THE CON (Manhattan Nights #8)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORKSix months later

JACOB

"There's a woman asking for you out front. Says she has something for you...I don't know."

I barely glance up at Deacon’s deep-voiced announcement, my eyelids practically reaching for the floor.To be clear, I haven't glanced up at much since I sat down at this bar two hours ago, my rumpled suit jacket over my arm and two pronounced bags under my eyes.

Shaking my head at one of the only friends I've actually made in this Godforsaken city, I slump back into the bar stool and close my eyes.

Though, I hardly close them hard enough to shut out the butterfly in my stomach. That fucker stays, kicking like it's taken a course in karate.

"That's Lewis's doing. I'm sure of it..." I glance into my beer, watching bubbles rise to the surface as I twist the glass in my hand. I take a hard-earned swig, wincing. "He must be trying to butter me up again, hoping I'll forgive him for the stunt he pulled the last time we 'celebrated'. He shouldn't bother; I'm too bloody tired to take revenge."

Deacon's blue eyes stare. "You sure it's Lewis? She doesn't look like a p********e to me." He eyes me with a laugh as I scowl. "Come on now..." he chuckles. "I know your brother. It wasn't hard to guess the stunt he pulled."

I scoff. "The one he hired on my birthday couldn't spell 'dumb' if you gave her the letters d, u, and b." I roll my eyes, sighing. I glance up and meet the owner-bartender's curious stare. "Tell Lewis's Pick-of-the-Month to come back another time. It's my last night in New York...and, with Lewis here, I’m trying to finish without ending up in handcuffs or with my wallet empty and my boxers around my ankles like last time.” My mind rolls back to my last outing with my older brother. “And I'm not exactly in the mood to spend time with anyone who would need a 'Hooked on Phonics' lesson on the spot."

Deacon laughs. “You know ‘jaded and cynical’ aren’t the best fit for you, brother.”

“I’m trying it on for size. Little tight in the crotch, but I’m getting used to it.”

I shake my head, and hide my frustration behind a grimace, willing myself to think about something else. Anything other than making it through the night so I can stay sharp for the decision I have to make in the morning.

My grip tightens on the grog, but I don't drink it.

At least, not right away.

"You sure you should be here, bro?" Deacon asks again for the fortieth time. "Now, I'm not one to turn down a good time. But don't you have to be up at ass-c***k early tomorrow to meet with that lawyer before you fly out of town and abandon the rest of us?"

"One: I'm not abandoning anyone. My time in New York was always on a time-clock--a happy fact I have to damn admit. And two: No, I'm not sure I should be here right now. But I'm sure if I left that Lewis would hunt me down, pin me to a wall, and pour bourbon down my throat. He wants me to enjoy my last night." I lift my beer. "I'd have a better chance at doing that if I was home watching Grey's Anatomy."

A strong hand slaps my shoulder. I turn to see Lewis, his dark eyes grinning, his smile split from ear to ear. "Trust me: You'll have plenty of time to whack off to Sandra Oh when you're back home in London. In the meantime, I think it's best you interact with 3D women. The 2D ones are a little difficult to get off with."

Flashing a grin that wins over patients and women alike, my doctor brother shoves a flute of champagne into my hand.

"To new beginnings," he declares, his deep voice rumbling in the air. "Here's to a brand new chapter." He clinks my glass and I drink from it, nearly knocking it to the back of my throat. "Jesus," he groans, watching me. "You act like a hostage. Are you even swallowing your drink? You're terrible at this, you know!"

"What, whacking off to 2D women? I'm actually quite good at that, I'll have you know."

"No, asshat. Having fun. It's like you're allergic," he answers, eyeing the beer near my hand—a Belgian IPA that has been sitting mostly untouched. “Look, I know since your divorce you spend most of your time in boxing classes, beating a stuffed bag. Or at home on your couch, beating your own c**k. But come on! You've had, what, one beer and you're already babysitting your drinks. It's your last night in New York…Unless this city has actually worked its magic on you?” His thick brows waggle.

“What magic? The magic of ambulance sirens and the smell of street piss wafting from every direction?”

“I’m just saying that we’re supposed to be here celebrating. Singing, dancing--"

"Yeah, well, having me sing along to a trap rapper’s mumbles isn’t exactly my idea of a great time,” I reply, drumming my fingers on the bar. "And I've had two, ya cheeky arsehole." I hold two fingers in front of his face wondering if he can see them, he's so high off champagne. "And I'm not terrible at 'having fun'. I'm just not vying for World's Fastest Drunk as you are, apparently. You'll have to forgive me for not wanting to be completely trousered on the flight back to London tomorrow."

"Bollocks," Lewis exclaims with a laugh, wrapping his arm around my neck. "You're such a drama queen." He pulls me close. "I'm just trying to drink enough for the both of us. I figure if I do, then maybe you'll loosen up. Or get on the karaoke mic." His thick brows waggle. "Or find a girl. Or, hell, maybe do all three."

"And maybe I'll choke on my own vomit in my sleep on the flight. I'd rather not spend half the trip with my head bent over a barf bag; that sounds more your speed. As for singing over a bad eighties tune or 'finding a girl', why don't you do that for the both of us since you're so bloody determined?"

I pull away, taking another sip of champagne that goes down like diesel fuel.

It's not that I don't like fun. I love it.

I just don't care for it here, when this last night should be about concluding business.

The papers are almost fully signed, the matter nearly closed.

Just another meeting in the morning with the new-fangled brother (and lawyer, might I add). And I'm on the next thing out of New York.

I take another sip of the champagne, grimacing the whole time it goes down.

"Well," Lewis presses, his brown eyes boring into me, "if you insist on sipping your champagne at a glacial pace, then you'll at least join the rest of the people who showed up to celebrate your home-going for a dance. There are some lovely good women. Even more lovely bad women." His eyes travel the room, scanning the crowd. "And then there are those who are just plain lovely."

I grimace, staring into the champagne. "Not in the mood."

"To give your feet a workout on the dance floor or your d**k?"

"Both. I just want to get through tonight and make it to my bed."

"Alone? Jeez, bruv, you are a sadder case of lifelessness than I thought."

"I'm not sad," I insist, feeling a twinge of defensiveness. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day."

I want all of it over with. The responsibilities, the decisions, and the questions that are always lingering in my mind.

I want to put it all behind me. I want a fresh start.

I want the beginning of something new.

With the finalization of the will I'll be staring at tomorrow morning, I will erase every problem I've ever had. The graduate school debt that I can't pay off; the losing streak that has seemingly haunted me for the last eight years. The family relations that never lived up to my own standards.

I just want to see this new change for what it really is…

A clean slate.

I’d been wrong when I thought my “slice of inherited pie” might be hundreds of thousands of pounds from my biological father’s will, after all. Turns out it was much much more.

Ten times more.

And for the first time in a long while, I think about how grateful and excited I should be about what happens next.

I take a deep breath and swallow the last sip of champagne.

"Alright," I reply. "You win. I'll whack off to Sandra Oh later. I'm in."

Lewis' lips launch into a wide white smile that complements his deep brown skin, and he pulls me into a hug that's hard enough to crush a bone or two. "You won’t regret it. Grab your drink...and your d**k since it seems to need reattaching, and let's get into the spirit of this night. And hey, if you do decide on taking up the karaoke, I'll for sure be your backup singer. Hell, I'll be your backup for whatever you need." He grins wider.

"I don't need a s*x backup. But thank you, Lewis. Ever the helping hand you are."

"You know it." He grabs my glass from my hand and sets it on the bar, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and leading me onto the dance floor. "Time for you to come out of your shell. And, if you’re lucky, your slacks. Let the fun begin.”

I don't answer, but follow his lead and we find a spot on the dance floor where a woman is already waiting to take Lewis's hand--as always.

The throngs of people dancing over the hardwood floor are thick—slow-moving, and the dark room smells of sweat, cedar, s*x, and cheap drinks. But I don't care.

I'm here. I've decided to live a little.

A blonde with bedroom eyes saunters up to me, her hand sliding into mine smoothly, and we dance. A curly-haired redhead glides up to me on the next song, her hips meeting mine as she grinds into me to a Bad Bunny beat, and I'm pulled into a small samba by another woman with a platinum pixie cut and a round face and lips that look like they could be painted on.

And all the while as the music slips from the speakers and the bodies around me begin to sway in time, Lewis slides glasses of champagne my way, smiling a mile wide as I take each one with a nod.

For the next blissful hour at least, this night--and everything in it--is immaculate, damn near perfect.

That is, until Lewis two-steps over, his hand landing on my shoulder again.

I shout above the music this time, no longer feeling the need to act calm. "What's up?” My voice melds with a reggaeton rhythm. “Are we out of champagne already? Or are we out of women for you to hit on? It's one or the other."

He shakes his head, still smiling as he stares at me with proud brown eyes. "You already know the answer to that last question. I could always use more girls for the night." He leans closer, bellowing in my ear. "But this time, you're the one who's about to get the girl..."

My dancing slows. "What?"

"Yeah." He nods, grinning. "You. There's a woman at the front door to the bar, asking for you. Says she needs to talk to you. Says it's urgent."

"Yeah, I'm sure the escort you hired thinks her business is very urgent," I snipe. "You can tell her I said 'Thanks but no thanks' and that I'm otherwise occupied with trying to keep this sugary arsed champagne from crawling back up my throat."

Lewis frowns. "Speaking of throats...I know you could use a woman with a ready and able throat. But I gotta tell ya: I didn't hire a hooker tonight," he says, offended. "I swear! Your birthday was the last time I try to force you to make contact with any woman. I've learned my lesson. I'm staying f*****g football field away from your love life from now on. I've got my own women to court. It's too hard courting yours. Especially when the ones you only seem to care about exist on a screen. I'll pass."

I stop, a thread of awareness unraveling inside me. I blink. "Then who the hell is this person and what does she want?"

"I don't know." He throws up his hands, his dark hair gleaming under the dim lights. "I didn't ask too many questions. But if it were me and a woman who looked like this one was asking for me, I would shut my pie-hole and listen." He whistles. "Seriously. She looks like she could be the next Mrs. Lewis Masterson."

I grin, sweat starting to bead under my collar from the dancing. "You'd have to secure a first Mrs. Jacob Masterson before you can think about the next."

"Good point. If she asks, tell her I'm very single and very willing to let her walk all over me with those leather boots she has on."

I roll my eyes. "You're positively disgusting, bruv."

"Never claimed to be anything but."

"I'll check it out. Thanks."

He winks at me, and turns back to the dance floor with his hand on another woman's waist. I stare after him, my ears turning red and my heart pounding.

She asked for me.

I wonder why?

I don't know half of these people at the party. And I certainly can't think of anyone in this city who knows me enough to ask for me by name.

I take a breath and walk towards the bar, my eyes on my shoes, my heart racing with anticipation as the liquor works its way through my system. My pulse soars as I cross the room.

I usually don't like surprises. Being a psychiatrist, I've dealt with them my entire life. But this feels different. I wonder why.

I walk over to the front, stepping into the cooler night air and out of the warmth and glow of the bar.

Under my blazer, my shirt--a Tee that reads "Heavy D as in Depressed" in dark letters--shows sweat across my chest as I walk nearby the bar's brick face. The night is cool and still, but not enough to prevent a light breeze from picking up and sending the fine hairs on my chest into a frenzy of shivers.

The person who asked for me at the bar is standing by the entrance, her back turned to me as I walk towards her.

Masses of black hair pile into a bun at the back of her head, her skin tan and dewy under the dark Manhattan night sky as she faces the opposite end of the street. Wearing a cream silk top, a black skirt that goes past her knees, and boots that look like they could kill me with one step, she is exquisite.

Even I can tell from a distance.

And there’s a lot to take in, her slender body sloping in subtle curves you could get lost in if you let yourself.

She's tall, her legs and arms long and lean with wide hips and a narrow waist that flares as she turns from side to side, surveying the block.

Seemingly unaware of her captivating aura, she tilts her chin up to the sky. Her eyes scan upward at the sky as she waits for me to reach her, or perhaps she's waiting...

For someone else.

The thought creeps into my head, taking hold.

Goosebumps can’t help but ripple across my skin. And as I walk closer, I can feel the beat of the music inside the bar intensifying, the bass from the speakers rumbling through my legs with every step I take.

I can smell her.

Her mix of perfume. The scent of coconut and vanilla, sweet and sultry on the surface of her skin.

It's intoxicating, a heady mixture that practically blinds me with a desire I wasn’t sure was possible anymore.

I reach her side, my eyes still following the way she's looking up at the night sky. I have to clear my throat. My heart suddenly leapt into it, blocking the words as they leave my lips.

"Hello?" I manage, the expression sounding shaky even to my own ears.

She doesn't turn around.

But as I get closer, my heart seizes in my throat, and my feet freeze in their tracks.

It’s the shock, I think.

I don't know how I didn't recognize her sooner. And now that I'm close enough, I have no idea what to say or do.

All I can do is stare.

Stare at the last woman I expected to ever see here. The last woman I never thought I'd see again in my life.

Sophie Santellini...

Also known as the last woman I went to bed with. The last woman I whispered sweet-nothings to in the middle of a sweat-soaked night.

My pulse slows.

Jesus.

Maybe I’ll end this night in handcuffs after all.

“Sophie,” I say first.

She turns, her face illuminated by the flickering light from the city behind her. Her green eyes--now wide--blink up at me. “Jacob...I, uh... Hi.”

My teeth grit. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing here?"