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1
DREW
I slip out of the bed, naked, and head into my en suite. While the shower heats the wet room, I look out over Manhattan. From this angle, I see the spring sun rising through the multitude of the city’s skyscrapers. On the other side of my apartment, the view of Central Park is lush green.
When I step into the shower, I’m blasted from all angles by the spray. Closing my eyes, I lean my head back and let the jets clean away the mild fog I feel from last night’s scotch. I didn’t have much, just enough to take the edge off the stress of today’s hearing.
It’s time to bring my game face. In a few hours, I’ll be in court, defending another millionaire accused of white-collar crime. Today, I’ll be convincing Judge McAvoy that my client isn’t guilty of insider trading, despite the fact he placed trades that made him more money than even the Einstein of Wall Street could have managed.
Hey, he pays me a hell of a lot of money to keep him out of pretty-boy prison, and let’s be real here, it’s not like he killed anyone.
Knocking off the shower, I shake out my dark-blond hair, flick water from my ears, and tie a towel around my waist. After wiping down the steamed mirror, I brush shaving cream on my face and get on with making myself appear court presentable. By court presentable, I mean a cut above the average man’s best day. I’m a big hitter on the circuit and I have to look like one. It’s all part of the show.
When I’m finished, I slip out of the bathroom and pad quietly through the bedroom to my walk-in – not intentionally quiet because I don’t want to wake the sleeping brunette in my bed but because my feet are bare on the thick rug.
The hanging racks are full of suits and shirts but there’s only one suit for court. The don of all suits. The pinstripe.
I dress in my shirt and pants, wiggling the knot of my tie until it sits just so. My vest is next; judges like a three-piece. I leave my jacket until last, carrying it with me to the kitchen as I go in search of my best friend. I hear her percolating and smell her rich aroma before I see her.
Meet my coffee maker. The most reliable and dependable thing in my life. Black coffee in hand, I head back to my bedroom to wake last night’s conquest. She’s wrapped loosely in only my white, cotton sheet, her slim, tanned body displayed in all but the most important places. Her hair and makeup aren’t as pristine as they had been when I’d picked her up in the bar, but I can still see why I brought her to bed.
‘Janey,’ I say, standing on the threshold of the room, sipping my Italian coffee. ‘Janey, wake up. I’ve got to go.’
She moans and rolls over in a way I imagine she thinks is erotic. Last night, I probably would have thought so. Now, I have shit to do, places to be. It’s not like I’m being disrespectful. We both knew what this was. I’m just the first of the two of us to call the bluff.
‘Mm, coffee,’ she whispers, bringing herself up on her elbows. ‘Maybe you’d like some breakfast with that?’ She rolls her finger across her lip and bites down on the end. Enticing but, again, not right now. The fun’s over.
‘This is my breakfast. And you have five minutes to pull on that little black dress and be at my front door ready to leave. Otherwise, you’ll have to find your own way home.’
She sits up. That pretty face twists into a frown. ‘You’re an asshole.’
I take another gulp of coffee as I leave the room. Walking away, I call back, ‘I told you I was an asshole last night, Janey.’
‘Janette, dickhead. I’m fucking Janette!’
I hear something crash against my bedroom wall and hope it’s a pillow. Ten minutes later, I’m shutting the door of the Mercedes that belongs to my regular driver. Outside on the sidewalk, Janette flips me the bird through the window. My driver meets my eye through the rearview mirror. He chuckles and maneuvers out into the building city traffic.
We pull up outside a high-rise in the middle of bustling Midtown Manhattan. The modern glass building is home to Statham Turner, one of the top three law firms in New York and one of the best law firms in the world. That isn’t just because I happen to be a partner at the firm; that is coincidence, mostly.
I tug the cuffs of my suit jacket to straighten the arms as I step onto the sidewalk. Once I’ve closed the door, I pat the roof of the car twice. Dipping my head in acknowledgment to a familiar suited colleague, who definitely works at the firm but whose name I can’t remember, I stride past the revolving door of Lexington Tower.
At the end of the block, I find my destination. Fabio’s bagel truck. There’s only one thing for it, pre-court. Jarlsberg. A bagel crammed full of copious amounts of melted Jarlsberg.
Fabio leans out of the truck to hand a customer a foil-wrapped bagel. He clocks me when he lifts his head and flashes me a toothy welcome. ‘Drew. My main man.’ His Italian accent always makes that sound peculiar to me.
I’m just yards from my breakfast. I open my mouth to say, ‘Hey,’ but some blonde woman moves into my path and steals Fabio’s attention.
I’m going to line up for a bagel? Seriously?
Fabio shrugs when I shake my head but serves Blondie. I check her out from behind, and I check out herbehind.
If she’s going to make me wait, it’s not like I have anything better to do. It’s either ogling or foot tapping, and I don’t feel like tapping my foot today.
She’s petite. Slim shoulders and waist. My guess is she’s about five four, maybe five five in her flat shoes. Small though she is, that ass could wreak havoc on a man. Perfectly sculpted in tight jeans. Her T-shirt sits just below the waistline of her pants and lets me see those two cup-able globes. ‘Erm, what do you have?’ she asks Fabio. Her accent is British. Like the kind of British in movies. The kind of British my wealthy clients from that side of the pond speak.
‘Bagels, lady. I got bagels.’
‘Erm, right. I guess I’ll take cheese?’
