THE DEAL (Manhattan Nights #3)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

MARILYN

I’m already late.

I’m the worst sister-client-friend in the world, ignoring half of the messages filtering to my phone.

But at least, I have an excuse.

When a horde of paparazzi was crowding around your apartment for the better part of the day, when your publicist was cursing you via text in every language you knew (and a couple you didn’t), you had to do your best to try not to implode

And that meant throwing yourself into cleaning every surface of your already immaculate apartment, rubbing your body with bath salts until you were almost raw and drinking more white wine than the average grocery store stocked.

The white wine is still in my system on this dreary Wednesday afternoon as I head out of the hidden back door of my apartment building, bypassing the masses of tabloid press. The bitter taste of the alcohol makes its way from my tongue to my fingers as I tap a quick text to the man who’s been on my mind for the past twenty-four hours.

The man I’m sure I’d kill on sight.

My thumbs beat across my phone’s brightening screen.

LIAM. I know you’ve seen my messages. Call me. Now.

Heading out of the alley fast, I consider hailing a taxi as the sun just sets over the horizon. Doc Martens on, my dark hair flying wild, I head to the subway station, a hoodie wrapped around the unruly strands.

Needing the anonymity of a New York train, I start down the stairs towards the silver cars—hearing it all, feeling it all, my nerves on high in the one city in the world that used to make me feel safe.

Not anymore.

My cellphone pings and the vibration breaks me from my daze. I blink, squinting at the screen, discovering that my little disappearing act wasn’t as great as I thought. I read the bubbled messages on the tinted glass.

Hello? The text yells at me in silence. Where are you? Are you alive?

Seconds later, another ping.

You’d better be alive, Mare. Seriously. If you aren’t alive, I’m going to kill you.

I grimace, tapping quickly on the black glass in my hands. I type a quick message.

Landed. Alive. And back in Manhattan. I glance around the subway train. Almost.

I wait for the barrage I know is coming. The texts come too fast to keep up with.

The first one is a wordless scream.

MANHATTAN?

My publicist yells via iPhone at me.

Are you nuts? The wedding isn’t until Sunday. For another four days! And you just skipped the biggest red carpet of your career.

You can’t be serious.

Christ, you are.

I can tell from your lack of response you are.

And no, I’m not going to give you a break. Don’t look at my texts like that.

Marilyn Vanessa Daniels, you get your People magazine-Most-Beautiful ass back on a plane to LA. Right now. Or so help me God, I will…

I exhale, not reading any further.

I close my eyes. Trying to focus on my breathing.

Just seven more days. Seven more days until the new season starts shooting in LA, and maybe if I’m not fired by then, I can go back to California—and stay—for the next few months with a clear conscience.

But for now I was back home.

Back to my sanctuary. Back to the only place in the world, it seems, where dignity didn’t have a price.

A place where my own wasn’t currently being sold to the highest bidder.

“God, have you seen her tattoos?” I hear from the corner of the subway car, the words crashing back into my consciousness. “Such trash.”

“Such trash.”

The subway speeds and sways, and as the music from the teenage boy’s headphones beats into the air, I inhale the sour air slowly through my nose, wanting to be anywhere but here. Wishing I could rewind the last few days, almost in tears that I can’t.

I’m not ready to face the press. Or paparazzi. Let alone my own brother.

Sneaking onto a subway to the Midtown side of Manhattan might not be the brightest idea I’ve ever had, but it certainly seemed the sanest. But that was almost sixty minutes ago. Before I remembered how much public transportation sucked. How much has changed since I was seventeen. When nobody knew the name Marilyn Daniels, a moniker I wish I could shed like a second skin.

But Miss Magazine won’t let me, spitting my name with venom.

The young woman motions to her friend. “For a girl as pretty as she is, you’d think she’d have a little more class.”

“Skank,” the second one spits.

“Such a skank.”

I swing my gaze upwards, accidentally letting it land on Miss Magazine’s face. Recognition reaches her dull eyes, but before she can utter a single world, the busy train comes screeching to a halt, the electronic voice of the speaker system bellowing overhead in the overcrowded space.

“50th Street. Rockefeller Center,” she calls out. And I scramble towards the opening doors without a backward glance.

The wet April air soaks into my bones the second I step off the stuffy subway. Except I’m not really stepping.

More like hauling ass.

The red-bottomed soles of my black boots squeak as I scurry up the steps to the sidewalk just outside. I inhale, wanting the fresh air more than a fistful of chocolate, but the breath is stopped short when a flurry of black lenses rush towards my face.

Cameras flash. Bulbs flicker. My name comes rushing off twenty different sets of lips, and the cement underneath my feet is lit up from a dozen or more dazzling bright lights.

Fucking paps. I don’t know how they found me. And I don’t care.

I’m too far to make it to my apartment now. Especially on foot.

I do the only thing I can think to do. I run again—something I’m becoming much better at. My expensive soles slap against the sludge of the rainy streets as I huddle inside my hood, my breath ragged as I rush uptown away from my apartment and towards Heath, letting the rain batter me the whole way.

I curse Kayla, my publicist, for being so goddamned right. Manhattan sure as hell knew how to roll out a Welcome mat.

So much for “Home Sweet Home.”

JESSE

Walking home had never felt so f*****g good.

The sidewalk is empty, quiet for an early Wednesday evening. I pass the subway, forgoing it for a brisk pace and as I pass the sound of the speeding train beneath my feet, I take a deep breath, feeling grounded for the first time in a long time, the normally-crowded streets seemingly knowing what I need tonight.

At least…part of what I need tonight.

It’s been a long day, made longer by the madness inside of the King & Sparrow offices.

On the heels of my deposition with a trial witness, I’d spent the better part of my afternoon making deals with men I’d never have shaken hands with in the past.

I sealed the first deal I ever made with a shiny quarter from my back pocket and a carton of Buffy’s Cool Chocolate milk on ice. I was eleven. I’m a far cry from even that, way beyond my pro-bono work, eons past my philanthropy days and every bit of me—every bone in my body—wants to scrub my skin raw, feeling exposed under the New York City sky.

I gaze upwards, marveling at the stars tonight—a rare sight in the city.

Manhattan is beautiful this time of year, just before summer madness sets in.

The rainy month of March slid into an even wetter April and just as the calendar passed eight days in, we were on our seventh rainy evening, ready for eight. Thunder on the horizon bellows, and with my briefcase full of trial files, I head downtown, arm raised for a taxi when I remember that Heath wanted a peek at the same set of briefs.

I text him quickly, heading uptown instead.

On my way over to your spot with the briefs. See you in a few.

I sent the text the second I’m in the back of the cab, my nerves still on edge.

Prosecuting fraudulent financier Chris Jackson was going to be a battle; any d**k for brains could see that. But this trial was different. This one? This was f*****g personal.

And as I march out of the back of the yellow cab, into the now-falling rain and up towards the doorman-protected lobby of Heath’s penthouse apartment, I’m reminded of how far I’ve had to travel, how low I’ll have to go to fight a man with more connections than the mob…and possibly more hidden money than God.

I step up to Heath’s French front-doors barely two minutes later. Suit wet to s**t, hair slicked from the sudden downpour, I shake two puddles worth of water off my shoulders. Slipping out Heath’s spare key, I insert it into the lock, expecting the man himself to greet me at the door—shocked to find something else entirely waiting for me inside.

I drop my briefcase across the threshold with a thud, my mouth almost agape.

The place is a f*****g mess.

Hard rock music blares over the speakers, a deafening bass that fills each room. Dishes are everywhere, including a few broken glasses, and a pair of black combat boots lay strew in the middle of the floor, the soles muddy—staining the cream carpet underneath.

I walk farther into the apartment, feeling a chill. A draft of wrongness hangs in the air, and as I take in the smudged carpet, shattered glass and chaotic beats, my fingers find themselves digging into my slacks pocket, the pocket knife inside slipping over my fingers as I form a fist, my steps slow and deliberate as I creep past the couch, across the kitchen and towards the back bedroom where the music is loudest.

My heartbeat slows, a familiar sentiment settling in. The sentiment of ‘f**k this s**t’. The sounds of running water greet my ears as I turn the corner, and as I get ready to greet whatever goddamned intruder is waiting just beyond the eggshell white-walls, a pair of blue irises appear before me. A set of dark-rimmed eyes too round to be real go even wider, and a scream—louder than the thumping music—makes my heart slam in my chest, sudden awareness stomping into my body as the rest of the body attached to the round eyes comes into view.

I drop my raised fist, coming to terms with the face in front of me.

Familiar. Pale. And beautiful.

The woman with the blue eyes clasps a hand over her half-covered chest, her pink mouth forming a small oval that I can’t stop staring at.

“Jesus!” She exclaims out loud. “What the… Who…” She stammers, seeming incapable of getting each dripping wet word out. She squints. “Jesse?”

I blink almost forgetting my own name. I step forward, my eyes slanted down at her, my voice a rasp that I don’t even recognize. My pulse picks up pace. “How did you… What the hell is going on? What are you doing here?”

My throat squeezes, choking the words. I’ve forgotten niceties, thrown manners out the door.

Because the woman staring back at me, eyes set in widened fear, is none other than the one I’ve been thinking about, dreaming about for the last three days.

In vivid detail.

Except this vision is no fantasy. It’s full-frontal Marilyn. Naked. Her soaking wet body stands before me without a stitch of clothing on, and I swallow hard, wishing the intruder were anyone else but her.