Sustained(3)

It’s not.

“So you’re saying we can’t win?” Milton asks, his voice cracking like he’s Bobby from The Brady Bunch.

My lips slide into a half grin that feels cold on my face.

“Of course we’re going to win. You took medication before the flight for anxiety. That’s our angle. A bad reaction to the pills, which explains your offensive behavior. A sworn statement from the prescribing physician should be sufficient.”

It’s almost too easy.

I point my finger at him. “But for the next six weeks, you need to stay home. Keep your name out of the papers and off of TMZ. Don’t drive, don’t go out to the clubs, don’t fart in a public place. You understand?”

Malcolm grins and places his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We do.” The three of us stand. “As always, thank you, Jake. We’re lucky to have you on our side.”

“I’ll be in touch.” And with a handshake, they’re gone.

• • •

Two hours later I’m sliding into my suit jacket, ready to head out to lunch. I automatically straighten my tie, adjust my collar—to ensure the scattering of tattoos that begins at my collarbone, wraps around my right shoulder, and trails down to the end of my wrist is covered. It’s a bitch in the summer, but the presence of ink tends to make my upper-crust clients uncomfortable, and it’s never well received by judges.

My secretary, Mrs. Higgens, walks into my office. Mrs. Higgens is the classic little old lady, right down to the pearl necklace and spectacles—the kind you’d expect to be sitting in a rocking chair crocheting blankets for dozens of grandkids. She’s terrific at her job. I’ve been accurately called a coldhearted bastard on a number of occasions, but I’m not sure if even I could muster the level of callousness that would be needed to fire her.

“There’s a young lady here to see you, Jake. She doesn’t have an appointment.”

I fucking hate walk-ins. They’re unexpected and unpredictable. They screw up my schedule, and my schedule is sacred.

“I’m on my way out.”

Mrs. Higgens looks at me sideways and drops an unsubtle hint. “She’s very pretty.”

I glance at my watch. “Fine. But tell her she’s got five minutes and five minutes only.”

I sit back down and a few moments later a petite, dark-haired woman enters my office. I’d say she’s in her late twenties, attractive, with a banging little body under those beige slacks and that prim yellow cardigan. But her shifty eyes and jittery movements dampen the appeal.

Looks matter, but confidence is by far the most alluring accessory a woman can wear.

Mrs. Higgens closes the door as she exits, and the brunette walk-in stands in front of my desk.

“Hi,” she says, glancing ever so briefly at my face before staring back at the floor, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

That gets her looking up. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, hands twisted together.

I study her face, more carefully this time. She’s neither remarkably beautiful nor outstandingly fugly. Just kind of . . . generic. Forgettable.

“Should I?”

Her shoulders hunch as she covers her eyes, muttering, “Jeez, I thought this was going to be hard enough . . .” She sinks down into one of the chairs across from my desk, perched on the edge—ready to run. After a beat, she adds, “We met last month at the Angry Inch Saloon? I was wearing a red dress?”

Nope, doesn’t ring any bells. I’ve met lots of women at that bar and when available, I go for blondes. They’re not more fun . . . just hotter.

She brushes her dark bangs to the side and tries again. “I asked you to buy me a drink, and you did. A cosmopolitan.”

Still nothing.

“We went back to your place after I told you about walking in on my boyfriend having sex with my best friend?”

I’m drawing a blank.

“While he was wearing my favorite pink nightie?”

And we have a winner. Now I remember. Made me think of Marv Albert, the sportscaster with a penchant for women’s lingerie—and assault and battery. And yet, he’s still on TV.

Only in America.

“Yes. I remember now . . .” I squint, working on the name.

“Lainey.”

“Lainey.” My fingers snap. “Right. What can I do for you?” I glance at my watch—two minutes left and I’m out the door.

She’s back to nervous and jerky. “Okay, there’s no easy way to say this . . . so I’m just going to say it.”

Sounds like a solid plan.

She takes a big breath and rushes out, “He didn’t just take my best friend and my best lingerie . . . he left something behind, too.”