my cubical was on the opposite end of the building, creating challenges should he need me. I reasoned he was out of his damn mind. The first few days were claustrophobic, his commanding presence appearing to take up the entire room despite its large expanse.

  Now, it wasn’t so bad.

  “You’re a criminal defense attorney,” I remind him. “This is a divorce case.”

  Ryker leans back, examining me closely. “The extent of the abuse Brielle has endured is more in line with my criminal law expertise. Another attorney will handle the divorce settlement including compensation for her psychiatric and medical care.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “Pence will deny everything. He and his team will rally witnesses and paint Brielle as an unstable gold digger.”

  Ryker pushes the file away and takes a sip of his coffee. “I don’t care. As long as Brielle keeps it together, I can prove the abuse.”

  “What is it?” he asks when I remain quiet. “You don’t seem satisfied with my response.”

  I swivel in my chair, still puzzled. “This just isn’t your typical case.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  I stopped moving. “Then why did you take it?”

  “She needs protection,” Ryker replies. “The legal army at Pence’s disposal will eat Brielle alive without proper representation. With his reputation and that of his family’s on the line, they’ll stop at nothing to destroy her.”

  I almost don’t say what I do. It comes out anyway. “The victims in your other cases needed protection, too.”

  His gaze locks on mine. “I know.”

  This is the first time Ryker has acknowledged that were victims, those harmed by the men he’s represented. It grants me a new perspective. Ryker isn’t someone pretending to save a fallen hero. Nor is he taking these cases for the fame and fortune they guarantee.

  He’s an attorney. One who dutifully represents his clients, including someone as heartbreaking as Brielle.

  I find myself smiling, recalling the kindness and compassion he’s demonstrated to Brielle. Captain Awesomeness is human after all.

  Ryker angles his chin, seemingly surprised that I’m capable of more than glowering and grumbling. His gaze softens, and for the briefest of moments, the corner of his mouth curves into a smirk.

  I rest my chin on my hand. Hmmm, that dimple isn’t so bad. It’s cute. Sexy . . .

  “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?” Chelsea, Ryker’s admin and paralegal, rests against the doorframe, her tall voluptuous body poised for a better view of her assets. Her finger twirls a long strand of hair. She laughs. “It seems that I am.”

  Ryker lifts a pen and scribbles his signature on a letter to opposing council. “We’re working,” he answers with all the warmth of an ice cube. “Is there something you want?”

  Besides her legs wrapped around your waist? Probably not. The old Olivia, the one in college, would have replied as much. The new Olivia has the class and grace to keep her thoughts, however true, to herself.

  I’ve never had a problem with Chelsea, a rarity considering the female staff has rallied to publicly stone her more than once. But I’ve also never associated with her in the past. That changed when I began working with Ryker.

  It started out with a few bumps when we’d pass each other in the hall. Don’t get me wrong, the first time, it seemed innocent enough, both of us distracted and appearing rushed. The second incident wasn’t so innocent. She’s bigger than me and the documents I was sorting through went flying. “Oops, sorry,” she said, hurrying away and not bothering to help me.

  There were also days I’d arrive at work with all my writing tools missing, paperwork out of numerical order, and Chelsea laughing as she runway strutted past the door. Petty? Yes. Worth flipping out over? Not yet.

  Chelsea smiles impishly, her bright red lipstick giving her and unfair pouty mouth. “You’ve had a long day, Ryke. I thought you could use you a cup of java.”

  Ryker motions to the coffee on his desk with his pen. “Olivia already took care of me.”

  “I’ll bet she did,” Chelsea replies. She pushes away from the door and struts toward him, giving me a generous view of her curves as she bends over to place another cup of coffee on Ryker’s desk. “Here. Have something hotter.”

  I didn’t miss the tension in Ryker’s jaw when she referred to him as “Ryke.” It was too familiar. I wonder briefly if they’ve been intimate before deciding I’d rather not know. Chelsea is a walking version of Barbie. Me? At barely five feet tall with crazy rainbow hair, I’m more Skateboard Skipper.

  “I don’t need more coffee.” Ryker’s attention shifts to me. “What about you, Olivia?”

  Well, doesn’t just that stick a bee in Chelsea’s too tight skirt? “Tea would be lovely, but I can make it myself.”

  Chelsea whips around. “Yes, you can,” she interjects. Rage flares like fire around her. I do a double-take, confused by her anger and why she’s marching toward me.

  “Chelsea?” Ryker’s steely voice glues her in place.

  She shudders once, twice, taking several gulps of air before composing herself. I half expect her to turn into a werewolf. “Yes, Ryke?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

  “My name is Mr. Scott,” he snaps. “Don’t interrupt us again.”

  It takes Chelsea a moment to move again. Who am I kidding? It takes me a moment to move again. My gaze bounces between them as the tension surges out of control. She seems seconds from, I don’t know, screaming? Sprouting a tail? Instead she squares her shoulders and leaves, her stilettos stabbing against the tile.

  Office drama exists everywhere, and this firm has seen its share. But Chelsea’s demeanor borders on dangerous. I almost expected her to attack.

  I return to my work, debating if should nail garlic to the crazy bitch’s cubicle when an email catches my attention. Oh, no. “Ryker, the court clerk just reached out to me. Brielle made a formal request to dismiss her restraining order.”

  Ryker presses his palms against his desk and rises. “It’s only been two days since the judge granted it!”

  And it took an entire week of testimony to obtain it in. Brielle had barely survived.

  “Why would she drop it?” he says.

  He knows why. Like me, he just doesn’t want to admit it. I forward the email as I speak. “The clerk didn’t mention a reason and apologizes for not calling you sooner. She was in a different hearing and the attending clerk didn’t think to make you aware.” I slump into my seat as I finish reading. “The only reason a judge didn’t hear Brielle’s request today is because of the late hour. She’s scheduled to go before Judge Ormond first thing in the morning.”

  Ryker’s frown deepens as he reads the email. “Brielle did this without consulting me.”

  “I know.” I shake my head. “What else do you think she’s done without you?”

  Anger seethes like a building twister along Ryker’s features. “Call her, now. I’ll phone the prosecutor’s office to make sure she hasn’t dropped the fucking criminal charges.”

  I call every number and contact we have. I can’t find Brielle anywhere. After an hour of trying to locate her, and following Ryker’s swearing match with opposing counsel, I leave for a much needed cup of tea.

  My hands pass along my hair. We’ve had a long day and it’s far from over. Yet I hope for more time, just for Brielle.

  I enter our formal lounge and head toward the black and chrome kitchen. Once a month, the partners pay a caterer to serve the staff an elaborate lunch. It’s one of the many perks of working at such a prestigious firm.

  I turn on the Keurig and start a fresh cup of coffee for Ryker, before sorting through the tins of tea. I groan when a pair of stilettos stamp along the tile behind me. Once again, the unstable skank that is Chelsea graces me with her presence.

  “Are you screwing him?” she asks.

  She doesn’t even wait for me to turn around. “I don’t blame you,”
she adds. “He’s a fine piece of ass.”

  A month or so ago, her comment would have been laughable. Not today. Brielle is in trouble and in possible danger. I’m scared for her and feeling protective of Ryker.

  I cross my arms. Chelsea’s viciousness is reminiscent of a serpent ready to strike. She’s a woman who enjoys intimidating and hurting those who’ll allow it. Being petite, I look younger than twenty-six. I smile often and rarely raise my voice. It’s understandable why Chelsea perceives me as an easy target. But I’m not weak.

  The sun will freeze before I take this psycho’s shit.

  “You’re out of line,” I tell her.

  “Am I?” She pouts her lips. “You’ve only been here a year and a half. How is it you’re the highest paid admin in the firm? Doing more than fetching coffee?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m doing a lot more,” I agree. “I stay late every day. I work weekends and holidays when our attorneys need extra help. I take on tasks no one seems to have time for and organize events to reward the staff. I go above and beyond my duties and I’m rewarded for it. For you to suggest I’m engaging in inappropriate behavior is offensive and ridiculous.”

  A wicked grin spreads across her face. She’s enjoying herself. “I’m sure you’ve been rewarded. My boss is equipped to thank you in every way and in every position possible.” She slithers her way to the counter and dips her finger into a leftover piece of cheesecake. Slowly, she flicks her tongue up and down, closing her eyes as she sucks the last bit of cream from the tip. “Mm. Good.” She smiles without humor. “How good does Ryker taste?”

  Professionalism has its limits and, when push comes to shove, you don’t mess with a pixie.

  I scoop a chunk of cake and smash it into her face, tangling my fingers into her hair to keep her in place. She whips from side to side, slapping at my arms. I snag another handful and add a second layer. As I reach for more, she breaks free in one furious lurch.

  Chelsea wipes globs of cake from her eyes, the fury she demonstrated in Ryker’s office returning in one foul sweep. “I’ll have you fired for keeping him from me!”