THE PLAY (Chicago Nights #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

EMILY

Friday - midnight

An entire day doesn’t erase the bad taste from last night’s meeting. And neither does this Kung Pao chicken I’m eating in bed.

Instead of writing notes like I’m supposed to, I’ve been writing the words, Sevin Smith is my client. Sevin Smith is my client, over and over, but the doodling is no catharsis for my trouble.

Because my asshole neighbor is my client. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.

I figure if I say the sentence more, it’ll start to make sense.

The twenty-four hours after Stephan’s secret meeting is stuffed with nothing but research on our new case, and with my head stuffed in my laptop and takeout in my lap, I do my absolute best to avoid the possibility of ever running into Sevin Smith in my apartment building.

But the time marks eleven o’clock, a full day after the new news.

I find myself shiftless, looking up paternity statues for the state of Illinois, my eyes tired from the effort.

Headphones in, Fiona Apple music on, I try not to stare—weary and dry-eyed—at the pile of laundry in the corner of my bedroom where, if everything had gone according to plan last night, Jason might have set up a bottle of wine.

The La Perla lingerie (the ones Jason once hinted he liked) sits lonely on top of the laundry pile, and I pretend I’m okay with China Taste being my date for the night.

That I’m okay with being rejected by another guy in an online world where even a man you’ve been dating for two months might ditch you for other options. That I’m okay with going back to wearing my bikini-cut panties with the cartoon characters on them instead of the high-priced, hoping-to-get-laid lingerie.

Fiona’s still singing to me, lovely lyrics that tell me I’m criminal as I sit on the edge of my bed in my Hey Arnold! cartoon undies, and with redemption on my mind, I finally get up, grabbing the dirty clothes from that sad little corner.

Slapping on a pair of sweats, I grab the overflowing hamper. Music at last on pause, I prepare to take the long elevator trek down to the fourteenth floor, dragging the dirty laundry behind me, checking my phone for the fortieth time.

Midnight.

On a Friday night. Alone with nothing but unclean drawers.

Pathetic.

Pressing the elevator button for the communal laundry room many levels below, I get in and pray that none of my neighbors see me.

Standing there. Makeupless in a t-shirt and sweats, mouthing the words to nineties music with Chinese “special sauce” decorating the corner of my lips.

But my prayer for a quick trip is wasted somewhere around the twenty-seventh floor as the empty elevator slows.

I wait for the doors to part.

And as soon as they do, a pair of green eyes peer out beyond the tiny elevator space, snatching the already-shallow breath from my body.

My heart kicks into high-gear, pulse pounding as the silver car opens to reveal my upstairs neighbor standing just outside of it.

The man living right above me. Mr. Makes-Too-Much-Noise.

Mr. Makes-The-Women-He’s-With-Scream-Bloody-Murder-in-Bed.

Sevin Smith is my client all right.

But not just that. Right now, Sevin Smith is in my elevator.

And he’s looking right at me.

My breath seizes in my throat, forgetting how to make it to my mouth.

Fuck.

Sevin Smith is in my elevator. Seven Smith is in my elevator.

My asshole neighbor is in my elevator.

Hell, we may have taken this elevator a million times together since he’s moved in. But I guess I’ve always been too busy, too buried in some new client brief to notice the serious-faced Adonis riding a few feet away from me.

Every day.

He says nothing as I shift on my feet, a strange glint playing in his irises as his hardened stare clashes with mine.

I can’t move. Or talk. Or think in those few seconds that pass between us.

In that moment he takes his first step towards me, I don’t know how…but I know that he knows. Knows that I’m the neighbor, the one who’s called the cops. Or even the one who’s taken him on a client.

But he doesn’t speak.

Not one word.

The gorgeous real-life version of the man from the magazine just stands there, a human statute in low-slung jeans.

And to make matters worse, as if to confirm he knows my little secret, he lifts his chiseled chin towards me, raises one eyebrow…and smiles.

Smelling of smoky musk and pure man, he sucks the very air out of the small lift as he walks inside to stand, a package in his hands, his muscular body taking up half the space.

At the vision of him coming to stand beside me, my heart leaps into my throat and decides to dance.

The double doors close, locking us inside, and I’m seconds away from melting into the floor—anything to escape this pure Hell I’m in.

I curse myself in every word in English…and a few that aren’t when suddenly the chiseled granite of a man beside me speaks, his husky deep voice filling the elevator with its warmth.

“Hm.” He grunts, a small gravelly sound. His face doesn’t move much.

“You know, I’ve never seen anyone use the elevator this late but me…”

“Excuse me?” I’m not sure I hear him right.

“The elevator. This late.” He doesn’t look at me. “I’ve never seen anyone past, hell, ten. I’ve only ridden it about three times or so, because it’s always stockpiled with people. It’s almost like they’re waiting for me to get on so they can stack up like Legos.”

I tilt my face towards him, my voice breathless as I respond. “I think the majority of the people in this building wait until I’m late before they decide to make a go for the elevator. I’m convinced they’re having meetings on how to f**k up my life.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a smile spread across the stubble on his chiseled face. I try not to stare at his lips as he talks. “Don’t think anyone needs to have meetings on how to f**k up my life. I’m doing a pretty grand job of f*****g it up quite well by myself these days.”

I bite my lip, the skin rolling between my teeth as my mouth starts speaking on its own. “And maybe screwing up mine in the process?” I lift a brow, never looking at him. “I was under the impression that I had dibs on this elevator at this hour.”

He grins, a small gesture I see from the corner of my eye. “Maybe we need a reservation system, you know. A way of booking this damn thing.” He smiles wider. “How would that work exactly? Would I walk right up to the doorman downstairs? Say ‘I have a reservation for the elevator. Name’s Sevin Smith. Asshole. Party of one, please’?”

I can’t fight the smirk curling upwards on my face. “Pretty sure he’d turn down your reservation if you worded it like that.”

“Damn, you think?” He glances at me for the first time since he’s entered the elevator, and I have to fight to keep my knees from faltering. “We’ve gotta work out some type of system then.”

We. The casual way he throws out the word has me imagining inexplicably dirty things with this man—this client that I’m now standing with. I clear my throat.

“Well, there is the MyNeighbor app…”

“MyNeighbor app?” He looks sincerely confused. “Sounds very “Mr. Rogers”-like. Does the app come with the Mr. Roger’s hand puppets too or am I expecting too much?”

“Trust me.” I hold up a hand, letting myself laugh. “It’s nothing like Mr. Rogers or his neighborhood. Just a bunch of neighbors bitching about garbage disposal processes, juicy gossip and which tenant didn’t take his or her trash out on time.”

He lifts his chin towards me. “Sounds invigorating.”

“It absolutely…is not.” I chance a glance at him, and my pulse beats double time. “But it helps you stay on top of local news, ongoings in the building.”

“Ongoings like stalkers, creeps or the occasional elevator reservation talk?”

“Something like that.” I catch his eye and keep it this time.

He’s absolutely mouthwatering, standing there like that in a simple t-shirt and jeans, and for a blissful sixty seconds, I forget…

Forget that I secretly hate this man. Forget that he’s my client. Forget the havoc he’s wreaked in my life.

I’m not even supposed to meet with him. Not yet.

I’m supposed to meet him with Stephan in The Firm’s offices. Where there’s much more feet—and maybe even mace—between us.

I purse my lips to keep from saying anything further, and the elevator stops, signaling my floor.

I close my eyes slowly as I leave the elevator and still Sevin stands there. He stares after me, his eyes burning a path of heat down my back.

I turn to him from the hallway, my stare finding his.

“Well, it was…nice. Nice to meet you, Sevin.”

It really was. Despite every ounce of blood in my body that says to avoid this man like the plague. I inhale deeply as he says nothing for a full second, his green eyes sparking with something sensual buried deep inside.

He opens his mouth. “It was nice to meet you, too…Emily.”

My lips fall open, shocking sucking the breath from my lungs.

Shit, he does know that I’m…well, me.

The shock morphs into relief when he points downwards at my personalized law school grad t-shirt, and before I can utter another word, the doors shut, leaving me more flustered about my new client than I’ve felt about a man in years, my pulse playing the congas for hours even after his distinct scent leaves my skin.

SEVIN

My Friday night had been off to a bad start. Until now.

Minutes after the pretty brunette leaves the elevator, I’m still thinking about her. The only thing that stops me from thinking about her even more is my ringing cell phone, and by the time I step out of the elevator onto my penthouse floor, my cell phone rings again, and I realize I missed my chance.

My chance to give her my number.

Damn.

I’ve only been back in town for the day since the Cougars had it off, but already so much has happened.

A quick check-in with my doctor on my recently-rehabbed knee, a session with my trainer that damn near killed me, a quick clean-up of the women’s underwear in my guest bedroom—that was fun…

Oh, and picking up a package delivered to the wrong floor right before meeting the most sexily dressed-down woman I’ve ever seen.

On top of all of that, my assistant won’t stop calling me non-stop.

I press the “Ignore” button on my cell as Naomi’s name flashes there, twisting my penthouse key into the lock.

I feel it click.

But when I open the door, she’s already standing there behind it, her brown eyes piercing me from behind the kitchen counter as she turns. Her arms cross under her ample chest, pressing tight.

“Thanks for hitting the ‘Screw you’ button on me, you asshole.”

Asshole. Since it’s technically past midnight, I guess that’s the first for the day.

I am sure there will be many more.

Naomi holds up her phone. “I thought you might ignore me, so I decided to drop by.” She tilts her head. “And I was right.”

“No offense, Nome. But I’m tired from these spring training games all week, and I needed a break. So sue me.” I walk to the fridge. “What do you want to get on me about this time? That I should be ashamed of having a social life? That my s****l history is going to prevent a future in hosting Good Morning America? Because if that’s what you’re getting at it, then it would help if you actually said it. I gave up that dream a million orgasms ago.”

Behind her bulky glasses, my assistant’s eyes widen at me with growing sympathy. The air in my penthouse is the opposite—cold from lack of regular use, while she paces the length of my living room, her fingers tapping lightly against her arm.

She bites the edge of one red nail.

“It’s not quite that simple, Sevin.”

“Hate to be a little rough here, Naomi. But I’m running off about three hours of sleep, and it’s not exactly how I want to spend the next three weeks getting ready for the regular season.” Her eyebrows knit together, and I shrug. “That damned downstairs neighbor of mine again. Apparently instead of getting laid like a normal human being, she gets off on calling the cops on me, so the neurons are firing a little slow today.”

“You mean that Cold War of yours is still going on? And how exactly do you know that Mr. Telephone Man living below is a woman instead?”

“Because I heard Sarah McLachlan playing beneath my floorboards and any sane man listening to that would have killed himself by now.” I inhale deeply. “So while my three brain cells are still firing, Nome, by all means, paint a picture for me here of this new tabloid story. Create a sketch. Use a crayon. I’m flexible.”

She sighs, ruffling her curly brown bob. She walks slower. “I know I’m taking a long time to get this out, but I need you to promise not to freak. Trust me: I wouldn’t bother you this late, if it wasn’t freak-out-worthy.”

“Meaning?” I lean forward on the couch, hearing it squeak.

“Meaning…it would be different if this new tabloid story was going after your purported bevy of bedmates. Or your stats at shortstop. Or even that fight you had with that St. Louis pitcher from last week.”

“Guy’s a tool. Not my fault he didn’t have the arm he claimed to have to back up that mouth of his.”

Naomi c***s her head. “And yet you nearly succeeded in breaking that arm. Not so expected from a man whose teammates previously nicknamed ‘Mr. Cucumber.’. She pauses. “You’re different these last few weeks. You’ve been different.”

“I’m not different because I had a moment. Aren’t people allowed to have moments?” The silence thickens between us, as I grip my hair, a headache starting to form behind my eyes. I have to stop my fingers from shaking. “So, are you sure that asshole pitcher didn’t give an interview about me? Call me nasty names? Nome…” I try to reason with her. “If so, I can deal with it.”

Naomi goes to town on that nail, chewing it to shreds—a tell-tale sign of her nerves. “Uh, no.” She exhales. “This is so much worse than that.”

“Nome, seriously, the theatrics are killing me. And I gotta be honest with you: My acting skills are not exactly up to snuff.” I blurt out, frustration making the top of my head heat under my baseball cap. “I’ll have a pack of Crayola™️ delivered to your place, if it will make things easier. I need you to spell. This. Out.”

Picking up her pace again, I watch Naomi cross the hardwood floors again, that nail of hers wearing thin.

“Okay, so it’s like this: How good are you at keeping track of the women you’ve been with?”

“And by ‘been with,’” I motion, “you mean like…?”

“Played a game of ‘Hide the Salami’? Yup, that one.”

I frown. “I don’t keep a running number.”

“Names?”

I c**k an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

My assistant’s lips wear thin. “Would you remember a woman by the name of Deborah Jett by any chance?”

I think. Deborah. Deborah. Deborah.

Rings a bell. Not one that tinkles too loudly, though.

I do remember a couple of Deborah’s. Maybe a Debbie. Or two.

I haven’t been the most sexually active player in the League, by any chance. Far from it. But the women I’ve been with…especially recently.

Ever since the MCL tear and prognosis several weeks ago, my penthouse has seen more guests than usual, a fact made more clear by the easily irritable neighbor below me who hasn’t taken too kindly to the s*x marathons.

Maybe this neighbor is the Deborah Naomi’s talking about. Could be.

Miss Bane of my Existence living below tends to play the type of Angry Girl music that I thought upped and died in the nineties, and it occurs to me that maybe she is this Deborah person, calling in whatever tabloid story Naomi is so against telling me about.

I run a palm across my face.

“Is it her? The woman downstairs? Because if it is, then feel free to schedule a sit-down with Miss Uptight. It’s about time we meet face-to-face…”

“Sev!” Naomi interjects. “That’s not it!”

I blink, frustration making my brow furrow further. I stand. “Then what the hell is it?”

Naomi sighs. “Deborah.” Her breath is heavy. “This woman Deborah is saying that you have a child. That she has a child.” She swallows. “That your child is her child.”

My blood grows cold. Every piece of my body including the bum knee locks up, and I lean closer to Naomi, not wanting to miss a word.

“Excuse me?”

Naomi closes her eyes, opening them just as fast. “Deborah Jett. A single mother living in New York. She has a child. An eight-year old girl. She says you’re the father of her child.”

I won’t believe it. “Bullshit. That can’t be right.”

“Are you sure, Sevin?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I start to pace. “I never sleep with a woman without a condom. Never.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

But even as I say the word, it shakes.

An eight-year old. That would mean that me and this Deborah met nine years ago.

Right before I joined the League.

I was a mess back then. Screwed up.

It was the year I’d broken up with Kimmy, and as a nineteen-year old entering the Major Leagues, I’d done what most healthy red-blooded American men would do when exposed to a new world of wealth and women.

Except I was worse. Much worse.

The entire year between leaving college and entering the draft was only a blur. A blur of bedroom sheets, sweaty nights and booze.

And I can feel the color drain from my face as I remember it all. Naomi looks at me harder, her almond eyes rounding. She licks her lips.

“So, I’m guessing that ‘never’ isn’t as rock-solid as we thought?”

I swallow, nodding, barely able to look at her. “f**k, I don’t know. That would be nine years ago…and I just don’t know.” I glance at her, finally meeting her stare, holding onto the edge of my baseball cap—my only calm in the rising storm. “The season starts in two weeks, Nome. Two damn weeks. I don’t need this s**t right now…if isn’t true.”

“I know. And normally, I wouldn’t even tell you about something like this. Especially because this type of thing happens to sports stars all the time.” She blows out a breath. “But this really has me freaked out.” She nods, her irises holding onto some resilience. “And this Deborah woman says…well, she wants…” She hesitates, licking her lips. “Sev, she wants a million dollars to keep quiet about it.”

“A million what?”

“A million dollars. Enough to buy a s**t-ton of those crayons you love so much.” She grins, but it falls. “It’s a good thing Kayla told us about this woman before she officially started shopping it out to the blogs.”

I glare at her, my blood gone cold at the thought. Doesn’t take a million dollars of crayons to realize what’s going on.

I’m being blackmailed. I’ll never look at a pack of Crayola™ the same again. f**k.

I exhale. “And what does our PR extraordinaire think about our chances of making this bullshit story disappear?”

Naomi starts biting on the edge of the damn nail again, and I already know I’m not going to like the answer.

Goddammit. And just when I thought the Good Morning America news was the worst of the day…