THE BET (Manhattan Nights #2)

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

VIOLET

The beating of my pulse matches the rhythmic beeping across my wrist.

The ground is cold beneath my feet, especially hard, and as I run across its black surface, I can hear my own breathing, feel my body coming alive.

It’s the December air, the winds of winter.

The early morning air is crisp, beautiful to taste. And though I open my mouth to inhale that New York oxygen, it mixes ominously with the bitter flavor of worry, still sitting on my tongue from last night.

I couldn’t sleep last night. And it shows.

My stride is slower than normal, my gait stilted. Even New Kids on the Block in my headphones can’t drown out the vision of Marilyn—one of my now closest friends—laying in the hospital, nearly lifeless, the blood practically drained from her pretty face.

I turn the corner, my jogging jacket and tights stiff amongst the East Coast cold, and I consider abandoning my morning run altogether when my Apple Watch rings against my wrist, signaling an incoming call.

I answer it, holding my hand up to my frosty lips as I continue huffing down the beaten paved path. I take a deep breath, releasing it quickly.

“Violet Keats.”

“Violet!” I hear from the other line. My name on the call is more of an order than an acknowledgment, and my body perks up, my pulse peaking as excitement finds its way into my skin, making the air shimmer around me. I haven’t heard this voice in several days. I grin.

“Elsie!” I exclaim, puffs of my tired breath meeting the cold air. “Where have you been?”

My best friend scoffs. “The question is: Where haven’t I been? Brett and I have had so much to do. You know, with the wedding and all.”

I smile, warmth spreading in my body despite the chill. “I know,” I say. “And I can’t wait.”

“You can wait,” she jokes. “And you will. I’m so not prepared for this. Not with everything going on now. What with the case and all…” she trails off, her normally chipper voice turning stale. “And Marilyn.”

I nearly stop, my Nikes sliding against a patch of black ice as I run. I catch myself before I can fall. I exhale loudly. “Have you seen her yet?”

“Not yet,” she breathes, her voice a sullen whisper that I can now hardly hear. “But I will. Brett and I are headed there now.”

“Good.” I nod, my body bobbing as I cross the next set of hills along my Central Park running path, my heart kicking into high gear. “She’ll be glad you came to visit.” I hesitate. “Even if she won’t be awake to see it.” The next sentence on my tongue makes my stomach swirl. I swallow a mouthful of chilled air, inhaling the frigid burn. I blow out another breath. “Have you seen Heath?”

“No,” she answers quickly. “But we know he stopped by the hospital last night. Really, I’m surprised you two didn’t bump into each other. He caught a flight from Hollywood last minute as soon as he’d heard.”

I thank the Heavens that we didn’t collide—a confession I would never tell Elsie, but she cuts me off suddenly, the sound of a voice over a scratchy loudspeaker interrupting whatever she was going to say next. She murmurs in the background before coming back on the line.

“Vi, babe. I’ve got to go. We just walked into the hospital. And this place is packed. A hell of a time of year to have your loved ones here. I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.”

“Nor would I,” I say, my gait slowing. “Call me when you have time. I’d like to talk more.” I inhale slowly. “I miss you.”

I can hear her sad smile. “I miss you too, Vi. Call you shortly. Love your face.”

“Not as much as I love yours.”

The call ends. And so does my run. I slow to a walk, staring at my multi-colored surroundings. The dying trees come alive around me. In misty hues of red, orange and yellow, the wind whipping through the trees whispers to me, telling me sad tales I don’t want to hear, and I pick up the pace again, my stride stretching until I’m running again, my red hair blowing in the icy breeze as I try to escape my own thoughts.

I run all the way home.

With a ten-minute shower and a quick change of clothes, I head towards the huge office building—the law offices of King & Sparrow—feeling more spent than ever—yesterday’s late flight weighing more on me than I care to admit.

I hustle through the tiled, shiny lobby of the SparrowHead building, my red-bottomed shoes clicking noisily as I cross past the silver walls, the big black granite structures looming just outside the elevators.

I catch the next lift heading up to the seventieth floor, and as I do, a news report on the in-door elevator television shouts at me, showing a broadcast I’d rather not see. But I can’t help myself.

My mascara-lined eyes are glued to the screen as a report that I’m only too familiar with flashes a barrage of images in my bitterly-cold direction. A blonde, coiffed woman appears on the screen, holding a mic bigger than her arm.

The case against infamous New York financier Chris Jackson is only heating up in the wake of new allegations against the long-time businessman. Late last year, Jackson was publicly arrested on federal charges of fraud, accounting malpractice and securities law violations.

Reports are conflicted on the ongoing testimony of the witnesses in the case against the renowned entrepreneur and philanthropist. Our sources lead us to believe that more witnesses may come to the stand against Jackson, and that additional charges—both criminal and civil—may be pending against the…

The shudder of the elevator as it comes to a stop shocks me back into reality, and I blink as the doors part, straightening the growing frown from my face as I head into the halls of one of the most reputable law offices in the entire country.

Mahogany and gold fixtures meet me as I swipe in at the front receptionist’s desk, and as I stroll past the glass-encased offices, my eyes find those of a man standing behind the clear-plated walls, his blue eyes alive with passion as he gestures in front of a seated meeting of twelve suits.

He glances up at me, smiling. David King.

I return the smile of the man whose name is on the moniker above my head, a sudden warmth creeping its way up my neck, as I nearly collide with the slightly scratched desk of lead legal secretary, Emily Armand. Her caramel colored hair smells of lilac as she flips it over her shoulder, her hazel eyes blazing up at me, as she regards from the safety of her leather-lined seat. She grins.

“Distracted by something?” Her grin reaches her eyes, reflecting back a suspicious glint. I clear my throat, coughing as I throw back my shoulders and try to shake off an impending blush.

I glance down at her. “Not really.” I shrug, struggling to remain flippant. “Just wondering if I’m missing an important meeting or something. I’m several minutes late today.” Damn that run I just had to have before work.

But Emily doesn’t miss a beat. She glances over my shoulder, her eyes shooting in the direction of the suits sequestered around a large oak table. Her eyes hold the hint of suspicion I feel. She frowns.

“I don’t know… They’ve been in there all morning. Some secret meeting. The senior partners never keep me in the loop.”

I grunt, glancing backwards with her, my nerves needing coffee more than ever. “Don’t feel too bad. They don’t tell the junior partners much either.”

“At least you fall somewhere on the totem pole. I’m the gunk under the pole. I’m sure I’ll find out about the secret meeting once the stack of paperwork surrounding it needs to be taken care of.” She stares up at my face, her pretty head tilting as she inspects me, her stare scanning slowly over my face. Emily inclines towards me. “You alright?”

I plaster a smile on my face that might c***k if I push too hard. I force the gesture into my tired eyes. “Sure, I’m fine. Don’t I look it?”

“To be honest? Not really.”

I deflate, my shoulders sagging. “Gee, thanks, Em.”

She laughs softly. “I’m sorry… You just…look like you need to get laid, that’s all.”

“The world would be a better place if it was that simple. Just got a lot on my mind, is all.”

I don’t tell her that “a lot” is short-form for a “s**t-ton” and that I could cover the globe twice over with the amount of baggage barreling down on me, a year’s worth of emotional trauma taking its turns setting on my weary shoulders.

I can feel the burden on my body even now.

The flight from Chicago. Marilyn’s hospital visit. The prospect of running into her wayward brother.

Just the last twenty-four hours have been enough to send even the sanest person over the edge, and I swallow all of my feelings down with a mouthful of determination, my willpower hardening as I walk past Emily, to my office, my legs threatening to give out every step of the pearl carpeted way.

I lock the door behind me, letting out a shaky breath. I bite my lip so hard it might bleed. And I begin my work.

As always.

Work was always something I dove into when life got its worst. And it’s a salve to me now, on the coldest of winter days, as I try to sweep the worries of the world behind me.

With a Nirvana playlist in my headphones and my fingers on the keyboard, I knock out a month’s worth of work in the span of ten hours, and as the clock ticks towards seven o’clock, I pack up my things, feeling more accomplished than ever.

With the majority of the office clearing out, I cut a path towards the elevators, desperate to sink myself into an after-work scotch when a text from Elsie hits my cell phone, stopping any plans I had before.

I open my Messages app, reading the tiny text on the screen:

Come over when you’re off work. We should definitely finish our talk. I want to hear all about Chicago.

I agree. More than she knows.

I shoot her a text back, reminding myself that it’s been hours since we’ve spoken. The Chicago trip is the last thing I want to talk about. But even in the midst of my annoyance with what happened to me back in the Windy City, I know I need to.

To purge myself of all the poison the fiasco has left on my brain.

I catch a yellow cab on the street, heading towards uptown. I bundle in my oversized coat in the back seat, and by the time I make it to Elsie and Brett’s extravagant apartment building, I’m almost half-asleep, my body taking over my brain as its tired limbs sink into the faux-leather inside the taxicab.

I thank the cabbie, tipping him generously.

I hop out of the car, heading towards lobby security as I do, the flash of what feels like five-hundred light bulbs go off in my face as a sea of reporters, holding a myriad of black and gray mics crowd the marble floors.

I nearly trot backwards, tempted to run as the microphones and large lenses swing towards me, each stoic face attempting to see if I’m a person of importance.

My heart starts to race, alarm turning my mouth into mush, as I stare at the chaotic scene before me. Until a very large man, decked all in black, steps forward, his touch surprisingly light as he taps my elbow, urging me forward.

I sigh so hard my body sags. I glance up into the familiar face.

“Phil, Jesus.” I glance over the noisy crowd being shuffled out of the doors by building security. “What the hell is going on?”

He shakes his head, his thick neck barely moving as he levels an annoyed glance over the rumbling mob. He glowers.

“A new development in the case.” He shrugs. “But it’s okay. Mr. Jackson and Ms. Carpenter are expecting you.” He finally smirks. “Come this way.”

He leads me all the way to the platinum-covered elevators, hovering like a protective blanket. We ascend like a bullet towards the thirtieth floor, and as the double doors leading to Elsie and Brett’s private hallway part, I remember where I am, who my friends are.

In the middle of my own misery, I’d almost forgotten.

I had my own problems. But none as pressing as the closest people in my life.

What was an ongoing argument with your ex-husband compared to the not-so-secretive life of a singing superstar and her TV-show partner?

What was selling your old marital condo compared to being the son of the most famous criminal in the country? I let Phil escort me all the way to the door, my own woes whisked away by those of my friends, as I lift my hand towards the pricey paint polished over their penthouse door.

I take a deep breath I can feel all the way to my toes, tightening my fist. And then I knock.