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Chapter One
Clifton
I sit on the cold metal bench, my backside feeling almost completely numb with a chill that runs up my back and down my legs. My gaze focuses on the bars that separate me from freedom, the shiny silver gleam taking me back to some foggy childhood memory I’d rather not recall.
A time when my mother would slide shining cookie sheets into the stainless oven. I could almost smell the warm deliciousness of her amazing chocolate chip cookies.
Refusing to let those memories take over, I glance around my cell to ground myself in the present, not that I want to really be here at the moment.
I've been here for hours waiting for my lawyer to show up... waiting for my dad to show up. They're one and the same.
In my mind's eye, I can already see the crinkles of his face and the disappointment in his eyes. I swear at some point when I wasn't looking, he aged... like that avocado that I always think is ready, but turns out to be well past its prime, because the darn thing ripened when I wasn’t looking.
The scent of bleach permeates the cell. Thankfully, I'm in here alone with the steel bunk beds and narrow window I couldn't fit a hand turned sideways in - if it were open. But it’s not the kind that opens. Thankfully, the narrow, glass-covered gap still lets light filter through, and I try to imagine how I would survive in a place like this long term.
I hate to sound dramatic, but I don’t think I’d last very long. Maybe not for the reason people think, though. As much as I hate the thought of losing my freedom, I like spending time alone. No, the real issue for me would be the loss of privacy.
The ambient sounds of muffled voices and the occasional clank of keys isn’t my favorite type of music, but I could get used to that, even. All I needed was a good book to pass the time.
I wondered what the odds were of getting a book if I asked.
But the guards are already pissed at me, and I don’t want to rock the boat more than I already have. Stretching my fingers and feeling the tender, broken skin across my knuckles ache, I glance down at the raw, red flesh.
That jackass better not have given me any diseases. I wonder if I could sue him - even though I’d been the one to pummel him - if I were to come down with Hepatitis or something. That wasn’t my area of knowledge because I wasn’t that kind of lawyer.
Though to be perfectly honest, I wasn't any kind of lawyer. Not anymore. I gave up on that route around the same time my father gave up on me carrying on his legacy. I wasn't cut out for the work, much less the stress and strain of having my own firm.
But my father ran things very well and I had no doubt that when he was ready to pass the torch, he'd find somebody worthwhile. Someone like her.
I hear the click of her heels on the concrete floor before I ever see her face. The second I hear that clack, clack, clack, my heart sinks in my chest and I know I’m in deeper than ever before.
Emma Langly.
I lift my chin, feeling every muscle in my body flex in fury. Of course, my father wouldn't show up. I could never count on him to be around when I needed him. Not when I was a child. Not now. Not even when mom died.
Emma's expression is all business, so she stops in front of my cell. But she hesitates, no doubt to upset me further, or let the fact that she’s here - not my father - sink in. Joke’s on her, I know my dad checked out on me a long time ago and it was only a matter of time before he passed me off entirely.
Her satin blouse matches the blue of her eyes and tucks loosely into her severe black pencil skirt. Her black heels are nothing if not professional and lend a sense of credibility to her five-foot two frame. With her buttery blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, the severity of her is intensified as she studies me like I’m something she’s tracked in on her shoe after a walk in a dog park.
She's a beautiful woman and no doubt knows how to use the fact to her advantage. I stand up and make my way to her, grabbing the bars in both hands as she inclines her head. But she doesn't look up at me, she looks past me at the window in a subtle snub that I’m not even worth noticing. I notice the light smattering of freckles across her nose like raindrops across a puddle on a vibrant spring day.
She’s got me thinking in poetry, and I don’t even like poetry.
The least poetic part of all of this is that I have no doubt Emma is the one that my father wishes was his child instead of me. She's everything he could possibly want; driven, highly intelligent, smart as a whip, emotionally unavailable, cold, calculating, cruel... I can keep going all day with words to describe her, but she suddenly focuses those incredible eyes on me, and I notice there are flecks of golden around her pupils.
“Another fight.” The words aren't a question, they’re merely her acknowledging how disappointing I am yet again. I absolutely hate it when she takes that motherly tone with me - she’s two years younger for fuck’s sake.
My lip curls into a smirk as I let go of the bars and turn my back on her. "Hey, Emma. Long time no see. Did my dad finally give up on me?" Despite the causal, confident edge to my words, I can hear the bitterness seeping in. Yeah, he’d given up on mom, too. Her diagnosis left him as cold and indifferent to her as I am to Emma.
Her eyelids twitch, narrowing her eyes and she fixes that glare as cold as all the metal in this cell on me. “Do you blame him?” The words are sharp, and I sense there’s no right answer. A smart man wouldn't answer that question, and I don’t intend to.
“I plead the fifth.”
“Now isn't the time for jokes.” She sounds angry and I hold back a smile. Lawyers, man, I don’t think a sense of humor comes standard, but it should. Given the nature of our work and what we see and deal with - I’m not a lawyer anymore.
“You've been arrested for assault and battery again. You could be facing serious charges, not to mention a lawsuit. What were you thinking?” Again, she takes on that scolding tone like she’s a teacher and I’m a poorly behaved student about to face the principal.
“What do you think I was thinking?” I ask, lifting my shoulders. “I saw red and lost it.” I don’t want to admit the truth; I acted on impulse, and I regret that I let my fists do the talking. I was raised better. My mother taught me to turn the other cheek, to know that only wounded people intentionally inflict pain on others. But in this instance, the lines are a bit more blurry; not black and white like she’d led me to believe when I was a child.
