2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
L una
I stomped into the apartment and slammed the door, muttering a few particularly ripe curses I'd learned from the Spade cousins over the years. Carl, our three-legged black and white short-haired cat, greeted me with an aggressive meow. He tolerated a little kissing and cuddling, but he wasn’t above giving us a good swipe if we got too greedy. Scooping him up, I breathed in, letting his soft body soothe my raw nerves.
My phone buzzed, and I saw a text from Alexa pop up. She was a year behind me in law school, and I’d be graduating in the spring.
The thought of my graduation sent bitter frustration through me. I’d planned to leverage my internship with the water law attorney into a job before Klim Fucking Hudson and Roman Fucking Fowler decided to royally screw up my life.
Alexa: Want to split a pizza while we bitch about our day?
I needed to vent like a junkie needing their next fix.
Sylvie: Yes, with a pitcher of beer
Me: I’m in. I need a tequila shot too
Alexa: Luigi’s in an hour. First one there orders
“How was your day, huh?” I scratched behind his ears, and he purred loudly. It sounded like screeching metal, but it always made me smile. “Better than mine, I bet.”
After cleaning up and giving Carl his dinner, I walked the few blocks to Luigi's. The little Italian restaurant in our neighborhood had been around almost as long as the mortuary.
When I walked in, the scent of garlic and pizza crust greeted me. The restaurant had a scarred wood floor, tables covered in red-checked tablecloths, and dark red jar candles next to the parmesan shakers. Café lights and ancient Italian opera posters hung on the walls.
Alexa Torres waved me over to our usual booth. She rarely smiled and was the more thoughtful, quiet one of the three of us.
Except for our skin tone, we could have passed for sisters. I also had brown hair, but my eyes were green, and I’d inherited my mother’s average build and perky nose.
“What happened?” she asked, pushing a pink-striped birthday bag over to me. She knew I hated my birthday. It was like torture every year when it came around, which explained the tequila shots last night and the hangover this morning.
“You shouldn’t have.”
She smirked at my sincere tone. “It’s nothing big. Open it.”
I pulled out the tissue paper and looked inside. The bag was stuffed full of cinnamon-flavored candies. When I was younger, Ezra worried my craving for cinnamon candy signaled a magnesium or calcium deficiency in my diet.
Grinning, I pulled out a cinnamon sucker, unwrapped it, and shoved it in my mouth. “Thanks. This is a perfect gift.”
“So? How’d it go with your internship?”
A pitcher of beer and a few tequila shots sat at our table. I pulled out the sucker and picked up a shot, throwing it back without glancing at the lime wedges or salt shaker.
Grimacing, I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and stuck the sucker back in. “So much worse than I expected.”
She leaned forward. “Tell me.”
“I only want to repeat my sad, sorry tale once. When Sylvie gets here, I’ll tell you everything.”
Alexa poured us beers and sat back. “You look frustrated. Is it that bad?”
“Yeah, it is. I want to rip Klim Hudson’s head off, then Roman Fowler’s dick.”
Sylvie walked in and slid into the seat next to Alexa. Sophia, our usual server, followed behind her, bringing out the loaded pizza. “Hey, ladies. Is funeral parlor poker brunch still on for Sunday?”
Sylvie grabbed a slice and bypassed her plate for her mouth. “Absolutely. If you get a break, come sit with us.” Sophia nodded and strode off. The hot, steamy sixteen-inch half-vegetarian, half-meat lover’s pizza smelled divine. Sylvie liked meat, Alexa was a vegetarian, and I didn’t care, so I took the two pieces that touched both sides.
“I forgot to give you this yesterday–that’s what half a bottle of tequila will do. Pretend I’m the Mad Hatter wishing you a merry unbirthday.” Sylvie slid a card over to me.
“Thanks.” I picked up the card and opened it–then snorted. It read “Happy Kindergarten Graduation to my Sweet Nephew” in big, colorful block letters. The Spade family had an odd tradition of giving each other the strangest, least appropriate cards for each other’s birthdays. Fennick Spade, my foster cousin, gave me a Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day card a few years ago for my birthday. I’d looked it up and found out it was a real day.
Sylvie had included a gift card to my favorite bookstore in town. I sighed and leaned over the table to hug them both. “Thanks. You guys know me well. Now, let’s eat.”
Taking a big bite, Alexa nudged my foot under the table. “She’s here. Spill.”
So I told them, and when I finished, I pointed at another shot of tequila. “Can I have that?”
Both women nodded as they eyed me sympathetically.
“Can they do that?” Sylvie asked as she picked up another slice.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Who’s going to stop them? For some reason, Klim thinks I’ll have an ‘invaluable experience’ with Fowler and the partners at The Firm. That’s what they call it–The Firm. That or FUCK, Legal.” I rolled my eyes. “I need to research them and figure out what I’m really getting into.” I threw back the shot, and this time I used a lime wedge.
Alexa leaned forward. “Something feels off about this. I have a little time, especially with fall break coming next week. I’ll help you research them.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, and Sylvie finally leaned back, patting her stomach like she had a food baby in there. “Ezra asked if you two could help with the funeral tomorrow afternoon. It should only take a couple of hours, and he said he'd forego rent this month if you assist with this one and the Bertrand service next week.”
Alexa raised her hand. “Count me in.”
“Me too.” I sometimes wondered if Ezra asked us to work the funerals to give him an excuse to waive our rent.
Sylvie shook her head. “Roman Fowler is really going to pick you up on Monday morning? Las Vegas reminds me of the Wild West, but people with money instead of guns make the rules here.”
Alexa started typing on her phone. “If I’m around Monday morning, I want to meet him.”
“He’s an arrogant prick. I don't know how we’re going to survive an entire week without killing each other.”
Holding up her phone to Sylvie, Alexa pointed to a photo. “I think what Luna meant to say is he’s a hot, arrogant prick… and so are his partners.”
Sylvie’s eyes went wide, and she grabbed Alexa’s phone. “Who’s with him?” she asked.
Alexa tilted her head. “His law partners. Why?”
“I know one of them.” She shook her head and handed the phone back. “The internship is only for six months, right? You can make it six months.”
“I'd rather stick needles through my nipples and just be done with the torture.”
“Holy fuck, girl. Why would you put that image in our heads?” Sylvie shuddered and cupped her breasts protectively. “We’re here anytime you need to vent.”
“Thanks. What would I do without you guys?”
Sylvie picked up her beer. “Well, you wouldn’t live above a mortuary or work funerals on the weekend.”
I raised my beer in return. “Exactly.”
The next afternoon, we dressed in black and manned our usual spots around the funeral chapel. Our job was to direct mourners and family members where to go in hushed, appropriate tones and ensure everything ran smoothly. We wore discreet gold nametags to let people know we were there to help.
Ezra stood next to the bereaved widower in a custom-tailored charcoal suit with subtle pinstripes. He was a tall, trim silver fox. Besides his full head of white hair, he reminded me of Gomez Addams. He often wore pinstripe suits, owned a funeral home, and had a peculiar family.
As the mourners started trickling in, we answered questions and handed out funeral service programs. I wore stylish black boots instead of heels, since we often needed to move around large flower arrangements, furniture, and caskets. When the funeral began, we waited in the office until the services finished, and Ezra would let us know when he needed our help again.
“Let’s pull up Roman Fowler and his law firm and do some cyberstalking while we’re waiting,” Alexa suggested.
“Great idea.” I ran and got our laptops from the apartment, and we spent the next hour trying to find the dirt on Fowler, Underwood, Carter, and Knox, Legal.
“You weren’t kidding. Their acronym is literally F.U.C.K. As in, the actual word fuck,” Alexa realized as she typed on her laptop.
Sylvie raised her eyebrow. “Couldn’t they have rearranged their last names?”
“After meeting Roman, I think it’s intentional. Their firm is also referred to as ‘The Firm.’ It’s so… egotistical.”
Alexa sat up straight and pointed to a website that analyzed Las Vegas businesses and listed their net worth. “Their combined business interests are estimated in… the billions . Shit,” she breathed. “Maybe their name isn’t that pretentious.”
Sylvie stopped typing and leaned back. “Jesus, these guys are trouble. And not just Roman and Drakos.”
I glanced at her computer. “Who’s Drakos, and what’re you looking at?”
“Social media.” She ignored my first question. “I figured Alexa would check their financials, go for their website, and maybe hack their client database–because she can’t help herself.”
“I plead the Fifth,” Alexa mumbled as she typed away. She was our tech genius.
Sylvie nodded her head toward me. “You probably got distracted trying to learn about what types of law they practice.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alexa leaned over and looked at my screen. “You’re reading about commercial real estate legal terms.”
Sylvie flipped her computer around. “So I took the fun route, trolling through the local gossip and social sites. Here’s a blogger who posted about the ‘hottest attorneys’ in Las Vegas, and every partner in that firm is listed. Look at the photos she included.” The blogger wasn’t wrong, and I inwardly sighed.
Except for the Spade cousins, it seemed like good-looking men were usually colossal assholes. So far, Roman had proven my theory correct. "This isn't making me feel any better about the internship."
Sylvie kept scrolling through the site. “It says they’re well known in the legal community and give to charities. It also looks like some of them are serial daters.”
I looked over her shoulder at the collage of photos the author had included and snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
We continued digging for a few minutes when Alexa hummed. “They’re from all over the United States, which made me wonder how they met. At least two–and probably all of them–were sent to that horrific boys’ ranch in Arizona as teenagers.” She glanced at me. “Your home state. Do you remember that news story?”
My stomach dropped. “The one that made national news about fifteen years ago?”
Alexa pointed to her screen. “Yes. Bitter Creek Ranch Academy. There were serious allegations of abuse and torture, and several boys went missing and were never found.” She raised her eyebrows as her fingers flew over her keyboard. “Someone has worked hard to bury the fact that those men were there as teenagers. They did a decent job.”
My heart squeezed with unwanted sympathy. “I was just a kid, but I remember it well. That place was evil. God, those news stories gave me nightmares.”
Sylvie sat back. “The Vegas Legal blog has an extensive article about the partners. Several of them still practice law, but their business interests are where most of the money comes from. That, and family inheritances.”
Her phone buzzed, and she read the text. “That’s Ezra. They’re wrapping up.”
We shut down our computers and got back to work. As we helped Ezra carefully load the casket into the back of the sleek gray Cadillac mortuary hearse, I brooded about what Monday would bring. The thought of spending a week under Roman Fowler’s thumb made the hairs on my arms rise.