Chapter 3
Chapter Three
A ubrey
I work all Saturday at La Résistance, which has been my home away from home since I was sixteen. Working there isn’t work at all. It’s hanging out in a hip coffee shop with the people I love.
I miss her. This is the sort of night she’d come by the cafe, and we’d chat between customers. Now I’m lucky if I see her once a week.
I don’t want to resent her new relationship, but it’s changed everything.
I should be happy for her–and I am. She’s in love, and I’ve never seen her so aglow.
It’s amazing. But I feel totally shut out of her life now.
At least at the beginning of the relationship, she would share all the gory details. Now I get nothing.
“Hey, chica,” my boss Caroline beckons me back to the office, where her wife Jan is waiting. I greet them both. Caroline is a petite, white spitfire–barely over five feet–and the fiercest and most loving woman I’ve ever met. Her wife, Jan is tall, black, and slender with a close-cropped afro.
These two are like second and third moms to me. They co-own the cafe. Jan is a Legal Aid lawyer, and Caroline runs this place full-time. They’ve staged many a revolution within these walls over the last thirty years.
“We’re meeting with Jamie, right?” I ask. Jamie is the whistle-blower from Sentience.
“Yes, she’s running late,” Jan says.
I have a flicker of unease at that–Jamie isn’t the sort to be late to a meeting. She’s a starched shirt sort of person. But it’s probably nothing. I’m just a little nervous–the drive I procured from Sentience is burning a hole in my satchel.
“First, I’ve got something for you,” Caroline is rummaging around in the coat closet. “Well, you and Madi.”
My heart contracts a little at my best friend’s name. The pain surprises me. It’s not like Madi has died. She’s just busy. Too busy for me.
“Ta da!” Caroline whirls around, holding up a gorgeous turquoise-colored jacket.
“Are you serious?” I move closer to study the jacket. It’s made of leather, and cropped, but in an older style with wide lapels. “This is amazing. It looks just like–”
“Janet Jackson circa Rhythm Nation?” Caroline makes the jacket boogie while singing part of the chorus.
“Yes!” She hands it to me, and I hold it up, admiring it. It’s in pretty good shape but obviously has been worn before. “Is this…vintage?”
Caroline and Jan both shudder. “I hate that word.” Caroline points to me. “One day your clothes will be considered vintage, and you’ll cringe too. This is second hand,” she emphasizes. “For you! For the next time you and Madi play at All Night.”
I take the jacket and hold it up to me. “Oh my God, I’m obsessed. ”
“Rhythm Nation came out in 1989,” Jan points out, ever attentive to detail. “So culturally you’re pushing into the 90s.”
“It still counts.” Caroline waves a hand. “And it’s Janet Jackson.”
“ Miss Jackson if you’re nasty ,” Jan sings, and for a moment, I can imagine her out of her lawyer suit and in a leather lieutenant hat. She once showed up to karaoke dressed like Grace Jones on the cover of Nightclubbing, so I know she probably has a closet full of club outfits herself.
“I also have these.” Caroline produces a pair of white go-go boots. “If you and Madi want to add a little Nancy Sinatra to your set.”
“Oh wow,” I laugh. “Why not? Can I borrow these?”
“Keep them,” Caroline says at the same time Jan says, “They’re yours.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “You’re not going to want them back to wear? You know, just for a night on the town?” I waggle my brows at Caroline, who grins.
Jan snorts. “Those days are over.”
“Well, anytime you want them back for karaoke or something, say the word.” I gather up the amazing jacket and go-go boots, imagining the outfits I could wear on stage. I’ll show them to Madi on Thursday.
Jamie turns up, and the mood turns sober.
She looks more haggard than when I first met her, with dark circles under her eyes.
Her clothes are rumpled, too. Whistleblowing is stressful, and on top of that, she hasn’t found a new job.
Even if Sentience hasn’t retaliated further, she must be lying awake at night wondering what will happen next.
“Here’s the hard drive.” I produce the computer drive from my satchel and put it in the center of the round work table.
This back office is where Jan works weekends and evenings, and this table has also been the planning ground for at least a hundred social protests, starting long before I picked up a marker and created my first protest sign.
“What is this?” Jan asks.
Jamie picks it up. “This is a copy of my work computer’s hard drive. From this, I can produce all the evidence you need.”
Jan looks between me and Jamie. “But how did you get it?”
I shrug. “I might have stopped by her old office while I was painting a mural for Sentience.”
Jan’s eyes widen. “You know I can’t use anything obtained illegally as evidence in a trial, right?”
“Then we can send it over to the New York Times ,” I point out.
“But you can’t use it in a lawsuit?” Jamie asks.
Jan shakes her head. “Any bit of info you provide can help us subpoena the company's executives, but we can’t use this as evidence. Not unless you find a way to legally be in possession of this information. But maybe you have a copy of something you’ll find on here.” She flicks her brows at Jamie.
“Got it.” Jamie nods. She sends me a grateful look. “Thank you so much for getting this. You risked a lot.”
“I hope it yields something.” I sure as hell don’t want to take the risk again, but I will if I have to. It takes courage to fight against giants.
I catch the sound of someone ringing the bell at the cash register, and I jump up. “I’ll get it.” I hustle out to the cafe and then immediately slow my roll when I see who it is.
This is not a man I will hustle for.
Ever.
“Are you lost?” I repeat the question I asked the first time this entitled alpha-hole came in here. The time he stole the photo of Madi and me right off the bulletin board behind the counter and used it to get Madi fired.
Irritation–a habitual expression for this jackal–flicks over William White the third’s face.
He looks down his nose at me. He’s not quite as tall as his best friend, Brick, but still close to six feet. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a billionaire’s suit. He’s the type of man women cream their panties over, but his rank personality spoils the look.
Instead of going behind the counter to serve him, I stroll around to the front. His business isn’t welcome here.
As I get close, he turns to face me, his expression screwed up like I smell bad.
“What do you want?” I demand since he still hasn’t answered my first question.
A sour look mars his otherwise beautiful face. “We need to talk.”
Color me surprised. I can’t imagine what he thinks we need to talk about. Brick and Madi are happily engaged. He doesn’t need to offer me half a million dollars to get her to see him like he did the last time he stepped in La Résistance.
“Do we?” I keep my voice cool.
There’s something about his large, imposing form and the force of power that emanates from him that has me wondering what it would be like to be underneath him. Would he be rough? Cold? Would he want his date on top doing all the work?
Or is he the kind of guy who just pays for blowjobs to keep it completely unemotional?
I’m curious about what his type is. When he picks a woman–and I’m sure he could pick any woman in New York–does he go for the vapid model type?
A long-legged blonde with zero brain cells and a shopping habit?
Or a blue-blooded Harvard type–smart and horse-faced with a pedigree that goes back farther than his?
“You and I are…” He trails off, and I cock my head.
I can’t wait to hear what comes next. I can hardly believe he would start any sentence with “you and I.”
“Responsible for things. For this wedding. You’re the Maid of Honor, and I’m the Best Man.”
My brow furrows. Of all the things I thought he might say, this wasn’t one of them.
He waves an impatient hand. He has broad wrists. I don’t know why I find them sexy.
“I don’t know what they are. I haven’t done this before.”
“And you think I have?”
“Well, you’re–” He cuts off whatever it was he was going to say.
“A woman?” I prompt, trying to follow his line of thinking. “Human?”
His brows rise like he’s shocked by my second word choice.
“Someone in possession of a beating heart? Someone who actually cares about her friends?”
He relaxes. “Right. That.” He glances at the bulletin board with the photos on it, like it might hold some clue to real friendship.
“You still have my photo.”
I expect him to be dismissive, but he nods. “I’ll bring it to you.”
“You said that last time.”
His jaw clenches. “Listen–can I buy you a cup of coffee? Or dinner or something? So we can talk?”
This guy keeps shocking me. “You want to buy me coffee or dinner or something?” WTF? Is he out of his mind? “No. We aren’t friends. We’re not going to be friends. I don’t know why Brick even asked you to be his best man when you’re the guy who broke them apart in the first place.”
That sour look returns to his face. “It’s my…punishment.” He mumbles the last word.
Laughter rockets out of my mouth. “Your punishment? ”
He looks dead serious, though. Like Brick is actually punishing him by making him… OMG, I think he is serious!
It’s torture for him to have to do the cheesy wedding stuff. To be a decent best man and stand up for the groom.
A slow grin spreads across my face. “Oh my God, this is hilarious!”
Irritation crowds his expression. He frowns at me.
“I’m in.” I’m delighted. If Brick wants to punish him with forced wedding festivity, I will gladly join up and heap on the punishment. Even better if part of his punishment is making nice with me. I’m going to eat this up with a spoon!
He arches a brow. “You’re in? What do you mean you’re in ?”
I smile glibly. “I’m happy to punish you, Suit. In fact, it might become my new favorite pastime.”