Текст книги "Absolution Road"

Автор книги: Rachel Blaufeld

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Aly

Two months later

I jumped off the bus in Oakland and slowly made my way toward the center of Pitt’s campus. Students rushed by me as the ringing of church bells hung heavy in the damp winter air. My mind empty, I was focusing on nothing but the sound my boots made crunching along the snowy sidewalk as I headed toward my happy place, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I tugged off my glove with my teeth and reached in my coat pocket to grab it, then swiped my finger across ANSWER CALL. My heart fell when I saw who was calling, and for one fleeting second, loneliness enveloped me until I shoved it away, forcing myself to replace it with cheer.

“Hil, how’s the new city?” I said, greeting my law school buddy with a smile brightening my face. She couldn’t see it, but I knew she could hear it. Hilary was one of only a few outsiders I let in. The petite Asian woman understood how hard I’d worked to get where I was. The daughter of Chinese immigrants, she was also the first generation in her family to attend college. Originally named Hui, once she started school she’d demanded everyone call her Hilary, wanting to fit in.

“It’s good. Cold when the wind whips off the water downtown, but my job is pretty cush, and I found a fabulous studio apartment near the nightlife. I’m trying to get out, meet people.”

A genuine grin transformed my face as I heard this. Hilary was always more social than me, and she deserved to make a great life in Cleveland.

“Sounds incredible. How’s your caseload?” I slowed my pace as we talked, wanting to savor my few minutes on the phone with her before hitting my destination.

“Oh, Aly, you should think about leaving the PD office. I have an assistant who basically does everything I don’t want to do.”

My heart pinged at her laughter that tickled my ear—not because she was teasing me, but because I missed having her around. She’d left her government job for greener pastures, and I was truly happy for her. The only problem was the big hole in my already bleak social life with Hilary gone.

“Ha! Maybe someday,” I said wistfully. “In fact, the current case I was assigned may do me in. I got a real ass to defend.”

Hilary gasped. “Aly! I never heard you talk that way before about a client!”

I smiled as I envisioned her throwing her arms up in the air, mocking me. “I know, but this guy says he didn’t do it, but gives no reason. He’s a nasty one. For the first time, I sort of wish I did contracts or something cut-and-dried like that.”

Hilary let out a little snort. “Babe, don’t make yourself sick over it. Nothing we do is set in rock . . . or whatever the saying is.”

“Stone,” I said, gently correcting her. Although Hilary’s English was perfect, she could be forgetful when it came to small details. “It’s true. I know.”

“Look at us. My parents own a dive Chinese takeout place, and your mom worked hard to raise you. By the way, how is your mom?”

“Eh. Hanging in there, but not really herself.”

“Ugh, Al. I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Not wanting to dwell on the negative, I said brightly, “So, do you have big plans for the next few weeks or what?”

“Actually, I have a ton of work, but of course, I’m going to check out some of the local hot spots. You should come visit for a night!”

I reached for the door to the Cathedral of Learning, the epicenter of Pitt’s campus, and said, “You know what? I think you’re right. When this case is over, I’ll come visit.”

“Plus there’s a fabulous outlet here,” Hilary added in a singsong voice.

I laughed. The girl knew me well. “I don’t need any more enticement than to see you, Hil. Listen, I just got to the Cathedral and I have to change. Let’s make a time to FaceTime so I can see your place.”

“I’ll text you, okay?”

“Absolutely! ’Bye, honey.”

She said, “Talk soon,” and I ended the call and headed toward the ladies’ room.

After I tossed on my leggings and T-shirt and toggled the DO NOT DISTURB button on my phone, I plugged in my earbuds and headed for the deserted stairwell. I took a deep breath, closing my eyes and letting go of everything in my brain before I began to climb the stairs. One foot after the other, I picked up speed at each landing as “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” blared in my head and sweat beaded at the nape of my neck. This was Pittsburgh, after all; listening to Journey was a birthright, practically a local religion.

Before long my legs quivered and burned, and my lungs worked hard as I climbed higher toward the top of the Cathedral of Learning. Once I reached the top, I’d head for the bottom and do it all over again and again and again. It was quiet and deserted, but I felt safe. I’d been doing this same workout since I began law school at the University of Pittsburgh. It didn’t matter that I’d graduated four years ago; I still ran the steps three times a week.

The dark, cavernous cathedral walls, the stone facade, and the musty smell all felt like home to me. When I used to sit and study over coffee, poring over legal briefs and memorizing case numbers, I’d get lost in the fact that I was actually there, in this legend of a building where the likes of the Carnegies and the Mellons once roamed.

Me, the daughter of a cleaning woman!

Even now that I held down a decent-paying job, I couldn’t shrug the feeling that I was less than everyone else—except when I was actually doing my job. The notion that I was inferior had been pounded into my head since I was my mom’s “little lady” and would sit in the corner of the houses my mom cleaned.

“Here, little girl, this toy is for you,” the woman of the house would say to me, shoving some outdated broken toy into my hands. Her own kids would be baking in their Betty Crocker mini-ovens and shaving ice with their Snoopy snow-cone makers, a mess my mom would clean up for nothing pay. “Go on, you can ask to play with them,” my mom would whisper to me, and I would just shake my head and remain firmly in my corner.

I never wished for that kind of life. I didn’t need opulence or riches, but I could use a tiny dose of getting over my past. Just like Hilary. She was all about moving forward.

“Aly! Hey, Aly!”

I was making my way down the stairs for the second time, wallowing in my self-loathing as my quads strained to keep me upright while I flew down on the balls of my feet. I grabbed the banister to slow my pace and looked up to find Drew Burnes, managing partner of a big law practice downtown, the one and only firm I interviewed at and quickly decided wasn’t for me. Too many river views, expensive lunches, and shifty defenses offered up for my undistinguished, play-by-the-books, get-to-the-bottom-of-everything palate.

I’d “risen above it all.” That was what my last lover said to me about my childhood while sipping drinks together one evening after work. He was “so very impressed by me,” but really his compliment was poorly disguised pity. I never saw him again after that night. I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that pitiful stare.

“Hey!” I yelled back at Drew, my voice booming through the empty stairwells as I pulled out my earbuds.

I liked Drew, though. He was nice enough to back down when I turned down his offer, stayed in touch after recruiting me, and was one of the few people who didn’t look at me like some dirty ragamuffin.

“You started without me? I’m hurt.” He put on a phony pout and pretended to massage a broken heart. He also liked me, and I wasn’t really sure about what to do with that.

“I didn’t really believe you were coming.”

“I never back down from a challenge,” he said as he ran up the stairs, closing the gap between us.

Last week, we’d bumped into each other at the coffee place near the courthouse. While we shared a table, I’d told him about my obsessive stair running, playfully teasing he couldn’t keep up.

“Well, you ready?” I asked. “I have a few more laps up and down in me.”

“Beat you to the top!”

He took off in front of me, giving me a chance to take in his perfectly styled short brown hair, not to mention the outline of his firm leg muscles showing underneath a pair of designer LuLu Lemon track pants.

“No fair, I’ve already been up and down a couple of times,” I yelled after him.

“You’re warmed up and I’m not. You should be whipping my butt.”

I pushed my legs to catch up with him, and we stayed shoulder to shoulder for the remainder of the workout, huffing and puffing, not talking other than an occasional, “Keep it up!” or “Let’s do one more!”

“Shit! That was a lot harder than the elliptical at the gym,” Drew admitted as we cooled down and walked toward the main hall. “By the way, I don’t think you should traipse around here on your own all the time. It’s pretty deserted.”

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about me. Can I say ‘told you so’ yet? No need for fancy equipment when you have the stairs.” I nabbed my bag from the lockers situated near the elevators and slipped on my sweatshirt.

“So, you want to grab some dinner or something?” he asked as I was pulling the sweatshirt over my head. When I could finally see him, I raised an eyebrow and gave him the stink eye.

“I know, I know. You got me locked in the mentor zone, but I don’t want to just give you professional advice. Come on, one casual dinner? We’re all sweaty . . . it can’t be that formal or painful of an experience. A salad or something?”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Really? You’re giving in? You’re saying yes?”

“I’m saying okay to salad.” I pulled my coat on, zipping it up tight.

“I’ll take it.”

We made our way into the night. It was late February, and the bitter cold slapped me hard in the face as we made our way outside. It should have been a reality check, but Drew wasn’t that bad. What else did I have to do? I didn’t even have a dog waiting for me at home.

Drew flipped my hood over my head and tossed his arm around me, pulling me snug and knocking me out of my thoughts. “Just salad,” he muttered, then asked, “You have a car with you?”

I shook my head inside my big puffy hood. “I took the bus from town straight here.”

“Mine’s right over there.” He pointed toward a shiny black Porsche. Of course. “I’ll drive and then bring you back home.”

“Okay.”

I slid into the soft leather seat, rubbing my hands together to stay warm. There was no sense in pretending that I didn’t live in a shitty apartment. Drew had seen my job application; he knew exactly where I lived. And yet he still wanted to have dinner with me, which was a far cry from sticking me in the corner.

Drew suggested a small strip of restaurants in a neighboring suburb. It sounded great to me; dining out for the heck of it was new to me. We didn’t do it much growing up, and I tried to reserve it for special occasions these days.

I was a bit dazed as we crossed a bridge, Drew’s fast car barreling over the steep incline, the river below us, the skyline of stadiums on the right and murky water on the left—evidence of the ’burgh formerly being a steel town. We sped on through the tunnel cut through a mountain and entered the freeway, or the parkway as we Pittsburghers called it, exiting for the suburbs.

The street we parked along was quaint with its lantern-style street lamps and dimly lit storefronts and bistros. Suddenly, I felt insignificant. I’d never been here, really anywhere, and this was way more than salad.

“Thought we could both use a break from town,” he said as he opened my car door.

“You sure we can go like this?” I gestured to my black leggings and sweatshirt covered by a big bulky coat.

“It’s cool, the owner’s a friend of mine. He ran into some trouble a while back, and I took care of things. Plus, the place is super casual.”

Swinging his arm back around me, he guided me to the door with the name ROMAN’S etched into the frosted glass, its frame trimmed in white twinkling lights. As soon as we walked inside, the scents of garlic, fresh basil, pungent tomato sauce, and fresh-baked bread assaulted my nose. My belly growled for Italian food, yet another Pittsburgh staple. If you grew up in this city, you had to love Italian food. My mom was Irish, and yet she’d made it a point to cook Italian specialties as I was growing up. Her neighbors taught her, and the ones before showed my grandma. The memory of her cooking made me a little sad, knowing she wouldn’t be cooking for me anymore. Parkinson’s disease had made cooking difficult for her, long before the dementia kicked in.

“Hey! My hero.” A guy dressed in chef whites called out from the open kitchen. “Good to see you, how many tonight?”

Drew held up two fingers as Roman—I presumed—wiped his hands on his apron and made his way out. The two men shook hands, and Drew handled introductions.

“Chef Rome, meet Alyson. Alyson, meet Rome.”

“Aly,” I said, correcting him gently with a small wave.

Rome winked at me, his light gray eyes crinkling around the corners. “Good to meet you, doll.”

“Don’t get too friendly; she’s one of the honest ones. I tried to get her to come my way, but she has morals.” Drew was smiling, lending a sense of lightheartedness to his words, but they weren’t light to me. I believed in a fair trial for those accused, but also justice for the victims.

“Public defender, I take it? You’ll change your mind soon enough.” Rome slapped Drew on the back, causing his own jet-black hair to fall over his forehead, and gave me another wink. “Come on, sit down. I’ll send over an appetizer on me.”

After we’d settled in a booth in the back corner, a large platter of roasted vegetables and a bottle of sparkling water appeared before us, and the waiter asked if we wanted wine.

“No, thank you,” I answered politely. Nowadays I dined out way more than we ever did when I was growing up—which was like never—and I still couldn’t get over how much people spent on wine and food. “I’ll have the small salad with grilled chicken and portabellas, vinaigrette on the side, and also, can I have extra cucumbers?”

Drew ordered some gigantic Italian salad with meats and cheeses, and a bottle of beer. While we waited for our dinner, we made small talk. Despite what he did, Drew was a nice guy. He was funny and sweet, and it was obvious he liked me. Even though we did the same thing, he made fun of my altruistic career choice.

I knew he was mostly joking. I’d told him during my job interview that I really couldn’t do what he did. I was honest . . . my dad was the victim of crime although it looked like it was his fault. I’d given Drew my party line, telling him earnestly, “In my mind, criminals should be punished only if they deserve it. Too many times we pin the wrong guy.”

The difference in opinion was mostly why I held back from Drew. That, and the money factor was intimidating, but he truly didn’t seem to be affected by the vast divide between the two of us.

“Roman, baby! How are you?” A shrill feminine voice rang out through the small restaurant.

My head whipped up and I saw a head of blond curls nestled against Roman’s broad chest. How did the guy get anything cooked? All he did was come out and talk—and flirt—with customers.

“Hey, get your dirty paws off my employee,” came from the direction of the door.

The familiar voice sent a shiver down my spine and back up again. Hearing it was like slipping into soft pajamas after a long hot bath. I’d only met the owner of the voice once, and it took every fiber in my body to keep from crossing a professional line and a personal vow.

With two arrests for assault on Jake Wrigley’s record, he would normally be classified as violent, but when I’d heard why, I’d become sympathetic to the criminal with the velvety voice. He’d spent the better part of being detained by the police hitting on me. Well, he actually had been free to go, but I kept him a bit longer, questioning what happened, curious about his motives.

That was a mistake. I should have just accepted at face value that the gorgeous man in front of me on that bitterly cold Christmas Eve was a criminal, but I’d asked for it. If the charges had stuck and I’d been tasked with representing him, I would have gone for the jugular and gotten him off.

Jake Wrigley was a protector. Did he have the strength to hurt someone? God, yes. Rippling with muscles and nearly bursting through his tight-fitting clothes, I imagined he could take Rocky Balboa down with one blow.

“Jake, you can’t hoard Camper all to yourself!” Roman tossed back toward the door while he spun around the female in question, breaking out into an impromptu dance in the middle of the restaurant.

She giggled and laughed at the attention, batting her eyelashes and feigning embarrassment. Her loose-fitting cropped sweater hung off her shoulder, revealing a thin black lace bra strap, and when Rome spun her, her tight butt came into view, encased in form-fitting jeans.

Camper. She must be the girl Mr. Wrigley was defending that night.

Drew was talking, saying something about his firm taking on a big national case, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I was fascinated by the woman in front of me. Her curves were round and perfect, her hair was wild, shiny and free, and her skin was a golden brown. No freckles in sight. She was just like the girls who would bake in their mini-ovens while I sat in the corner. She was perfect, and I was not.

Amazing how I could be incredibly confident in an interrogation room or a courthouse, but not in my own skin. I believed in the law and giving my clients a just defense, but not myself. When it came to me, I didn’t know what I deserved.

“Yeah, yeah, Rome. She works for me and answers to me first.” Jake came up behind the two and tugged Camper away, guiding her toward the bar and pulling out a stool.

“You two eating here tonight?” Rome asked them as he headed back toward the kitchen.

“Yep. Left the new girl in charge, giving her some space, and I owed Camper here a meal for all she’s done this month.”

“Aly? Hello? You okay? Where’d you go?” Drew’s voice drew me out of my bout of voyeurism.

I shook the cobwebs from my head. “I’m good. I just got distracted for a moment.” I took a sip of my water and plucked an asparagus spear from the plate in front of me. “So, you were saying?”

“Well, this national case, the guy who went on a multi-state shooting spree? We got it, and I’m representing the guy. At least, I’m one of the lawyers on the case. He’s got like five or six. Two or three are definitely in it for the spotlight. I’m not sure, but we’ll be dealing with multiple jurisdictions, so it could mean some travel, but definitely a ton of hours.”

“Wow! I guess,” I said. “You know I get conflicted with the way you handle matters. Of course, he deserves a strong defense—I don’t know what his motives were or if he’s been wrongly accused—but it’s all the witnesses paid on the side and expert testimony you bring in. I can’t help but think they’re people for hire and just plain dirty.”

Drew ran his hand through his hair, and I noticed there was a tiny bit of gray appearing along his temple. “You know what? Let’s talk about something else.”

“Sounds good.” I smiled at the thought of being let off the hook. After all, this was just salad.

“Any big weekend plans?” Drew asked.

“Not really,” I mumbled, my attention drawn to Jake and Camper in my peripheral vision.

Jake’s arm was flung around the back of her chair, and he was leaning in and whispering in her ear. She, of course, was laughing like he was the funniest, wittiest guy in America, and he probably was. His thumb ghosted across her bare shoulder and back again as he leaned in and hung on her every word.

I’d had to try so hard that night in the interrogation room to remain professional and not laugh when he teased me about my name. Yeah, it was annoying, and I’d heard it all before, but the way he said it was the worst song ever. His honesty was hilarious. I wanted to welcome more of it, beg him to continue to chat, to spend the holiday with me.

Camper ran her hand down Jake’s cheek and placed a soft kiss on his temple. He ran his hand down her slender arm that was now bare. She’d removed her sweater, leaving her in a sleeveless black tank. It was the dead of winter, but she probably wasn’t cold cuddled up next to him. He’d gone to jail for her, and even though he played it off that he only was “tapping” her sometimes, it certainly looked like more.

Lucky girl. If you want a bad boy, that is. Although, he didn’t look so bad at the moment.

Thankfully, our food arrived. Drew and I finished our meal in comfortable silence, only interrupted by a few mumbled declarations over how good the food was. He tossed Rome a thumbs-up when the check came, then paid and helped me from my seat.

For a second, I wished I’d considered dessert because we were going to have to walk right past Jake on our way out. As we stood from the table, Drew helped me put on my enormous parka. I busied myself with zipping it and fastening the waist belt, keeping my head low as we walked toward the door.

“You gonna be back, Aly?” Rome bellowed as he pulled out a pizza from the brick oven.

I waved and muttered a quick thank-you, desperate not to call attention to myself.

Rome wasn’t having it, though. He tossed the pie on the rack and hurried out. “Was it all good, babe?”

He winked and pulled me in for a hug. No one could accuse this chef of sticking me in the corner. Prying myself out of Rome’s arms, I tripped over my own feet, overwhelmed with the unexpected display of affection and suddenly flustered with all the attention. Of course, my hip dipped right into Camper’s bar stool before I stilled myself with my hand on the back of the chair.

“Excuse me,” I whispered, then turned and addressed Rome quietly. “It was awesome. Thank so much. Good night.”

Pivoting toward the door, I heard Drew saying good-bye to Rome. When a loud, “Hey!” rang out, I walked on as if I hadn’t heard it.

“Hey, you! Ms. Road?”

I stopped in my tracks but didn’t turn around.

“Aly?” Drew raised his voice from behind me. “Someone’s calling you.”

Running my hand along my sleek ponytail, I swiveled around. “Mr. Wrigley.”

“Jake. Remember, just J-A-K-E.”

I nodded. There was nothing else to say; I wasn’t about to mention we met in jail or that I’d fantasized about him a few times since. Both were against the rules and were considered inappropriate conduct.

“Drew Burnes.” My dinner companion smiled and offered his hand.

“Jake Wrigley, and this is Camper.” His lips pressed tight, Jake poked the bubbly blonde on the shoulder, but she couldn’t even be bothered to turn around when he tried to introduce me. Her curls bounced like a shampoo ad on TV, making me wonder what type of conditioner she used.

“Camp, this is Alyson Road.”

“Shut up! Like the song? That’s hysterical.” Camper now whipped around in her seat, gawking at me. “That’s the dumbest song. I can’t believe you’re named for it.”

Jake’s mouth turned down into a formidable scowl, and although he was trying to be discreet, it was hard not to notice him give the overzealous Barbie a pinch on the arm.

“Well, not exactly. It’s just a coincidence,” I said, not entirely sure why I was gracing her with an explanation. “And I go by Aly,” I felt compelled to add, which was strange since I usually only allowed those who were close to call me by my nickname.

“I never thought of the coincidence,” Drew said in an attempt to join the pointless discussion.

I rolled my eyes and wasn’t entirely sure, but it looked like Jake’s scowl deepened.

“Probably why I stay friends with you. It’s an age-old joke that I’ve been hearing for over the last decade.” I threaded my arm through Drew’s down-coat-padded elbow. “Well, it’s nice running into you, Mr. Wrigley.”

I tried to walk away again when I saw the wheels turning inside Camper’s head. Her gaze was pinging wildly between Jake and me, her brow scrunched tight. She was chewing on her lower lip with such fierce concentration, I thought she was going to eat right through it.

“How do you know each other? Is this the new investor for the third gym?” She waved a hand between the two of us.

Jake shook his head and a loud laugh rumbled through his chest. He was nothing like the anxious inmate I met in jail.

“Nah, why in the hell would you think that?” He turned an eye Camper’s way, and it wasn’t an overly friendly eye. Something dark lurked behind its blueness.

“Because she keeps calling you Mr. Wrigley.” Camper trailed a territorial finger down Jake’s bicep, placing some type of primitive ownership in her touch after she realized I wasn’t a work contact.

“Ms. Road was the lawyer on duty when I got arrested for beating up your boy toy.”

“Ha!” She burst out laughing, almost doubling over in her seat. “I almost forgot about that! God, I can’t believe I slept with that Nazi prick,” she said, shocking me by discussing what I believed to be private matters in front of the whole restaurant.

Her cavalier attitude about Jake’s sacrifice annoyed me, and out of nowhere, I felt compelled to defend the man. “Well, Mr. Wrigley went to jail for it.”

“You let someone out of jail after committing a crime?” Drew feigned being flabbergasted, drawing in a deep breath and bringing his hand over his chest.

“From what I recall, he was defending this young woman’s honor,” I explained. Why, I had no idea, but I felt compelled to stick up for Jake.

“Fuck right,” Jake said. “No one insults Camper—or any woman—in front of me. No fucking way.”

“Wait, you didn’t tell Bess?” Camper pulled on Jake’s sleeve. He shook his head and murmured, “Later,” but didn’t elaborate any further on Bess. I was clueless as to what that was all about, but it wasn’t any of my business. Yet, somewhere in my gut I wanted it to be.

“But you should learn to use your words, Mr. Wrigley and not your fists.” I couldn’t believe we were standing here having this conversation in some suburban Italian bistro. The hilarity of it hit me in a quick swoop, and I had to hold back my giggle. “Listen, it’s been lovely running into you, Mr. Wrigley, but we really have to go.”

“Wait! Thank you.” Jake held his hand out to shake mine. “And yes, I know. I’ve been working on using my words.” He winked as I slid my hand into his, his fingers wrapping around mine in an easy handshake. It must have taken a great deal of effort to be that gentle because Jake Wrigley was a big, strong man.

“It’s my job, just doing my job,” I reminded him, and allowed Drew to lead me out of the restaurant and drive me home to my small, run-down apartment.