I smirk. “Now that you mention it, blow jobs always make me feel better. Don’t suppose you’re interested?”
She actually laughs—it’s low and sweet and beautiful. And it makes the pain just a little bit easier to ignore.
“Sorry, not interested.”
“Damn it.” I snap my fingers. “How about a drink, then? Drinking alone sucks.” I jerk my thumb to my butler. “And Harrison here is straight edge.”
I push my wheelchair forward and gesture to the couch. “Sit down. Harrison, get the good bottle of brandy, please—top shelf in the liquor cabinet, on the left.”
“Your medication . . .” he warns, but I wave him off.
“One drink will be fine.”
Kennedy sits on the brown leather sofa, close enough that our knees almost touch. Harrison hands us each a rounded, bottom-heavy glass half filled with amber liquid, then quietly leaves the room.
I look at her. Where to start? So many questions—and even more land mines.
“Where did you go after boarding school? I went to your house that summer, but—”
“I don’t want to talk about that, Brent.” She stares straight ahead, her voice dead-end final.
I back off. “Okay. Then . . . how did this happen? The hair, the clothes, the contact lenses—your mother and your sister Claire wanted to make you their Barbie doll for years. What finally made you let them?”
A smile curves her lips. “I didn’t let them.” She leans my way, her shoulders relaxing a little. “Eventually the rebellious stage got old; watching my mother shit bricks over the way I dressed was less satisfying. But the summer after my first year in law school, I had an internship with the appellate court—”
“Where did you go to school?” I interrupt, hungry for every morsel.
“Yale.” She takes a sip of her brandy, then goes on. “So . . . I was working under Justice Bradshaw, who was not only a phenomenal judge but a stunning woman. About a month into my internship, she called me into her office and said she was impressed with my work, but if I didn’t do something about my appearance I wouldn’t be interning with her for long.”
“She actually said that to you?” I choke out. “Shit—that would’ve made for an interesting sexual harassment suit.”
Kennedy nods. “I told her I wanted to be judged on my work, not my looks. And she said, ‘That’s fine for La-La Land, honey, but this is the real world.’ ”
Her tone grows more easy as she goes on. The icy mask melts away and her face turns softer, more open. And I can’t take my eyes off her—because this is the girl I grew up with. The girl I know.
“She told me that banker or gangbanger, we’re all judged on how we look. And if I looked sloppy, people would think everything I did was sloppy. But if I looked impeccable, they’d give me the benefit of the doubt that my work could be impeccable too.
“So I started making an effort to look more polished. Within a few weeks, I was dyed, plucked, and tailored within an inch of my life.” Her hand skims down her front. “It was my Devil Wears Prada moment.”
I nod, even though I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about.
And she calls me on it. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”
“Not a clue.”
Kennedy smiles. “It means Justice Bradshaw was my fashion mentor. And that was the summer I turned pretty.”
I stare at her—at the soft curve of the cheekbone, her smooth skin, the thick long lashes and full pink mouth she always had.
“No—it really wasn’t.”
Her eyes flash to mine for a long moment, then she looks away. Swallowing some brandy, she coughs.
“Goes down kind of rough, doesn’t it?” I say.
“Yes. Not to be rude, but if this is your good stuff, I’m afraid to find out what your cheap liquor tastes like.”
I smile. “It’s not the good brandy because of the taste.” I crook my finger, drawing her closer until our arms brush, and I’m able to detect the scent of peaches on her skin. Then I hold up my glass, swirling it gently. “Do you see the light brown color—how soft it looks, like crushed velvet?”
Kennedy peers at the glass and nods.
“But there’s a deeper brown in there too, giving it more complexity. A richness.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then there’s the golden hue over the whole thing that makes it almost ethereal. Like it’s lit from the inside.”
“Yes.” She nods again.
I stop swirling the glass. And say softly, “That is the exact shade of Kennedy Randolph’s eyes.”
Her breath hitches—almost a gasp.
“That’s what I thought the first time I drank it, and it’s what I’ve thought every time I drank it since.” I turn to face her, my voice dropping lower. “I’ve never forgotten you, sweetheart. Not even close.”
She wasn’t expecting that. She looks surprised; small and suddenly vulnerable. Then she shuts it down and her face goes blank. And hard.
“That pisses you off.” I try to catch her eyes again. “Why does that piss you off?”
“You know why.” She moves to stand.
I grasp her hand. “No, Kennedy, I don’t. I never did.”
She jerks away and sets her glass on the coffee table. Then she backs up a step—putting space between us. “I’m not doing this with you again, Brent. You’re not sucking me back in.”
My jaw tightens. “Okay. How about you explain what that means?”
“How about you go fuck yourself with a lacrosse stick?”
Hello, Square One—long time, no see.
I tilt my head, like I’m thinking it over. “Sports equipment is a hard limit for me. But if you want to play with t
oys, count me in.”
She doesn’t appreciate my humor. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re running.”
Her lips pinch and her eyes glare—and goddamn if she isn’t cute when she’s fired up. I can’t wait to see what full-out furious looks like, and something tells me I’m gonna have my chance pretty soon.
One hand braces on her hip, the other stabs the air in front of me. “Chair or no chair, your ass better be in court tomorrow or I’ll make your life hell.”
“As opposed to the delight you’re making it right now.”
She throws up her hands and moves to the doorway.
“See you tomorrow, angel,” I call to her back.
A minute later, Harrison steps sedately into the room after seeing her to the front door.
“Angel?” he wonders.
“Sure.” I raise my glass to my lips. “It was an angel who brought the plagues down on Egypt.”
“Ah, I see.” He nods. “But something tells me the frogs and locusts were easier to handle.”
And I don’t disagree.
6
The next morning, I get to the office early to make up for being sidelined yesterday. I get lost in motions and appeals and before I know it, the building comes alive around me—midmorning sunshine streaming through the windows, the sound of Mrs. Higgens’s footsteps, the smell of coffee in the air . . . the resounding thump that comes through the wall, rattling my desktop dart game in its box.
What the hell?
Before I reach my door, the thump comes again, this time accompanied by a muffled yell—shocked, pained, and distinctly male.
What the fuck?
I jump up and run into the hallway, and realize the sound came from behind Sofia’s office door. Jake and Stanton come out of their offices at the same time, their concerned expressions matching mine. When another thump sounds, Stanton’s mouth presses into a hard line and his eyes look like two nukes about to detonate. He takes the lead as we burst through Sofia’s office door.
Sofia’s always had the Brazilian bombshell thing going on, but now she’s sporting an extra curve—the seven-month baby bump across her middle. Which makes the fact that she’s holding a guy facedown across her desk, his arm pulled unnaturally far behind his back, even more disturbing. And . . . kind of awesome.
“Aaaarrrgh, you’re gonna break my arm!” the guy moans.
“Are you all right?” Stanton asks her.
“Dandy.” She actually smiles.
He steps up just as Sofia steps back—then Stanton grabs the guy and pins him to the wall, his big hand wrapped around the guy’s throat.