Page 35 of Daring You

10

Astor

The subway ridegives me time to collect myself. I score a seat—a rarity—and I plan to make the most of it by searching through my tote and pulling out my tablet, catching up on emails.

If I deign to think about it, it’s amazing how fast I can go from emotional to business-savvy, like a kitchen faucet going from hot water to cold. But that’s how it has to be. Ruminating on Ben and the strange cast to his expression when he asked me—no, told me—to back off the Staten Island Slaughters gets me nowhere.

Sighing, I cross my legs and frown deeper at my fifty new emails. Hadn’t I just told myself not to think about Ben?

The man beside me, bulky in an oversized beige coat and a fedora too small for his head, keeps trying to read what I’m up to, a sad annoyance whenever I want to get work done during public transportation, and why I usually avoid it. I angle away from him and cross my other leg, clearing my throat in an obvious, passive-aggressive attempt to get him to realize his impropriety.

He only shifts closer, peering down through his bifocals to get a better look.

Fuckin’ New Yorkers.

At last, the train screeches to a halt at my midtown station. I shove my tablet in my tote and depart, leaving Peeping Grandpa behind forever.

When I reach the clear-glass, fifty-story building that houses my office, I swipe my security clearance, say hello to the weekend doorman (usually much sleepier and with more newspapers than the weekday guy) and step into the elevator to the 45th floor.

When the doors slight open with a classy ding, my suede boots clunk across the flawless varnish of the marble floors, past the empty receptionist desk, and since all “walls” in this office are sparkling glass (not even frosted), I can spot where everyone is.

Black and navy suits are crowded into Conference Room B, not as big and spacious as A, where clients can get a close-up view of the Empire State and Chrysler buildings. This one is reserved for exactly what’s occurring this afternoon—interns and associates angling for a position on the latest, hottest, case.

I pull off my beanie, smoothing my hair, and slip off my parka, dumping it unobtrusively on a rolling leather chair outside the conference room. I slip in unnoticed, and am relieved to see other people in casual clothing like me.

Mike, of course, is in a goddamned three-piece suit.

And he’s right at the front, beside Altin Yang, senior partner in charge of all criminal defense cases, like he’s already secured a spot.

I sidle up to my co-associate, Taryn Maddox. We’ve helped each other out now and again during late nights in the office. She’s also the only other female in this room and stands out more than I do. Perhaps it’s due to her Barbie-thick, blonde hair, round almond-colored eyes, and ridiculous breasts. More likely, it’s because of her insanely high IQ, graduating summa cumme laude at Harvard, and the Mensa title behind those pert nipples. She’s probably smarter than most of the testosterone in here.

Taryn’s better as a friend than an enemy, but I catch myself wondering often if she would’ve been part of the cohorts who spread my picture around campus, had she gotten the chance.

“What’d I miss?” I whisper to her out the side of my mouth. I try to look busy pulling out a legal pad and pen.

“Not much. Just started,” she says quietly. “Your man’s up there doing his damndest to be on the Delaney case.”

My left hand, still wearing the engagement ring, clenches. “Delaney case?”

“That’s what we’re calling it now. The family’s name. No more Staten Island Slaughters.”

It makes sense. Being on the defense side, it’s better to dull down words like “slaughter,” to the media.

“All right, people.”

Altin’s booming voice cuts off any further conversation. Half Japanese, Half African American, he has both height and smarts to his name. His close-cropped hair is mostly white, likely caused by his forty years at this firm. Altin is one of the unnamed partners who started CW&C from the ground up, and, as a result, he’s intimidating as fuck. He doesn’t merely take prisoners—he kills them after smiting them with lightning. I’ve never been on his bad side and don’t ever plan to be.

“I know why y’all are here,” he continues. “Sadly for you, this joint defense doesn’t need thirty attorneys crowding for a spot in the courtroom. I’m only taking on two of you, so as of this second, you’re about to be on your best behavior.” Altin smiles, enjoying being king at this feast.

“I have here the police files, some discovery passed to us from the state, and essentially what’s going to be an extended date night for a lucky two of you. I want it summarized, arguments laid out, and any holes ripped wide open for me to read tomorrow morning. Everyone got that?”

He raises his brows, and we all nod like good disciples.

“Arraignment is coming up shortly. While I don’t believe we’ll get these boys out on their own recognizance, we can damn well try.”

“Yang got a phone call,” Taryn whispers to me.

“Huh?”

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