I grab one of the other bartenders. “I need to work the front,” I tell him. “You take it from here.” Then I fight my way out from behind the bar, heading blindly down the back hallway and out to the alley behind the building. My building – or at least, part of it is. People take it for granted that I’m just the hired help here, but I own the place in partnership with the other guys. I paid my own way through college too, I never took one dime of my parents’ money, not after I learned the truth about just how dirty it really was. I left that life behind me: prep schools, and country clubs, and all the bullshit that goes along with it. Only Jackson knows a little about where I came from, but the others are in the dark.
But I guess there’s no escaping the past. There’s always something, pulling me back. Reminding me about the debt I owe.
Until I find another girl to distract me. Yeah, that’s just what I need.
I take another breath, then head back inside to go find tonight’s distraction.
CHAPTER TWO
Cash
Last call. The stragglers hit the pavement, and the lights come on. I cash the waitresses and other bar staff out. They all head off with nods to each other and to me. Barely holding myself upright, I head for the stairs that will take me to my apartment. Just as I reach door number one, Jackson comes out of the office, flipping through a stack of mail.
“Wait up,” he says, as I jam my key in the lock.
“What’s up?” I mutter, completely exhausted.
Jackson plants the stack of mail on my chest. “You gotta move out of this crap hole.”
“Let me report your concerns to the architect,” I shoot back with a grin.
“Very funny.” Jackson presses a stack of mail to my chest. “Came to the office by mistake.”
I mumble something, ready to catch some z’s since, contrary to Ryder’s prediction, I’m heading home alone. Morgan Dockson is apparently still the worst cock-block known to man. Glad to know some things never change. She’d been insufferable at school—the one who always had to follow all the rules and believed that everyone else should, too. She wasn’t anyone’s favorite. Least of all mine.
“Going home alone,” Jackson says with a smirk. “Does it have anything to do with a particular blonde at the bar?”
“Who?” He couldn’t possibly have noticed my freak-out over Morgan—or did he?
“Savannah? You were talkin’ to her most of the night. She and her date were looking pretty cozy, though. Never knew you for the torch-carrying type.”
“Savy? No way. We’re just commiserating over losing our buddies to the big L word.”
“Me think he doth protesteth too much.” Jackson smirks.
“Whatever, dude. See you tomorrow.” He waves me off home – not that I have far to go. My apartment’s upstairs, above the bar. I should probably find a new place, but you really can’t beat the commute. I mean the traffic—even from across the street—would just kill me in the end. Plus, on those nights when everyone’s a little too buzzed, it’s nice to be able to sweep my flavor of the night off her feet and into bed in ten seconds flat.
Kicking my door closed, I flip through the envelopes. My apartment’s a cobbled-together comfort. It’s sleek, rugged, and mostly second-hand. Why get new stuff when there is still perfectly acceptable material just lying around? A salvaged antique brick and reclaimed wood TV stand, repurposed steamer trunk for a coffee table, a cut-down, sanded, and refinished barn door for a headboard. When you grow up with shiny, marble, brand new and stale, all you want is something that feels real. And the truth is, I like building this stuff. Working with my hands makes me feel useful.
I dump my keys in the bowl and check the mail. Bill. Bill. Useless Ad. Postcard from Knox, living the pro-ball life in New York...
Gardner and Sons.
Fate, you fickle bitch, you would have both land in my lap in the same day. First Morgan, and now my monthly hush money. Still in my socks, I head to the kitchen. Taped to the inside of the cabinet just to the right of the sink is a list. It’s got too many names and not enough of them crossed off. I scan down the list.
Marissa Stamretz. Congrats.
Ripping open the bank statement, I see the deposits have too many zeros and none of it makes me feel good. I could buy a lot of soap with that kind of dough and still never feel clean enough. So I send it on to the people who deserve it. Who are owed it, really. Not that the law sees it that way, but I learned a long time ago, what’s legal and what’s just are two different things.
I seal up the new check in an envelope and address it. Marissa Stamretz, I hope it helps. I hope it makes up—oh hell, I just hope she isn’t already so far gone that it can’t help. I cross her off my list.
Crawling into bed, I try not to think about all of the names still left.
CHAPTER THREE
Savannah
People always assume that Harvard is the top law school in America. It’s not. In school we’d like to say Harvard was for people who couldn’t get into Yale or Stanford. That’s right, Harvard is not number one, not number two, but third. It gave us all the need to push ourselves to bigger and better things. We may not be the top law school in America, but we sure as hell act like it.
And fuck if I don’t live up to that standard.