13 - Lane
Lane
The guard brought in my newest client, still cuffed and clearly not fully comprehending the gravity of the situation just yet. He plopped himself down in the seat in front of me, wearing a knowing, rakish little half-grin.
I eyed him, making a quick mental checklist. He was wearing a flashy, water-resistant windbreaker and had an air of unearned confidence despite being handcuffed to a table. He was definitely cocky and I wasn’t sure how much of that would translate into a smooth case.
He leaned back, his cuffed hands still resting on the table.
“Do you have any questions for me before we proceed?” I asked.
“Not a question, really. An offer,” he said with the smooth tone of a man who was used to getting the right things from the wrong people.
I internally groaned but kept my face impassive. “This isn’t a negotiation and I’m not your prosecutor, Mr. Williams.”
“Call me Devon,” he said.
“Okay. Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Williams?” I rebutted.
He chuckled, seemingly amused. "Look, Ms Whittaker, I’m just a small fish.
You go to the State's Attorney, tell 'em I can give 'em 'The Warehouse.
' It’s this massive, invite-only setup down in the Pilsen industrial corridor.
It rotates spots every two weeks so the cops can't track it.
" He tapped his thumb against the table for emphasis.
"I got the actual names of the crooked bookies running the main cards.
They're dropping five-figure offshore bets on these fighters, clean money laundering.
You get me out of this trespass charge, and I'll put all of that on a silver platter for them. "
I didn't blink, just returned his smile with one of my own and capped my pen with a slow, deliberate click that echoed in the small lockup booth.
“That’s a nice story but you’re mistaking me for a narc. That’s not my business. My job is to keep you out of Cook County jail on a gambling charge, not to help you orchestrate a dangerous, half-baked deal with the State's Attorney's Organized Crime Unit."
His easy grin flickered for a moment. “Come on, miss, they want the big guys. They'll drop this chicken-shit charge in a second if—"
“If you had hard evidence," I cut him off, leaning forward to lock eyes with him.
"Which you don't. The State isn't going to trade a felony-level gambling structure charge for vague hearsay about Pilsen bookies from a guy who got caught holding the cash bag.
If you try to pitch this to the prosecutor without me, they will let you talk yourself straight into a heavier conspiracy charge.
So you're going to keep your mouth completely shut, and let me do the talking at your bond hearing. Understood?"
He didn’t look very happy with that but obliged, sinking back into his chair.
Unfortunately for me, the very obvious carrot he was trying to dangle had successfully piqued my curiosity.
Not for the sake of any latent narcotics investigative tendencies, but for the connection between the Warehouse and a grouchy, bike-riding contractor that I couldn’t get out of my head.
I desperately wanted to know what was going on with him.
The idea that Dax might’ve gone back to his past kept looming in the back of my mind and it left me feeling uneasy.
I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t have any type of affiliation with this underground fight ring, especially considering it may very well have been the biggest in the county.
I glanced at Devon. Beneath that slick demeanor, I could tell that he was still trying to think of a way to make this information work as leverage.
He’d only been caught holding the cash bag and because it was a non-violent, lower-level offense, he wouldn't be going to prison.
But that prior strike in his docket was definitely the source of his muted panic.
This wasn’t his first rodeo. If I could play off his anxiety just right…
“Look, Mr. Williams, I know you’re probably nervous about where this charge leads you.
That’s fair. But if you want a deal, I’m going to need a gauge on your credibility.
Before I hand anything over to the State, let’s test to see if there’s anything worth the effort.
I might know someone on this roster. A guy, about six-foot-one, lean, jacked, heavy hands, lethal speed.
Runs an old Ducati. You seen him on a card recently? "
Devon quirked up an eyebrow. “I might’ve.”
After a full minute of silence, I waved my hand. “Care to elaborate on that?”
“Not without that deal,” he announced.
“It’s not my deal to give,” I said, filtering the frustration from my voice. Disappointment slumped my shoulders and I closed the folder. “Guess we’ll just have to see what the judge says.”
Later in the day, when most of the rush had settled, I finally had a quiet moment to myself in the office.
It was funny how things could change on a dime.
Not too long ago, I worried that thinking of my personal life could be a distraction from work.
Now I was dealing with work being a distraction from my personal life.
I was still ostensibly staring at the paperwork in front of me when Nance sauntered into my office with a mug of coffee and leaned against the doorframe.
“You’ve been working over that same motion to dismiss for twenty minutes, Whittaker. Spill it. Is this about the HOA bully or the blueprint boys?” she asked, taking a sip.
I rubbed my temples, something that was fast becoming a habit under the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights. “Just a weird day in lockup. A client tried to barter info on an underground ring.”
“And let me guess, the ring involves a certain brooding electrician?”
I hedged around the answer, not wanting to get into any of that stuff right now. Instead I directed my focus to ticking boxes.
“You’re just not gonna talk about it?” she pushed.
I dragged my head up to look at her.
Nance walked in, dropping into the visitor's chair. She pointed a manicured finger at me. “Lane, you are a brilliant public defender, but you’re an overthinking disaster when it comes to your personal life. There are three ridiculously hot, protective men rebuilding your house. Pick one, let your hair down, and try flirting. See where it takes you. Have a little fun for once.”
“I don’t know how much fun can actually be had in this situation,” I said.
“Then you desperately need to fine-tune your imagination,” she replied with a wink.
I brushed off the comment, my cheeks burning, but her words struck a chord with me.
The situation with Sandy hadn’t just disappeared.
It instead lurked in the background like a landmine just waiting to explode under the tiniest bit of pressure.
And now this whole mess with Dax and Bear…
I was at a point where work seemed easier.
I did my best to ignore the specific thought gnawing at me, but when I finally got on the train ride home, it came in full force.
Nance was right. I knew first-hand just how bad burnout could be and I’d spent the last, maybe five years, just surviving, not living.
My love life certainly paid the penalty for that.
But the last time I did something spontaneous, something that took me completely out of my comfort zone and brought me to a place where I felt free and weightless had been in that tiny little narrow pantry with Dax.
It wasn’t just the pleasure of the sex itself.
Sure, the physical side of it had been hot and satisfying and, well, fun.
But the risk of being caught, the need to stay quiet and the understanding that what I was doing was perhaps the most reckless thing I could possibly have done, all contributed to a climax that wiped my mind completely for a few minutes.
That’s what I craved the most right now, that sweet bliss of cool nothingness that settled into the hollow space such a soul-destroying orgasm could bring me. I didn’t want to think at all. I didn’t want to overanalyze the logistics or the morality and ethics of that kind of pleasure.
I’d played by that rulebook all my life and I was exhausted. Of rules and etiquette and thinking.
I pulled my gaze from the train window, my forehead cool against the glass, and watched the grey landscape of the industrial corridor blur past. The rain started as a light mist, streaking diagonally against the pane, but by the time the commuter train screeched to a halt at my station, it had transformed into a relentless, blinding downpour.
Great. The one, miserable day I forget to bring an umbrella with me and Chicago decides to piss on me.
The concrete stairs leading down to the street were slick with oil and water.
I clutched the railing, completely soaked and shivering as the damp autumn chill cut straight through my blazer.
The street below was a chaotic mix of splashing puddles, bright red brake lights, and commuters scurrying toward their cars with briefcases over their heads.
"Fucking fantastic," I muttered, freezing under the meager shelter of the station awning.
I pulled my collar up, bracing myself for a miserable walk. Then, a horn honked twice. Short and sharp.
My head whipped to the direction it came from and I recognized the truck idling not too far from where I was huddled. It was dark charcoal with stenciling on the driver’s side that read: Cornerstone Contractors.
Before I could even process why it was there, the engine cut.
The heavy driver’s side door flung open, and Bear stepped directly out into the freezing deluge, umbrella in hand.
He wordlessly walked towards me, then popped the umbrella over my head and guided me back to the warmth of his truck’s cabin.
I climbed in, shivering as he rounded the front again and took his place in the driver’s seat, now also soaking wet.
Guess I wouldn’t have to brace the rain on my own after all.