“Jensen, don’t be mean.”
“Are you telling me I’m wrong? He looks like a career felon.”
That gets my ire up. I push at his chest until he moves back, giving me some space. “Well, he’s not, so maybe you should keep your shallow opinion to yourself.”
I slide out from between Jensen and the door, walking into the living room before turning to face him.
“You can do so much better than him. For God’s sake, Marissa, come on!”
It’s my turn to laugh. “You know what, Jensen? You couldn’t be more wrong. He’s one of the greatest men I’ve ever known, long hair and all. Why do you think I’m fighting so hard to win this case?”
“I heard you had some personal interest in it, like really personal. But it was hush-hush and I figured you’d get around to telling me eventually.”
I’m so glad now that I didn’t.
“Oh it’s personal, all right,” I say, letting the statement sound suggestive, hoping that will be enough to kill his attraction to me. Maybe if he thinks I’ve got a thing for slummin’ it, he’ll deem me unworthy of a man like him and leave me alone. “I happen to like a man with some ink and some scruff. I think it’s pretty hot.”
All right, that might’ve been laying it on a bit thick.
I cringe inwardly, praying it wasn’t too much.
With an exasperated shake of his head, Jensen gives me a look and backs toward the door.
“I guess you’re right. Looks like our good chemistry stops on the courthouse steps.”
I raise my chin a notch, but say nothing.
“Good night, Marissa.”
“Good night, Jensen,” I say, waiting until I hear his footsteps on the sidewalk before I go and snap the deadbolt closed on the door. “Good riddance, Jensen,” I whisper, cutting off the light and heading for my bedroom once more.
Twenty minutes later, as I’m sliding between the sheets, the bed has never felt bigger. Or colder. Or more empty.
And neither has my heart.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Nash
Another month later
She’s very attractive, the girl who’s dancing for me. And she’s very obviously attracted. Clubs in Italy are not much different than they are anywhere else in the world.
This girl is blond, which isn’t as common in this country. That’s probably why I continue to watch her. She reminds me of what I miss most. Of who I miss most.
I’d give anything to stop thinking about Marissa. This is the umpteenth time I’ve attempted to drown out her memory in someone else. So far, it hasn’t worked. And judging by the halfhearted reaction in my jeans, this time won’t be any different.
I’m sure I could do the deed. I’m a guy; that’s not normally a problem unless there’s too much alcohol on board. No, it’s not the physical inability to go through with it. It’s the emotional one. Everything else gets in the way. My head, my heart, and the fact that I just don’t really want to.
Willfully, I bring my attention back to the action on the dance floor. The girl, the blond one I’ve been watching, runs her hand down her friend’s arm, pausing just long enough at her plump breast to be suggestive. Her eyes are on mine, though. And the invitation is clear. Even when I look at her friend, the dark-haired one, I know I could have them both if I did so much as nod my head toward the door. I sigh into my drink.
But I won’t. I won’t motion for them to follow me when I leave. And I won’t be bothered if they turn their attention toward someone else. No, tonight the only company I’ll be keeping will be a bottle.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Marissa
Olivia’s eyes are wide with surprise. “Are you kidding me? That’s great news! Why aren’t you more excited?”
I shrug. I’m sitting with her at the club. It’s the middle of the day on a Saturday, so we’re alone. “I am, I just . . .”
When I don’t continue, she reaches out and grabs my hand. “You just what?”
I feel my chin begin to tremble. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do now. It’s almost over.”
“But that’s a good thing. We can all finally move on. And you, you’ll have so many career options your head will spin.”
“I know. And that’s great, but I’m just not sure this is what I want to do.”
“What? Prosecute huge cases and make the world a better place? Or practice law at all?”
I shrug again. I don’t really mean to do it. It’s almost automatic, as though my body can’t resist an outward manifestation of the ambivalence that’s churning inside me.
“Both, I guess. But it’s not just that.”
“Then what? What is it? Did something happen with your dad?”
I’ve been keeping Olivia up to date on all the drama with my father. He basically disowned me when he saw that I was actually going through with the prosecution. But then, once we started making good progress and the press started to get involved and people began to see how much good we were trying to do by locking these guys up, he changed his tune. Suddenly I was worth his time. Suddenly he sees a bright future in politics for me.
That was when I stopped taking his calls. He’ll never want me just for me. He’ll always see me as a means to an end. Or a project of some sort. Or maybe a family trophy. Who knows?
That is, of course, when he doesn’t see me as an embarrassment.
“No, I haven’t talked to him lately. It’s . . . it’s just . . .”
My eyes sting as the tears rush in. I look down at my hand where it rests in Olivia’s, blinking as rapidly as I can to keep from having some sort of hysterical fit.
“Tell me,” Olivia prompts softly.
“I feel like this is the last little bit of Nash I have, like once this is over, he’ll be out of my life completely. Forever. I think I’ve been doing this for him more than anything else. I wanted him to be free of all that anger and bitterness. I wanted him to be able to move on and have a happy life.”
Before I can continue, Olivia finishes my thought as if she could read my mind.
“And you thought he’d move on to that happy life with you.”
To hear that hope spoken aloud and to know that, little by little, day by day, it has been disappearing is almost more than I can bear. It makes it too real, too final.
With one involuntary gasp, the floodgates open and all the pain I’ve felt over the loss of Nash comes rushing out in deep, soul-wrenching sobs.
“I-I-I thought he’d c-c-come back,” I sputter as Olivia comes off her bar stool and gathers me into her arms. I lay my head on her shoulder and I cry. And I cry. And I cry. I cry until there’s nothing left.
Olivia doesn’t move a muscle, other than to stroke my hair. Finally, I pull back from her to reach into my purse for a tissue.
“I’m sorry,” I sniffle before blowing my nose. “I guess that’s been a long time coming.”
Olivia sits back down, her expression sad. “To be honest, I thought he’d come back, too. I really, really did. It was obvious he had feelings for you. I think he’s just too screwed up to know what to do about them.”
“We just didn’t have enough time. And now we never will. I just thought . . . I had hoped . . .” I swallow back the sob that rises into my throat. I’ve cried on Olivia’s shoulder—literally—enough for one day. “But I’m a big girl,” I say, sitting up a little straighter. I need to put on a brave face and put this behind me. At least outwardly. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to really do that on an emotional level. At least not completely. “It’s time I figure out what I’m going to do with my life and get to it. I’m not getting any younger.”
Olivia rolls her eyes. “Because twenty-seven is so old.”
“Twenty-eight,” I say automatically.
“What? Twenty-eight? I thought . . .” I see her forehead wrinkle as she thinks our ages through. Her eyes round when she realizes I’m right. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod! We missed your birthday!”
She covers her mouth with her hands like she cursed in front of a priest. I can’t help but smile. To me, this is no big deal. But to Olivia, it’s tantamount to burning my house down.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“Of course it’s a big deal! How could this happen? How could I not know?”
I shrug again. It’s the story of my life lately. One big shrug of ambivalence. “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fussed over on my birthday for most of my life. You know, to keep up appearances and all.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “It was kinda nice to be anonymous that day. I didn’t really feel like celebrating.”
And I didn’t. The only thing I really wanted was for Nash to come back. Or even to call and tell me he missed me. But that didn’t happen. After that, no amount of presents or parties or birthday wishes could’ve salvaged that day. That being the case, I figured it was just best that no one knew.
The look on Olivia’s face assures me that she understands all that I’m saying and all that I’m not. She gives both my shoulders a squeeze. “It’ll get better, you know.” It’s not a question; it’s a statement. And I do know that. I think. It’s just that, at the moment, it doesn’t feel like the dull ache in my chest will ever go away.
THIRTY-NINE
Nash
Another three weeks later
It feels strange to be worrying about my property. It’s been so long since I’ve had anything of real value, anything much in the way of possessions. And now, leaving the boat at the dock in Savannah while I travel into Atlanta makes me nervous. It would suck buckets of shit if something happened to it. A huge chunk of my life’s savings is wrapped up in that thing.
I smile as I think of how it all happened.
The morning after I left those two girls at the club in Naples, Italy, I decided to gather the crew and head out a little earlier than planned. They weren’t as easy to find as I expected. It was while I was on the yacht, docked in the marina, waiting for them, that I was approached by a man interested in chartering a private yacht to take him and his wife on a two-week sail for their anniversary. I explained to him that it wasn’t my boat. He was persistent, though. I don’t know if he just didn’t believe me, or if he thought I was trying to drive the price up, but he kept on. The amount of money he offered me was staggering. It wasn’t enough to get me to take him and his wife on for two weeks—I knew I couldn’t in good conscience make that kind of commitment until the trial was over—but it was more than enough to get me thinking.
Now, in just three short weeks, my life already feels different. I have roots. Sort of. And I have a profession. Sort of. And I have some kind of a future.
Okay, so maybe it’s not quite the one I dreamed of as a kid, but it fits in with what my life has become, with what I have become. And maybe, it just might be enough to fill the emptiness that’s been plaguing me.
Maybe.
As always, any time Marissa comes to mind, she takes over for a while. Sometimes it’s harder than others to get her off my mind. The closer I get to her, the harder it’s getting. And it was pretty damn hard, anyway!
The trial is coming to a close. Cash called to let me know that Marissa and her cohorts were preparing for closing arguments. After that, the jury would go deliberate. No one knew how long that might take, so he told me to get my ass back to the States as fast as I could. He and Dad wanted me there for the verdict. So that’s what I did.
I’m making it just in the nick of time. The jury went into deliberation this morning. I could’ve missed it had they not decided to break for the day, have dinner, and go back into sequestration.
I’m trying not to see that as a bad sign—their inability to come to a quick decision. Instead, I’m grateful that I’m gonna make it in time to be with Dad and Cash.
Luckily, I was already on my way back to the States. I was heading back with the intention of offering to take Cash and Olivia as my first charters, sort of test the waters with them.
Pun intended.
I snort at the mental image I have of Cash rolling his eyes at my wit. The cabdriver looks back at me and I glare at him until he turns away. Then I smile. My anger isn’t what it once was, but I still intimidate people for some reason. I get a kick out of it sometimes, just like with this guy. He probably thinks I’m a hit man or something. It doesn’t help that I don’t try to disabuse him of that notion. I guess old habits die hard. In my previous line of work, the image of being a dangerous man can save your life. If you’re in it long enough, you become that dangerous man. I suppose a look like that never leaves you completely.
That’s something you’ll have to work on if you expect to get any clients. No one wants to go out to sea with a guy they think might kill them in their sleep and take all their money.
And here she comes again.
Marissa.
As usual, any time I think of the future, I think of her. And how she won’t be a part of it. And why I even would want her to be. Sometimes, I don’t fight her image. I just let her have her way for a while. I don’t do it often. It always ends up with me either aching for that delicious little body of hers or aching for her in a soul-deep kind of way that I don’t know what to do with. But every now and again, I can’t resist the temptation of just thinking about her. And every now and then, of what life could’ve been like.
If only things were different . . .
* * *
My phone wakes me. I must’ve fallen asleep in the cab with a vision of Marissa dancing in my head like those damn Christmas sugarplums. I pull the noisy rectangle out of my pocket and glance at the screen. It’s Cash.