Balancing the Scales Read online

  I’m still seething as he marches out of the office. Sarah moves into his spot. “That wasn’t exactly a lesson in how to buy votes.”

  “He had it coming. He’ll be back with his tail between his legs tomorrow.”

  “Maybe. But you need more than that to get your name on the door.”

  She’s right. I drag a hand roughly over my face. When I open my eyes I catch sight of my wallet on my desk. The wallet I forgot on my non-date with the most “human” person I know.

  * * * *

  Paddy’s is still busy when I arrive. Not like a weekend night but busy enough to have some atmosphere. A couple of guys are playing live music on the stage, just their raspy voices and guitars. I can hear their Irish accents in their words. They’re good. Real good.

  A group of women in tailored skirts and blouses are dancing. I guess they had a rough day and need to blow off some steam. I can understand that. Other clusters of people stand and sit around high tables. Feet are tapping, heads bobbing.

  The place looks like a typical Irish bar—green leather upholstery, mahogany bar frame and tables, gold trimmings. I don’t see her. My irritation at Malcolm Eddy is suddenly subdued, replaced by disappointment. Maybe she had one drink and left. Maybe she decided not to come.

  A broad, inked man wraps his hands around four beers and moves away from the bar. As he does, I see Becky, sitting on a stool, turning a bottle of Bud in her hand. Her hair falls back from around her shoulders as she laughs at something the bartender says.

  Has she looked this gorgeous all day?

  I make my way toward her and place a hand on the small of her back, glaring at the young bartender like an animal claiming its prey. It’s undeniably territorial, even though I know I have no right to behave like that. That’s how men with girlfriends, fiancées and wives behave. It’s not how men like me behave. Women are never around long enough for me to be territorial. And that’s how I like it. How it needs to be. Look what happened today. I took a few hours off and the shit hit the fan. That’s why men like me, and Marty, we focus on the job.

  As I’m thinking that, she blindsides me, flashing me the kind of smile Julia Roberts would flash—big, perfect, hypnotizing. “You changed your mind.”

  I clear my throat and with it my head. “Kind of. I need your help.”

  She pats a barstool beside her and I order a bottle of Bud to match hers.

  “What can I help you with?”

  I explain my position at Statham Turner. I tell her about the vote for named partner in four weeks. And, for the first time feeling a little ashamed by it, I tell her that half the partnership hates me. When I’m done, I drain my beer and ask the bartender for two more. The whole time, Becky stays quiet. I silently hope that she doesn’t see me the way the real estate team does. And I silently admit to myself that I give a crap about what she thinks of me.

  “Okay, I’ve got it all. I think. But why do you need my help? I don’t have the first clue about being a lawyer, or attorney, as you freaky people say.”

  I raise a brow while taking a swig of beer. “Freaky people?” She shrugs, amusing me. “I need your help because you’re…you.” What I want to say is, “Because you have a way with people, with me.” You can fill a room with your smile alone. You make people around you feel lighter, somehow. You make me feel lighter. What I actually say is, “You’re human and friendly. You can mix with people in one of the finest restaurants in New York, and be equally comfortable stuffing an entire hot dog in your mouth, or sitting in an Irish bar drinking beer.”

  “A girl can have roots and wings.”

  Her words make me pause, my hand holding my bottle midway between the bar and my mouth. I’m familiar with those words. Very familiar. “So?”

  She bites her bottom lip, and it takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to lean forward and take it between my own teeth. “You said he thought you were out to steal his client, right? And he wanted to do this work himself, even though he’s not really clued up enough on that type of law to do it. So, my guess is, you do work that maybe the guys on the forty-sixth floor don’t think you should do sometimes?” Her words end on a cautious question.

  “It’s different. Real estate work is easy. I could do that stuff with my eyes closed.”

  She takes an exaggerated breath and sits back on her stool, looking self-satisfied, like she just won the biggest case of her career. Well, okay, not quite that smug.

  “You think I should hand over some cases?”

  She shrugs. “You wanted my advice. Give them something that isn’t just important to them but that shows a concession on your part. A change in your ways. If you really want to have your name on the door, you’ll need to start spreading the wealth. I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but since you asked… You need to consider yourself less and firm more.”

  “Ah, British Becky, what are you doing to me?”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I focus on the top shelf of the bar. Those words have so many meanings.

  Chapter 9

  Drew

  I hate every goddamn second of this, and it hasn’t even begun. I knock on Malcolm Eddy’s office door. He doesn’t look pleased to see me, nor does he beckon me in. But he does lean back in his chair and rest his hands on the arms. I recognize that as an invitation.

  I close his door behind me. I don’t need support staff in earshot of what’s going down this morning. If I could turn the volume of my own ears to mute, I would.

  “Malcolm.” Even his name sounds strained as it leaves me. “I’m sorry. Maybe I should have been more forceful in telling you to register rights.” If you’d told me the facts, I would have been. “I’d like to help you put things right. It’s my bag. I can fix this for you. But, I understand your reservations. That’s why I’m giving you this, if you have time to take it on.”

  I hand over a file from a medium-size client of mine. “My client is interested in buying a commercial plot of land to build a warehouse. It’s your territory, not mine. So, I was thinking we could trade. Share our expertise.”

  He takes the file from me and looks inside. “This is a decent client.”

  All my clients are decent, dumbass.

  He stands from his desk and waves the file at me in the way he might point a finger.

  God, I’d like to rip his hand right off.

  “I know you’re doing this to win my vote, Drew.”

  I hold up my hands. “Malcolm, I want your vote. No doubt about it. And hopefully you recognize that my billables mean making me named partner over Patrick would be the best thing for this firm. But right now, all I’m trying to show you is that you were right.” The words physically burn like acid in my throat. “Sometimes I put myself before the firm. This file is my way of telling you that from here on, I promise to put the firm first. Always. That means placing work with the best partner to service the client and, in this case, that’s you.”

  He stares at me, then drops my file to his desk and puts his hands on his hips. “I’ll think about it.”

  Goddamned motherfu— “I appreciate it.”

  I walk away, silently fuming. Back in my office I pace the floor, trying to contain my anger. Just as I’m beginning to find a bearable level of proverbial red mist, Malcolm appears, holding a bundle of documents.

  “The case. It’s yours. I respect that you came up to my office, and I respect your apology. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  I take the bundle from him in my left hand and hold out my right. He shakes it and switches his miserable mug into a condescending smile. As he leaves, he calls over his shoulder, “And a free dinner might not hurt, Harrington.”

  What a dickhead.

  “Uh, what was that?” Sarah stands in her familiar pose—one leg straight, the other pointed out to the side. Her hands are on her hips. Her Hollywood pout is in place.
r />   “Just making sure we get our name on the door.”

  * * * *

  I’m dialing her number before it really registers that I want to speak to Becky. “Drew. Hi.” Her voice is mumbled, like she’s holding the phone between her ear and shoulder. Then I hear a sound, like she’s sucking her finger.

  “Are you making cupcakes?”

  “Bugger off, Drew. I don’t make cupcakes. But I am making cheesecake.”

  “What kind of cheesecake?”

  “Not that you’ll care, Dessert Hater, but it’s chocolate orange.”

  “That sounds kind of plain for you.”

  “That’s because you haven’t tasted my chocolate orange cheesecake before.”

  “I’m going to concede because I know it will be fantastic. I thought you weren’t working this week.”

  “I’m not. I’m in my apartment, but my next bucket-list item is the Empire State Building, and since you told me I must go up there at night, I have nothing better to do right now.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m glad you listened for a change.”

  She giggles, and I give myself a second to indulge in the sound.

  “Becky, I’m calling to thank you for your advice last night.”

  “Did you give the other guy a case?”

  “I did. He smiled like a chubby kid eating one of your cakes.”

  She’s laughing again. Heartily this time. It warms me from the inside out.

  “Well, Drew Harrington, budding master of the universe, I’m pleased you listened for a change.”

  Now it is my turn to laugh. God, this feels good. Being around her makes me feel good. I should get back to work but I don’t want her to go yet. “What’s next on your list?”

  “After the Empire State? South Beach Boardwalk. Staten Island.”

  “When are you doing that?”

  “I don’t know. This weekend, maybe. Do you want to come?”

  “To Staten Island? This weekend?”

  “Ahh, yep.”

  I remember Millie’s insistence that I go to Mom and Dad’s for Aunt Nellie’s sixtieth barbeque. Aunt Kathleen’s farts. Uncle Geoffrey’s snoring at the dinner table. Uncle Jack’s incessant whining about being the chef, even though he cremates the meat every time. It would be torture, but it’s been a long time, and Millie looked so disappointed when I said I’d think about it.

  I take a deep breath before I suggest the most boneheaded thing in the world. “Well, you know my family lives out there. They want me to go this weekend. How about you get me through the torture of that, and I’ll show you South Beach properly?”

  “Ah, family? I, erm, I’m not sure, Drew. It’s just… I just…”

  I’m an idiot. “Sorry. That was a stupid idea. Forget it. I have to go, Becky. Have a great time tonight.”

  “Drew—”

  I hang up the phone and look at my Omega, wondering whether it’s legitimately late enough for scotch. What the hell was I thinking? Take her to meet my family?

  Fuck it. Eleven a.m. is plenty late enough.

  I take a crystal decanter from the bar table in the corner of my office—hey, this man works long hours. Before my glass of scotch reaches my lips, it is snatched away.

  “Far too early,” Sarah says. “What’s going on?” She opens my mini fridge and hands me a bottle of sparkling water.

  “Can’t a man just want a drink?” I ask, moving to sit on the leather sofa.

  “A man, yes. You, at this hour, no. Spill.”

  “Sarah, there’s nothing to spill.”

  “It’s Becky, isn’t it? She’s gotten under your skin.” I don’t reply. I stare at the abstract aluminum art on my wall. “I had lunch with her on Saturday, and I’ve got to tell you, she’s great. Normal. There’s a lot to be said for normal in this city.”

  I know exactly what Sarah means. But Becky isn’t normal. She’s far from normal. There isn’t a stereotype I could fit her into. She breaks every mold. She’s smart, funny, incredible looking. Those tits and that ass… And there’s no pretense with Becky. That’s definitely uncommon in the city.

  “I’ve never known you to want anything more than a one-night stand with any woman besides your mother, your sister and me—all of which would be very wrong, for the record. Yet, you can’t stay away from Becky.”

  She’s calling me out and I don’t like it. To even consider Becky as more than a one-night stand rocks me to the core. “I took her to the game because I was being nice. Not romantic. Not looking for anything. I was just… Damn it, Sarah, you told me to take her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, you told me she needed a friend. Same thing. And I’ve got work to do. So…”

  I move across my office and open my laptop, dropping heavily into my desk chair and keeping my focus on anything other than Sarah.

  She stands. “Fine. I’m just calling it how I see it, Drew. But I think you like her. And I think you’re afraid because you’ve never really allowed yourself to like anyone before.”

  “You need to go take a pill or something, Sarah.”

  “Maybe I do. I must be crazy to have stood by you all these years.” She moves huffily to my door. With her hand braced on the handle, she tells me, “It doesn’t always have to be about work, Drew. You’re entitled to a life too.”

  I lift my head to look at her. “No, Sarah, it is about work. It’s about making a life for myself that a lot of people aren’t fortunate enough to be able to. And right now, there’s a hell of a lot going on in this firm.”

  The pissy attitude I saw just moments ago is replaced by something I like even less. Pity. “I overstepped. I’m sorry. Just…don’t waste precious time if you like her. God knows life can be too short.”

  Now it’s my turn to pity her. I held her when her husband died in his early thirties. I don’t force her to try to see anyone else, even though it’s been five years since she lost Danny. But I hear her pain now, and I’m an asshat for bringing it to the front of her mind.

  She dips her head as we tell each other in a look that we understand each another. “I invited her to Staten Island for the weekend.”

  “And?”

  “She was going to say no. I don’t even know why I asked her. I just thought, she could see the boardwalk and…”

  “You want her to go with you to see your family. As I said, you like her.” With an I-told-you-so smirk, Sarah goes back to her desk, and at least between us, the world is right again.

  * * * *

  I’ve spent the day putting out fires and fixing Malcolm’s case. A few calls were all it took to reach a settlement. It turns out Malcolm was panicking over some flaky kid, who was looking to make a quick buck by riding on someone else’s idea.

  I send one of the associates out of my office with instructions to draft a settlement agreement and check my watch. Done for the day at 9 p.m.. Not bad at all.

  As I let my head hang over the back of my desk chair, I think about what Sarah said earlier. Life is too short. She’s right. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my folks and, regardless of the mess I made with British Becky, I should go to see them this weekend.

  I pick up my cell phone from my desk and drop my sister a message to tell her I’ll be there—Aunt Kathleen’s farts and all.

  When I look up from my phone, Marty is making his way past the glass wall of my office and to my door. “Hey, are you done for the day? I thought we could grab a drink, since I’ve heard on the grapevine that Malcolm Eddy is likely to side with us over Patrick.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am done.” I push back my chair and stand. “Give me two minutes. I’ll meet you at the elevator.”

  I grab my wallet and pull on my jacket over my shirt. While I’m shutting down my computer, my cell chimes. Expecting it to be my sister sending some kind of abuse, I
read on the move. But what shows on my screen stops me dead in my tracks.

  A picture of Becky loads. What I notice first is her intentionally sad face. Her bottom lip sticks out beyond the top. But she doesn’t have sad eyes. Her blue irises betray her happiness. That’s when I notice the background of the image. She’s standing at the top of the Empire State Building. The Chrysler Building is lit up like Christmas behind her. And she’s holding…yes…she’s holding a cheesecake and a spoon.

  The phone bleeps again. Words follow the image:

  YOU WERE BEING FRIENDLY. I PANICKED. I’M A KNOBHEAD. I’M SORRY. FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, I’M PUNISHING MYSELF BY EATING UNTIL I BECOME THE SIZE OF A HOUSE.

  I let out an amused breath. Even the size of a house, I think she’d still be stunning.

  “You coming?” I hear Marty call.

  I’m watching the bubbles on my screen that tell me she’s typing. “Just a sec.”

  P.S. YOU WERE SO RIGHT. THE VIEW FROM UP HERE AT NIGHT IS QUITE SIMPLY BREATHTAKING. I NEVER WANT TO COME DOWN.

  She’s still there.

  I get to the elevator as the doors are opening to our floor. “Sorry, Marty, change of plan. There’s something I need to take care of.”

  “Take care of what? Work?” Marty is asking as we step into the car.

  “Just something,” I tell him, as I scroll through the contacts in my phone to the number I am looking for.

  * * * *

  I’m met at the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building by Alicia. One good thing about being a true New Yorker and a well-known city attorney is that you get familiar with all the best people to know.

  Alicia tucks her blond hair behind her ear and bats her eyelids at me. It worked once, but I won’t be visiting her bed again. “Hey, Drew.”

  “Hey. How are you, Alicia? You look good.”

  She rolls her eyes, pretending she doesn’t know how to take a compliment. She does.

  “Thanks for doing this; I owe you one.”