Chapter 5
Chapter Five
F reya
I wake with a headache like I’ve knocked my head against a concrete floor. There was so much ass-shaking at Level Z it’s possible I slipped and forgot. Not quite ready for the morning sun slicing through the space between my pale blue damask curtains, I pat my hand around the nightstand, searching for my phone.
I feel something out of place. Whining as I open my eyes to investigate, I glance over at the table. Praise the Lord—just what I need.
“Kathy, housekeeper of the year.” Flipping over on my back, I tip back the tablets and electrolyte water she’s left on my nightstand. “Make that of the century. Such a dear.”
Flopping back down against my massive cloud of feather pillows, I throw an arm over my eyes, attempting to block out the punishing sun. “Och, what a night! ”
A fuzzy memory from last night’s party at Level Z comes to my aching mind. A strange man with ice blue eyes and a black vine tattoo creeping up his neck, trying to get my attention.
At first, I thought he was hitting on me, but then I had that vague flashback moment where you realize you’ve seen a person before. He seemed familiar, but I also acknowledged I was wearing Scotch goggles. Even through my alcohol-induced haze, the seriousness in his icy gaze grabbed me.
What did he say? Was he warning me about something? A bartender—one of our Glasgow Kings, a younger man I didn’t recognize as an islander—came around the bar and ushered him away before he could get his message to me. Or hit on me. Not sure which.
Prickles crawl across the back of my neck as I kick myself for not paying more attention to him then.
“Pfft. No regrets,” I assure myself, moving on.
A smile plays on my lips as I think of the parts I do remember clearly: the dancing and the karaoke contest, the stage lit with florescent pinks and purples, the music thumping loudly. I was singing at the top of my lungs; June and Madyson played backup dancers on stage behind me.
My head pulses, my dehydrated brain squeezing away from my skull, making my stomach nauseous.
Was it worth it? I ask myself. “Hell, yes, it was.”
I’d love to spend the day hurkle-durkling, but I’ve yet to miss a single day of work, and today will not be my first. Between my All Hallows Eve party last Thursday then celebrating last night, I swear to myself I’ll not be going out again on a work night for at least? —
Who am I kidding?
Finally tracking down my phone, I look at the time. I’ve got an hour to shower and blow-dry meters of hair, which will also need a deep conditioning treatment since my hairdresser just stripped my medium blonde roots to platinum.
Slap on enough makeup and pull on a suit to look like the powerhouse solicitor I am. Not the hungover slag I currently appear to be.
And after all this—I’ve got to find a way down that gorgeous curving staircase—my sleek banister polished daily—and long hallway and out that front door without running smack dab into my beast of a brother.
No doubt he’ll have something to say that I don’t want to hear. Either about my night out, the fact that I’m still unattached, or something equally annoying.
Fifty-five minutes later, hair shining like a mermaid of the sea, I quietly tiptoe my way down the hall, attempting to avoid him.
A deep, familiar voice booms out, “Freya, you smell like a pub,” just about startling the wee out of me.
“Smell?” I flip around to face my giant, overprotective brother. “I just washed!”
He crosses his arms over his massive chest—like he needs to make his biceps look any more prominent—and eyes me with that stern brow furrowing his handsome face. I’m a little surprised he’s not stroking his beard in contemplation as he takes in my peely-wally complexion.
Cream blusher is an incredible invention, but there’s only so much cosmetics can do .
He asks, “How many whiskys did you have last night?”
“Enough to think I sounded good when I hit the high notes of Tina Charles,” I say.
He moans. “Not disco.”
“I love to love, but my baby loves to dance!” I give him a little taste, swaying my hips, an imaginary mic to my lips. “I’m spinning like a top.” I try to do a turn. Still lightheaded from dehydration, I lose my footing.
Callum catches me in his strong arms, righting me. “Never do that move again.”
“It was good last night, I swear! Our act was pure dead brilliant!” My exuberance makes my head pound. I put my hand to my forehead. “We came in fourth.”
“You were doing karaoke in front of Glasgow and thinking you were brilliant at it? So, you’d had enough whisky to float a boat.”
“Or burn down a building.” I moan. “My breath hitting one flicker of a flame last night would have taken out the entire club.”
“Freya.” His green eyes are serious, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re partying too much.”
For a beat, I let his words sink in. My head is a mess. He may have a wee bit of a point.
Never one to admit when my younger brother is right, I pull the humor card. “Sharp as a tack. You could have been a detective. Then we’d have been a detective and a lawyer instead of a mafia leader and his sidekick, always ready to bail him and his criminal friends out. The parents would be so proud?— ”
“Freya…” he warns.
“‘Course I’m partying! And drinking. I’m young?—”
He cuts me off with a very rude, “Almost thirty.”
“Och, never tell a girl her age! As I said, I am young, single, and living in the city. Of course, I party! Anyway, last night, I had a great reason to drink too much—not that I need your permission—but we were celebrating.”
“What for?” he asks.
“The Maclean case.” I plant my hands on my hips, narrowing my gaze. “I told you about it at dinner the night before last, but maybe you were too enamored with your wifey to hear me.”
A contented smile stretches over his face. “Home cooking by a fine-looking woman. One of the many benefits of wearing a wedding ring. And thanks to my bride, I’m a much better listener than I used to be. I know exactly which case you’re talking about.”
“And?” I challenge.
“Wednesday evening, when you were sipping at your stew, and I took the bowl and polished it off for you with a slab of honey wheat bread, you said you had a case before the judge in the morning,” he says triumphantly. “Old man Maclean’s case.”
“No,” I correct him. “Jack.” I swap out my fading island accent for my fake Los Angeles one. “The young one. The hawt one, as Kitt would say.”
Callum’s face goes blank. See? I knew he wasn’t listening. He was elbow-deep in beef stew and had no idea who I was talking about .
“So, it was rescheduled for yesterday morning, and it was Jack, and yes, I won—you should have heard my closing speech, now THAT was pure dead brilliant—and yes, I went out to celebrate with the girls afterward.”
He stares at me.
“And if I know the Maclean family, there’ll be a lovely fruit basket in the way of a thank you waiting on my desk, and hopefully, there will be some chocolate biscuits hiding under all that healthy stuff?—”
Callum’s face is going from blank to seriously disturbed, his brow knitting together, his hand touching his beard. “Freya?—"
“Callum, I’ve got to go?—”
He grabs my arm, stopping me. “When you said Maclean, I assumed you meant Harold. Not Jack.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “It was certainly Jack. I don’t think Mr. Maclean could find trouble if it tugged him with a fisherman’s hook.”
Callum’s thick brows knit, his green eyes flashing with worry. “Jack—I thought you said you’d never go against your principles with who you represent.”
“I did! And I didn’t!” Och, will this man stop talking in circles and let me get to work? “Callum, what are you talking about?”
His voice rumbles like thunder. “He’s not who you think he is.”
“What do you mean…” The look on his face leaves me with an uneasy feeling wiggling into my already queasy stomach. “Tell me. ”
“The elder, he’s fine, he’s a good man. But your Jack.” His eyes go cold. “The young one…whatever he was accused of, I assure you, he’s guilty.”
“No,” I say, my heart dropping into the soles of my stilettos. “Can’t be.”
“Why not?” He eyes me. “‘Cause he’s good-looking?”
I shake my head, denying that the man’s classic Highland smoldering good looks have anything to do with my assessment of his story and the facts he presented to my team during interviews.
Sure, it was very last-minute—his lawyer dropped out of the case moments before he was due in court—but I trusted my gut, rescheduled him for yesterday, and got him off.
“I’m a terrific judge of people,” I say, wondering if I did, in fact, let the man’s strong jawline and thick hair sway me. Having pin-straight hair that won’t curl myself, I admire a wavy head of hair. “And the Macleans are as clean as the word in their surname.”
“Things have changed. We need to talk.” He gives me that look that means I will do what he says, especially since he’s not yet let go of my arm. He’s distraught. “No more putting me off. Tonight.”
The man with the blue eyes comes to mind. Should I mention him to Callum? A little yellow parakeet pops out of the grandfather clock in the hall I’d had shipped in from Norway, tweeting his sweet little tune, informing me I’m going to be late.
I push the memory away with a sigh. “Fine. Tonight. But I really must go. ”
Something heavy in his tone makes me take a beat, assess his tight jaw and the death grip he’s still got on my bicep. “Promise me you’ll come straight home from work. And take our car service. Don’t walk.”
“Car service? You mean your band of thugs?” Finally, I head toward the door, my back to him. I offer an eye roll and a joke to lighten the mood. “My little brother. So paranoid.”
But the air stays heavy as I leave, and I feel his gaze on me as I go.
I let his guards drive me to work, but as much as he’d like to, Callum knows full well that he can’t control me. Nor I, him. I let the tension of the morning go as I breeze through the office, greeting the others.
Everyone was at the club last night, singing karaoke or trying out their VR or indoor glow-in-the-dark mini-golf, but all drinking too much. We have sore heads and our tails tucked between our legs, so the morning is quiet.
At noon, I order lunch from the deli on the corner to be delivered to my desk: two Diet Cokes and a tuna on rye. I pick at the sandwich but eat the crisps.
Women think I’m thin because I don’t eat, but it’s not true. My friends know I eat plenty. Only just what I want. Do you know how many calories are in a full dinner? Please, I’d rather have dessert.
I didn’t eat Fiona’s beef stew at dinner the other night, but I downed about half a loaf of the warm bread she had baked, slathered in the butter she had brought in from Bayne cows.
I pop two more headache tablets and wash them back with the soda. The hazy memory of the man at the bar warning me last night comes back to me. As does my run-in with Callum this morning.
I’m dreading our talk tonight.
Callum’s words from this morning have me questioning my choices but everyone at the firm seems as enamored with Jack as I was.
I mean, not enamored per say. That’s not why I took his case. My minge doesn’t rule my brain.
Further evidence to prove my point I let him who we do not speak of do what we do not speak of to me. I dove into the pleasure, reveled in it, then told him that was all there would be between us. And forgot all about him.
Mostly.
Pressing my thighs together, I ignore the heat between my legs just like I push away the memory of Fredrick’s tongue between my thighs…what feels like every five minutes for the past week.
Five o’clock on the dot, June breezes by my desk. She wears a red trench coat belted around her waist, a sleek black Chanel bag over her shoulder, clearly leaving for the day. “Girl, you were on fire last night! The host didn’t want to take the microphone back. You brought the house down.”
“We did!” I laugh. “Couldn’t have done it without my backup dancers.”
“Speaking of last night, what did that guy want?” she asks.
“What guy?”
“The one with the weird blue eyes.” Her nose scrunches. “They were, like, abnormally light. ”
“Oh, him.” The prickles return to the back of my neck. “Dunno.”
Already bored with the man, she shrugs, changing the subject. “Madyson and I still have insane headaches from last night, and there’s only one cure for an afternoon hangover.”
“Hair of the dog!” we say in unison.
Madyson shows up, perching the curve of her cute ass on the edge of my desk. “What’s a Hera the dog?” she asks.
“The hair of the dog, which is short for ‘the hair of the dog that bit you,’” I inform. “And the nickname of the first drink you have the next day to cure your hangover.”
Madyson says, “So you’ll join us? June and I are headed to the pub for a drink.”
I can taste the sweet relief of an ice-cold bright-pink Manhattan on the tip of my tongue. Callum’s stern green eyes butt into my daydream, reminding me of my promise to him.
I close down my computer for the day. “I can’t. I’ve got this family thing.”
June’s eyes light up. “Invite Fiona! Everyone loves your sister-in-law.”
“Please do,” Madyson adds. “I swear, I haven’t seen her in ages.”
I roll my eyes, confessing, “My brother keeps that girl on lockdown. Fiona can hold her own, but she seems perfectly happy being stuck at the house feeding him. No—it’s something with Callum anyway. ”
June’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “That Viking of a man could lock me up to anything, anytime.”
“Och! Gross, June!” I shake my head at her. “That’s my flesh and blood.”
“And some damn fine-looking flesh, too. Those eyes, that hair, those legs?—”
“His or mine?” I laugh.
“Both! I swear the two of you could be models. Fiona is SOOOOO lucky. I swear I’d hate her if she weren’t so damn sweet.” Madyson slides off my desk, layering on the peer pressure as she eyes me. “Are you coming out?”
“I can’t?—”
“One drink.” Madyson sticks out her pouty lower lip.
June pleads, “One drink. Pleeeeeeeeeeease?”
Madyson adds, “Pretty, pretty please?”
“How is it that all you Americans are so damn persuasive?”
“Why do you think we work in law?” June grabs the gold chain of my Stella McCartney Falabella tote, lifting it from the desk. “You’re coming with us to O’Malley’s. Let’s go. Right now. Come on!”
Callum’s overprotective. I know he’s worried. But here with my friends, our conversation this morning seems a million lifetimes ago.
And as the Americans at my office say, if I give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.
Plus, Madyson is halfway out the door with my brand-new bag in her greedy hands. If I don’t save it, she’ll switch our bags out at the pub and wear my Stella to work tomorrow.
“Fine!” I call out, beaten. I race after them. “ONE drink!”
A quarter of an hour later, I sit with the girls, laughing, fruity pink drinks between us.
My phone rings. Callum. I greet him after answering, but he offers no hello and says, “Why aren’t you home?”
“Just nipped down to the pub for a quick drink with the girls,” I say. “But I will take the car service home. Promise.”
“Where are you?” he demands.
“Why?” I hesitate, but eventually, the uneasy silence demands I tell him. I sigh out, “O’Malley’s.”
He snaps, “I’ll be right there.”
“What?” I almost lunge from my seat as if I can stop him from here. “Don’t!”
Of course, he’s already hung up. I don’t want a scene. Things between the Burnes siblings can get heated. I need to get out of here.
Now.
Rising from my stool, I throw a twenty on the table. “Look, girls, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
“Uh-oh. Twelve o’clock.” Madyson nods to the door behind my back.
I turn around to find my brother’s large frame filling the entryway of O’Malley’s. He’s already here. How is that possible?
“See you tomorrow!” Grabbing my bag, I rush to greet him before he can join us at the table.
I hear Madyson’s whispered sigh behind me as I go. “Fiona’s such a lucky girl…”
I run straight out the door onto the street, nearly bumping into Callum. “What are you doing here? And how did you get here so fast?”
“I came to your office to pick you up myself, but you’d already left.” What he says next makes my blood run ice cold. “He’s not just guilty, Freya.” My brother’s matching green eyes slice into mine. “Jack Maclean is a member of the Hoax.”
“The Hoax?”
Just repeating the name of the dangerous, filthy, people-trafficking ring that runs out of my beautiful, beloved city of Glasgow makes my stomach sink right to the soles of my black peep-toe ankle-strap slingbacks.
“Aye. One and the same.” The disappointment in his gaze causes me physical pain. Sure, I worry him from time to time. Piss him off daily. But I’ve never let him down like this.
“And I represented him.” My voice comes out strange, sounding far away.
Callum nods, confirming the fear he can read creeping into my face. “And now everyone thinks you’re one of them.”
“No…” My words are swallowed by a desperate moan echoing in my ears. It’s coming from me. Desperate, I grab each of his arms in my hands. “I had NO idea Jack was with them. Please! Tell me you believe me. ”
He stares at me with pain. “Freya…”
No. Not Callum. It KILLS me that anyone from the island would think this of me, but my own flesh and blood? My baby brother? It’s too much.
“You believe me, right?” I grip him tighter, trying to shake him, but he’s a marble statue. “Tell me you believe me.”
He stares down at the ground between us. My pulse is racing; he waits a beat too long. Finally, he says, “Aye. I believe you.” A rush of relief fills me. It’s gone as quickly as it came with what he says next. He drags his sad gaze back up to meet mine. “But how could ye not know, Freya?”
Standing in front of O’Malley’s, my brother’s question hanging between us, a part of me dies.