“Yes, Mr. Schwartz,” I croak, clearing my throat.
“My office. Now,” he roars into the speaker, making me shutter.
I’ve been dreading this moment since I emailed him my notes—all six sentences, from the visit with Bishop yesterday.
After I left the jail, I returned to the office and found out Schwartz had been delayed in court. Figuring I had until today to come up with something to add, I immediately breathed a sigh of relief and booted up my computer. I typed Bishop’s full name into the search engine, hoping I’d be able to obtain his criminal records.
Since I was a new-hire I didn’t have access to the firm's database and wound up paying for one of those subscription sites that unlocks public files—which by the way is a total scam in case you were wondering. My twenty bucks bought me Bishop's birthday and a few previous addresses, nothing that could be declared as discovery for the case.
I then learned my boss had left word with his secretary, instructing me to email him my notes before I left for the day. Destined for the unemployment line, I did as I was told, listing Connor’s favorite things, Bishop’s former drug habit and lastly, the dead baby mama who I only had a first name for.
Stellar work on my behalf.
It should also be noted that I apologized for my lack of information, citing the visit had been cut short by the guard. I respectfully closed the email by promising to schedule another visit but judging by the tone of Schwartz’s voice, I don’t think he gives a flying shit.
Rising from my chair, I smooth a hand over my slacks. After yesterday’s dress debacle, I made a silent vow to never show my legs again…or my ass. I’m still trying to decide if I should be grateful or embarrassed for having worn a pair of granny panties. At least they were lace. I suppose that’s better than the thong I could’ve opted for instead.
Fidgeting with the sleeves of my blazer, I drag in a deep breath and make my way for Schwartz’s office. With every step I take, I attempt to mentally prepare myself for the lashing and the pink slip that surely awaits me.
I reach the corner office and his secretary gives me a curt nod before instructing me to go right in.
Great.
With my heart hammering against my chest, I enter the ridiculously over-the-top office and for a second I forget I’m about to have my ass handed to me and take in the decor. Sleek black leather couches fill the room and there is an impressive abstract canvas on one of the walls. Across the room diplomas, honors and awards are displayed. There is also a framed newspaper headline that catches my eye and I squint to read it from where I stand. My gaze finally lands on the massive mahogany desk and the disgruntled man who sits behind it.
Lifting his head, Schwartz mutters a curse and glares at me. Knowing I’m his least favorite person right now, I feign indifference and force a smile.
Fake it until you make it.
That’s my mantra and I’m sticking with it.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Close the door,” he growls.
Keeping my head high, I try to appear unaffected by his attitude and do as he says, but before the door completely closes, he starts yelling.
“What the hell is this shit?” he questions as I turn to face him. I watch as he waves a hand in front of his computer screen. “It says here, Connor’s favorite color is green. Wonderful! We all can sleep now, knowing the kid likes green shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Paint him a picture?”
I flinch at that. It sounds even more ridiculous coming from his mouth than it looked when I typed it. Sliding my glasses up my nose, I shuffle my weight from one foot to the other and try to conjure up a clever excuse. I suppose I could tell him Bishop was being difficult, but he wasn’t all that bad. In the little he shared, he appeared brutally honest. Had we more time, I don’t think there is a question he wouldn’t have answered.
“His mother’s name is Kiki…is that a nickname or something?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, inwardly cringing at the three words. There’s no denying I fucked up. In fact, I spent the better part of last night obsessing over how I could’ve done things differently. The list is endless between the wardrobe malfunctions and faulty office supplies. Add over analyzing everything reflected in Bishop’s eyes and the countless times I glared at the guard to that list and it’s really no wonder I managed the six sentences at all.
“This kid is in trouble,” he seethes. “He’s been molested, and God knows what else. He’s got no mother and while his father may be a piece of shit, he’s the boys only hope.”
“I know and I’m sorry. I will call Riker’s immediately to set up another appointment.”
“Don’t fucking bother.”
Here it comes.
The big…you’re fired.
“Please, give me another chance. I swear—”
My words get cut off as the office door storms open. It smacks me in the back and I nearly topple over on my heels, but a hand closes around my arm, steadying me.
“Whoa, darlin’, careful.”
The thick southern accent forces me to turn around and my eyes go wide as I find my balance. Removing his hand from my arm, I take a step backward and away from the pack of bikers huddled in the entryway of the office door.
“For fuck’s sake, Parrish, you can’t just barge into my office. I’m in the middle of something.”
The man whose mugshot is as famous as the Mona Lisa glances at me unimpressed. I should be insulted but I’m too enthralled with him to give a damn. With a larger-than-life persona and a swagger that’s all his own, Jack Parrish is as fascinating as the papers make him out to be. He’s also rumored to be bat shit crazy.
“Screwing the help, Davey? What’d your membership to the Playboy club get revoked?”
A gasp works its way past my lips as I look between the big bad biker and my boss. I open my mouth to assure the crazy man there is no hanky-panky in the office when the man who saved me from falling flat on my face leans forward and whispers, “Pay him no mind, he knows not what he says.”
My lips smack together, and I glance at the little name tag he’s wearing on his vest.
What kind of name is Bash?
“Get out,” Schwartz orders from behind me.
Not sure if he’s speaking to me or the bikers, I look over my shoulder just as he rounds his desk.
“I ain’t going anywhere,” Parrish growls, stepping further into the room. The group of men standing behind him follow him inside, every one of them looking more intimidating than the other. I notice Bash and Parrish are the only ones who have the infamous Satan’s Knights insignia sewn to their leather vests. The other six all have the Bikers Against Child Abuse logo stitched to the backs of their leather vests.
My eyes drift to the words surrounding the embroidered knuckles and my throat closes as I read the phrase.
No Child Should Live in Fear.
I’m not very familiar with the organization but I know they call themselves ‘The Keepers of the Children’ and their mission is to make an abused child feel safe. Figuring they must be here for Connor only breaks my heart. Here these men are willing to do whatever it is to help, and then there’s me…the girl who couldn’t even manage a simple deposition.
“Cheryl, would you please excuse us?” Schwartz says, grinding his teeth as he glares at Parrish.
I want to object mainly because I’m invested in this little boy's wellbeing, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t curious too. It’s not every day a group of bikers walks into a lawyer’s office like they own the place, ready to lay it all on the line for a child. It’s kind of inspiring to see such determination…such fire. I guess not every man with a leather vest is the heartless criminal society paints them to be.
“Cheryl. Now.”
“Yes, sir,” I relent, turning to the sea of bikers blocking the door. They quickly part, clearing a path for me to leave. I’ve barely exited the office when the door slams behind me. Schwartz’s se
cretary looks at me curiously but makes no attempt to strike up a conversation. I stare at the door for another moment and strain my ears to listen, hoping to decipher what they’re shouting about, but I can’t make out a single word.
Giving up, I sigh and head back to my cubicle. I drop my ass into the chair and hang my head miserably. I don’t know what it is about this case that’s got me all up in arms. I want to say it’s because there is nothing I hate more than failing, but I think it’s more than that. While I’ve never been abused, I know what it’s like to have your father be incarcerated. My dad was a man with good intentions, and some might argue he didn’t belong in prison. He sure as hell didn’t deserve to die there, but that’s a story for another time. All I know is there is a sense of abandonment a child feels when they have a parent who is incarcerated and a boy like Connor, who has already lost his mom and been the victim of unspeakable abuse, shouldn’t feel any unnecessary hurt.
Schwartz is right, Bishop may not be the greatest man but one visit with him and I already know for certain the man loves his son. Connor deserves to feel that. He needs to feel that if he’s ever going to heal.
My cell phone vibrates across my desk dragging me away from my thoughts. Seeing it’s my mom, I swipe my thumb across the screen and accept the call. She’ll never stop calling, especially since I’ve been avoiding her calls for the last twenty-four hours. I’m actually surprised she hasn’t sent a search party out for me.
I glance over my shoulder, making sure Schwartz is nowhere in my vicinity before greeting her.
“Hi, Mom,” I whisper.
“Oh, you’re alive,” she exclaims in that overdramatic tone of hers. Guilt quickly fills me, and I sigh exasperatedly. It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-six and have been out of the house, living on my own for almost four years, my mother will always expect me to check in daily with her. It’s annoying but knowing her worry comes from a place of heartbreak, I’m also very mindful of it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer yesterday,” I say regretfully. “It was a bad day.”
I know it’s not an excuse, that it’s almost as bad as saying I didn’t have time to answer the phone. Everyone has a second to answer a call. It’s the emptiness we’ll feel when we no longer can pick up the phone, the seconds we’ll spend regretting we didn’t make time for a person after they’re gone, that we should be worried about.
“What do you mean it was a bad day? It was your first day on the job! I expected to hear a detailed report. Is it your boss? You mentioned he had a reputation when you learned you were hired.”
“The rumors are true, he’s impossible,” I mutter, pausing for a moment. He’s a hardass for sure and I hate that he can’t remember my name, but he’s also very passionate about what he does. Arrogant and passionate…I suppose that’s the makings of a skillful lawyer.
“Well, give it a chance. It’s only been one day.”
I laugh.
Because when life hands you lemons, you squeeze them into lemonade and when you swallow a pit, you laugh—unless you choke. Don’t laugh if you’re choking. That shit isn’t funny.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not making it through day two,” I admit with a sigh. “I think I bit off more than I could chew. There was a mailroom position also available. I should’ve applied for that instead.”
I mean how does one fuck up licking a stamp?
Rolling my eyes, I divert my attention to the chipped nail polish on my thumb and busy myself by picking at it.
“Charlotte Marie Toscano, do not shortchange yourself,” my mother scolds. “You busted your behind to be where you are today. Chalk whatever has you down to first day jitters and press on.”
A faint smile ticks the corners of my lips.
That’s my mom.
The original lemon squeezer.
“Think of daddy and remember why you chose this path,” she continues softly, pausing for a beat. At the mention of my dad, I picture his face and recall the last visit I had with him. As frail and sickly as he looked, he still managed a smile. It’s his smile I miss most. “He’d be so proud of you,” she adds hoarsely.
Even though he isn’t here, I still need that reassurance. I need to believe he’s somewhere looking down on me, smiling. That he didn’t just forget I exist.
“Thanks, Mom,” I murmur, blinking away the tears that suddenly fill my eyes and blur my vision. Suddenly Schwartz’s loud voice sounds. “Shit, I’ve gotta go. I will call you tonight,” I promise. Without waiting for a response, I disconnect the call and rise from my seat just as Schwartz and the brigade of bikers pass my cubicle.
“You’re not fucking hearing me, Parrish, having you tied to any of this won’t bode well for Bishop’s case,” he growls, poking his finger against the elevator button. Turning around abruptly, he gets in the biker’s face. “You hired me to get this guy out of prison, back the fuck off and let me do my job.”
“Let you do your job? You don’t even have the name of the boy’s caseworker,” Parrish fires back.
“You know most people who retire take a hobby. Why don’t you get yourself a pair of golf clubs and call it a day? Charity work really isn’t your calling,” Schwartz retorts.
“Bend over and I’ll show you where you can shove your golf clubs, Davey.”
Call it a temporary lapse of sanity, but I suddenly rise from my chair and step out of my cubicle. I walk straight into the line of fire and I don’t turn back.
“Shay Donaldson,” I blurt, causing everyone to divert their attention to me.
Parrish raises his eyebrow, quietly assessing me as he chews on a toothpick.
God, he’s terrifying.
“Cheryl,” Schwartz sneers, clenching his jaw.
Ignoring him, I think about what my mother said, and I picture my father’s smile. If only someone would’ve found the courage to use their voice. If someone…anyone, would’ve fought harder. If only no one would’ve given up.
“That’s the name of the caseworker who oversaw Connor’s case before Bishop was convicted. I planned on reaching out to her office this morning to see if she was still the one appointed to Connor.”
“You’re fired,” Schwartz grunts. “Pack your cubicle and get out.”
I look at him.
“Please, I know I screwed up yesterday, but I can do this. I can help—”
“Looks like the girl is eager to work, Davey,” Parrish comments, rolling to the toothpick between his teeth. Just then one of the men wearing the Bikers Against Child Abuse patch steps in front of Parrish. My gaze wanders to his name badge as he sizes me up and I stare at it quizzically.
Surely, his name can’t be Six-Pack.
He turns back to Parrish and the two of them quietly converse as I begin to wonder the origin of the man’s name. Perhaps these men aren’t only hiding tattoos under all that leather.
Eventually, Six-Pack steps around Parrish and advances to stand in front of Schwartz.
“We’re staging an intervention with or without your help. The boy needs to know we exist to keep him safe, that someone is in his fucking corner. Your girl here gave us a name, we’d appreciate you making it so that she can continue doing her job and as soon it’s confirmed that this Donaldson character is the boy’s caseworker we will move forward.”
“I just fired her,” Schwartz grunts.
“Rehire her,” Parrish orders before slicing his gaze back to me. “You said you want to help.”
“I do,” I reply eagerly.
“Once we know where the boy is and how to reach him, BACA is going to stage a level one intervention. I can’t be present for it because of my record and the patch on my back, but you… you’re just what they need,” Parrish says, crossing his arms against his chest.
“Children tend to feel more comfortable in the presence of a woman,” Six-Pack explains.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Schwartz says. “You want her to ride with you people?”
Parrish glances at him.
“Oh, don’t worry, you’re coming too, Davey.”
“This is absurd,” he argues, roughly poking the elevator button again. “What the fuck is wrong with this thing?”
“I’m in,” I declare.
I may not have had the courage to use my voice when it came to my dad, but I won’t be quiet anymore and I know somewhere up above, my dad is smiling.
-Eight-
Bishop
Present
“Give me the gun, Bishop, and while you’re at it, you might want to come up with an alibi because I’m not defending your ass this time. Not for all the tea in China.”
I look over my shoulder at the house behind me and back to the lawyer standing in front of me. The three of us have come a long way from that first meeting.
It’s a damn shame it has to end like this.
Reaching under my shirt, I pull the gun out of the waistband of my jeans and drop it into his palm.
“Whatever you think I did, I didn’t,” I tell him, meeting his gaze. He studies me pensively, biting the inside of his cheek and I shake my head. “I’m not the same guy you met that day in Riker’s,” I continue. “I know what I have and I ain’t giving it up. Not for the sake of revenge, not for nothing.”
Everything that happened earlier comes rushing back to me—riding to Pete’s house with Parrish in tow, creeping into his backyard and spotting him sitting in his recliner through the window. I can still feel how tightly my hand gripped the gun and the tears that slid down my cheeks when I couldn’t pull the trigger. I shoved the gun into my jacket pocket and jetted out of there, leaving Parrish in the yard with enough lead to take out an army.
Breaking The Chains (Satan's Knights Prospect Trilogy) Page 5
