Page 67 of Café Diablo

Her eyes flicker at my admission and then she’s kissing me. All of that petite fire and brimstone suddenly pressed against my body. I soften into her sloppy need, the claw of her hands aching for me to get comfy with my bad-self and do something naughty right here in public.

Which is not happening.

We’re both panting when we separate, my palms cupping her flushed face. “I’mnotmoving,” I repeat. “Got it?”

“Yes,” she whispers against my lips.

“Good.” I kiss her on the forehead, pulling back half an inch. “Unfortunately, I also need to make about five-hundred phone calls so I can figure out what the hell my dad is about to pull and if I’m about to be homeless. Okay?”

She nods, but then a smile hitches her cheek. “I do have a hammock on my front porch I could rent you, if you end up needing somewhere to sleep.”

“You haven’t burnt that?” I shoot back, glad to see the smile returning to her beautiful face. “I’m pretty sure it’s the definition of unsanitary.”

Her fingers lace behind my neck and we breathe together, not really defining this, but knowing it isn’t disposable either. I want to hold her in this soft space all evening, all week, for as long as she’ll let me, but I’m not going to be able to rest until I know what’s going on with the firm.

“I really have to make some calls,” I whisper.

“I know,” she nods.

“You can come over to my house if you want,” I offer, taking her hand. “I’ll be on the phone for the next few hours, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to piss off and disappear right now.”

“I won’t be in your way?”

I kiss her again softly, feeling like she’s the one thing keeping me from flying off the handle. If I could just keep kissing her, everything seems like it will find a way to work itself out.

“Come over,” I repeat. “You make me feel like the impossible is possible—and when it comes to my father, I’m going to have to move mountains.”

28

Olivia

Edwin wasn’t kidding when he said he’d be on the phone for hours. I’ve ordered us Thai Food, rearranged the spice rack in his pantry, and toured his gorgeous condo so many times I could probably walk through it blindfolded at this point.

He lives in a high-rise that overlooks the city, and everything is grey and modern and simple. His house is exactly like his suits—masculine and bold. The condo is full of dark walls and geometric lamp fixtures and wood furniture that’s probably been Feng Shui-ed to the millimeter. Everything has its exact place, as if someone came in and designed everything for him and then he didn’t bother to touch any of it ever again.

It’s dark now, and Edwin keeps coming over and kissing me on the top of my head and giving me something to stay occupied: the TV remote, a photobook of US monuments, a bowl full of brain-teaser puzzles, all of which I’m now an expert at solving. Eventually, I scrounged up a legal pad and a pen to draw with and flopped down on his couch—his high-end couch that’s probably made from the hides of unicorns and assembled by Viking leather-smiths.

I draw Edwin.

I draw him as a furious storm crashing through his house with gales of words and angry hand gestures. He’s a tempest made of dark feverish marks and powerful menace. I can see why people hire him to be on their side in the courtroom. When this side of him is turned on, he’s a force to be reckoned with.

Edwin often jokes that I talk too much, but when he’s riled up and angry, I think he clocks in three-thousand words a minute. He’s been a rapid-fire succession of acquisition strategies and business law and talking to his lawyer—who knew lawyers had lawyers?—about what he can legally sue for.

There’s talk of non-disclosure agreements and what it would mean for Edwin to jump ship completely. And then there’s the sticky situation of the legalities of stealing his father’s clients—who Edwin has cultivated and built trust with, but technically belong to his father’s firm. I don’t understand half the things he’s talking about, other than the fact that his father must be a real piece of work because he’s basically forcing his son to move to the mainland or quit his job and start over from square one.

The first call Edwin made was to his father and I’d never seen Edwin’s face so pale. I’d never seen him sling so much spitfire, he may as well have been a verbal dragon. When I walked over and massaged his shoulders, he was steel and boulders and anger wound so tight I thought he might literally snap in half. But the most striking part—past the fact that his father really is dissolving his practice and opening a new one in Southern California—is that most of the conversation was about Connor.

It seems Edwin is to blame for all of his brother’s decisions: where he works (that devil’s spawn of Flambé!), where he lives, who he associates with. I get the feeling that Edwin’s loyalty to Connor is the same as stabbing his father in the back, and now Edwin is feeling his father’s wrath.There was a lot of swearing and that stoic look on Edwin’s face turned from black steel to diamond sharp to deadly. Remind me to never cross Edwin Voss, especially in the legal department, because he’s freaking terrifying.

After the call to his father was the call to Connor, who came over right away, not to mention got someone to cover my shift at Flambéfor the night. I’m still putting together all the pieces of their complicated relationship, but what I’ve discerned is Edwin bailed Connor out of jail and got him a plea deal, but that also got Connor barred from practicing law. Their father disowned both of them, expecting Edwin to miraculously fix the situation, and since Edwin didn’t deliver his baby brother on a silver platter for his father (not for lack of trying, as it sounds), Daddy Voss is trying to force Edwin to choose between them. Edwin can move to Laguna Beach on the mainland and open the new branch, or he can stay in Hawaii and live a life of debauchery and sin—which is what Daddy Voss thinks Connor is already doing and will end up as Edwin’s fate through association.

Their family is messed up.

Obviously.

Connor thanked me for being here for Edwin before he left, assuring me that even though all of this looks like family-drama-of-the-century—which yes, at the moment it is—he still hopes I won’t bail on his brother.

“If there’s anyone who can take our father to the cleaners, it’s Ned,” Connor said, glancing over at his brother who, at the time, was talking 70-miles-per hour into his cell. “But the fact that you’re here is a blessing.”

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