“It’s under control.”
“All I’m saying is you cannot afford to lose this case. There’s a lot on the line.” Traurig took on the role of Captain Obvious. He meant my chance of making partner.
“The line is mine to conquer. Sit back and enjoy a cocktail.”
“That’s what I like to hear, kiddo.”
“And cut the kiddo crap.”
He laughed, elbowing Claire on his way out. “Touchy. You take care of that one, will you?”
Traurig left my office. Claire loitered behind, playing with the wisps of her silky hair.
I arched a sardonic eyebrow. “Anything else?”
“Look.” Claire cleared her throat. “This may be out of line . . .”
From experience, sentences that started like this always preceded something out of line. Already, my patience was thin, snappable, like crème brûlée.
“But I couldn’t help but pick up on a weird vibe between you and Arya Roth. Now, obviously, knowing you, I’m aware you would never jeopardize a case or take it on if there is any . . .”
She trailed off, hoping I’d volunteer some information. I flashed her a lethal stare, daring her to finish the sentence. She squirmed. “Funny business. I’m just wondering if you’d like me to take on more responsibility in the case where she is concerned. If she makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, maybe I could liaise with her directly so you don’t have to deal with her personally, or . . .”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh.” She faltered. “May I ask why not?”
Because I’m rabid with revenge and want a front-row seat when Arya finally gets what she deserves.
“Because I can handle a community-college-degreed aging teenybopper who has a few contacts at some local newspapers just fine.”
The way I’d managed to reduce Arya to nothing more than a glorified Bratz doll surprised even me. Although I doubted I was on point about most of those things. Her issue had never been a lack of IQ points but lack of a soul.
“Point made.” Claire nodded with dignity. “You know, you look different this morning. More . . . alive.”
I swallowed but didn’t reply. What could I say? That seeing Arya again gave me a hard-on from hell?
Claire swaggered her way to the door, then stopped on the threshold and knocked on the doorframe. “Just let me know if you need anything, Christian.”
How about Arya, spread eagle on my desk, panting my name—the old and the new one—begging me for mercy?
Well, now. I really needed to break things off with Claire if I’d started answering her that way. Even if it was just in my head.
“Absolutely.”
The minute Claire left my office, I plucked the newspaper back from the trash and began highlighting potential holes in Arya’s carefully constructed narrative.
She was about to find out I did not take any prisoners when I went to war.
“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just got back from a war zone.” Riggs took a pull of his beer, his hooded eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
“It’s trivia night, not the plague.” Arsène knocked back his beer. We were at the Brewtherhood. I propped my elbows against the bar, watching groups of people huddling together around tables, getting ready for the main event. A stool was placed on the small podium usually reserved for college girls who danced half-naked. The host of the trivia night was some New Jersey–based reality star who was apparently semifamous for having sex with one of his fellow contestants in a public pool. This was the reason why I’d sworn off TV and the people on it. The line between culture and a steaming bag of shit blurred when it came to twenty-first-century entertainment.
“Bars were invented to get drunk and laid, not educated.” Riggs tilted his empty beer in Elise’s direction, motioning for her to get us another round. “I need a vacation.”
“You live to vacation,” I amended. “Settle the fuck down for a minute.”
“Never,” Riggs vowed. I believed him. The nomad turned to me, frowning. “Speaking of holiday destinations, how does Alice like her new Florida condo?”
Alice was the most important woman in my life. In all our lives, to be honest. But I was considered to be the “good” kid. The one who gave a shit and sent flowers for birthdays and Christmas cards whenever I wasn’t able to make it.
“She’s crazy about it. Between all the senior field trips and tai chi classes, she’s zen as shit,” I confirmed. “I talked to her a couple days ago.”
“We should visit her,” Riggs said.
“If anyone is able to drag me out of New York City, it’s her,” Arsène agreed.
“I’ll talk dates with her.” I nodded curtly, though I knew there was no way in hell I was leaving before winning the Conrad Roth case.
“Hey, we should do the trivia bullshit.” Arsène turned his back to a woman who was gingerly approaching him on high heels. God forbid he had a conversation with someone who wasn’t in the MacArthur Fellowship Program. “My head is full of useless pieces of information, and I enjoy winning.”