“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and I just got back from a war zone.” Riggs took a pull of his beer, his hooded eyes scanning the room like a hawk.
“It’s trivia night, not the plague.” Arsène knocked back his beer. We were at the Brewtherhood. I propped my elbows against the bar, watching groups of people huddling together around tables, getting ready for the main event. A stool was placed on the small podium usually reserved for college girls who danced half-naked. The host of the trivia night was some New Jersey–based reality star who was apparently semifamous for having sex with one of his fellow contestants in a public pool. This was the reason why I’d sworn off TV and the people on it. The line between culture and a steaming bag of shit blurred when it came to twenty-first-century entertainment.
“Bars were invented to get drunk and laid, not educated.” Riggs tilted his empty beer in Elise’s direction, motioning for her to get us another round. “I need a vacation.”
“You live to vacation,” I amended. “Settle the fuck down for a minute.”
“Never,” Riggs vowed. I believed him. The nomad turned to me, frowning. “Speaking of holiday destinations, how does Alice like her new Florida condo?”
Alice was the most important woman in my life. In all our lives, to be honest. But I was considered to be the “good” kid. The one who gave a shit and sent flowers for birthdays and Christmas cards whenever I wasn’t able to make it.
“She’s crazy about it. Between all the senior field trips and tai chi classes, she’s zen as shit,” I confirmed. “I talked to her a couple days ago.”
“We should visit her,” Riggs said.
“If anyone is able to drag me out of New York City, it’s her,” Arsène agreed.
“I’ll talk dates with her.” I nodded curtly, though I knew there was no way in hell I was leaving before winning the Conrad Roth case.
“Hey, we should do the trivia bullshit.” Arsène turned his back to a woman who was gingerly approaching him on high heels. God forbid he had a conversation with someone who wasn’t in the MacArthur Fellowship Program. “My head is full of useless pieces of information, and I enjoy winning.”
“Even if what you win is a two-night vacation in a three-star hotel in Tacoma?” I took a swig of my whiskey. “Because that’s the shit you’ll be winning here.”
“Especially.” Arsène accepted his fresh beer from Elise, slipping her a tip without making eye contact. The man hated women with such a passion I suspected he’d be one of those people who died alone and left all their millions to the neighbor’s dog or someone random on the other side of the world. “Helps me see how the other half lives.”
“You don’t give a crap how the other half lives.”
Arsène clinked his beer bottle with mine. “Said other half doesn’t need to know that.”
“I take everything I said about trivia night back. Apparently, it has its merits.” Riggs’s gaze cut to the entrance. I followed his line of sight, biting down on my tongue until the metallic taste of blood spread in my mouth.
You have to be kidding me. What are the goddamn odds?
It had been three weeks since I’d met Arya in my office. Three whole weeks in which I’d regrouped, gotten myself together, and managed to forget about her annoying mouth and delectable body. Now here she was, waltzing into my home field, wearing a little black number with a pearl choker and killer red Balenciaga heels. There were three more women with her, all wearing beauty-pageant-type sashes that said The Sherlock Holmesgirls. Apparently, she wasn’t only cold and mean; she was also lame.
“Pick your jaw off the floor, buddy, before someone steps on it.” Riggs clapped my shoulder in my periphery, chuckling. “All right, I see you’re eyeing little Audrey Hepburn over there. Luckily for you, I’m not picky. I’ll take Blondie.”
“How about you take a hike.” I brushed his touch away. “I’m out of here.”
“Long day at the office?” Riggs flashed a grin full of dimples and stubble. No wonder he melted panties and hearts solely by existing. “Let me guess, oatmeal and a Dan Brown book for dinner?”
Maturity-wise, my best friend was no older than the carton of milk in my fridge, and not half as sophisticated.
“This woman is the daughter of a defendant in a case I’m working on, dum-dum.”
“So?” Arsène furrowed his brows. “It’s trivia night, not a public orgy.”
“Can’t put it past Riggs not to make it one.” I slid into my peacoat. The last thing I needed was to ogle Arya Roth. Impulse control was my favorite form of art. I always reined in my needs. I hadn’t googled or checked on her since I was fifteen. Ignored her existence thoroughly since freshman year. To me, she was as good as dead. Seeing her all pretty and happy and alive wasn’t on my agenda. Not if I could help it. “Stay out of trouble, and make sure this guy puts a rubber on it.” I clapped Arsène’s back, about to head out.
“Thanks, Dad. Oh, and by the way.” Riggs blocked my way with his body. He glanced at something behind my back. “Audrey Hepburn is coming our way, and unlike you, she seems mighty happy to see you.”
“Of course.” Arsène’s eyes flickered behind me curiously, a grin spreading across his face. “Arya Roth.”
I stuffed my pocket with my wallet and phone, my jaw hardening.
“She’s a bombshell.” Riggs whistled.
“She sure detonated my life,” I ground out. “I’m out of here.”
I turned around, colliding with someone small. That someone, of course, was Arya. I almost knocked her down on her ass. She stumbled a few steps back, and one of her friends, presumably the one Riggs wanted to make the latest notch on his belt, caught her.
“Fancy bumping into you. Literally.” Arya recovered, her sharp smile intact. Was she following me? Because that was illegal, on top of being unethical. I eyed her with open disdain.
Impulse control. You’re Christian, not Little Nicky. She can’t hurt you.
“Ms. Roth.”