Chapter 3
THREE
Colton
BEFORE
Fucking bitch.
I say it out loud as I crumple the stupid business card in my hand—the one I got from Jenna’s idiotic assistant.
Benjamin Holderbuild. Yeah, right, that’s who I’m supposed to call.
Sorry that Miss Davis isn’t available. Sure.
I don’t want some Holder-shmolder, damn it.
I want Jenna Davis, the best family attorney in New York, because I fucking need the best help I can get.
Okay, fine, maybe it was my fault I should have recognized her, but nobody would know that killer woman in there is Blueface.
Maybe her name should’ve rung a bell, though, but it’s been fifteen years since we last spoke, and I’ve dealt with so many people since then—and I honestly didn’t have room in my head for that.
I’m looking for a lawyer, not a friendly favor.
I toss the remains of the card in the trash, then storm down the street lined with skyscrapers as I call Ethan.
He’s Riley Huntington’s PR manager—Riley, my right-winger and best friend.
Thanks to his little escapades, Ethan is now our team’s so-called “problem-solver.” Whatever pops up, you call Ethan, and he fixes it.
At least that’s how it’s been. I’m not even sure anymore if those rules apply to me too.
My phone keeps ringing with no answer.
I head to the underground garage where I parked my Bentley and kick the wall for no reason. The phone is still ringing, and I curl my free hand into a fist. Come on, man—where are you?
“Yeah?” Ethan’s voice finally grumbles through the speaker.
“She won’t take me on,” I growl back, stomping so hard my footsteps echo off the concrete. Sounds like a hockey puck ricocheting.
“Then we’ll find someone else,” Ethan says, and I hear him tapping away at his laptop.
“No.”
“As always, a man of few words,” he sighs, and I unlock my Bentley.
An orange glow flickers inside, and I slump into the driver’s seat, forehead on the wheel.
Yeah, everyone says I don’t talk much.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re shipped to a foreign country whose language you don’t speak.
You learn to say little, and people mistake it for arrogance.
It’s not. Well, okay, maybe a bit of self-confidence—necessary if you’re going pro in sports.
Without believing in yourself, you get nowhere. Other people knock you down enough.
What I’ve learned so far is that talking really is silver. Silence is golden.
“I don’t want another lawyer,” I hiss, start the engine, and pull out.
Above ground, my phone switches to the car speaker.
Perfect—now I’m stuck in 6 p.m. traffic.
Rush hour. People darting home from work.
That means Livy’s probably at home too, but if I show up there again, my ex will call the cops.
Still, I have to check on my daughter. She’s six fucking years old—who knows what scares her when she wakes up alone at home?
“I need Jenna Davis. She wins every case. That’s what you said.”
“Yeah, but there are other lawyers. Let me see what I can do. It’s not like she’s the only one who can win this for you.”
Fine, maybe I’m just bruised that she turned me down. I’m not used to it—sounds cocky, but people don’t usually say no to me. I’m six foot five and broad as a door. I’m known for my glare, and I’d be lying if I said it’s not handy when people show you respect.
“I want Jenna Davis.”
Ethan sighs. “Stubborn as always. All right, I’ll try and call her boss again.”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up.
I inch forward another car length on the packed street when I see the tiny redhead shuffle out of the skyscraper. Check out that sway. Like the world belongs to her.
I’m not used to hearing no.
Especially not from someone this small.
I watch her climb into an Uber, her hair so red it looks like a flame.
I have to say, I never expected this from Blueface. She was always cute, but she used to tear up the second you even said hello. Somewhere in college, she must’ve found her confidence. It suits her, sure—but just because she’s pretty now doesn’t mean she gets to treat me like I’m nothing.
An idea hits me.
Could be illegal. Could be sketchy. But I wouldn’t be Colton King if I cared.
I turn into a side street, do a U-turn, and follow Jenna fucking Davis’s Uber.
It’s weird sitting here in a side street in front of her crappy apartment building.
I always thought lawyers make decent money—just not enough to buy into a ritzy neighborhood apparently. If I were her boyfriend I wouldn’t let her stride around here in those heels at night.
No idea why I’m thinking this, but whatever.
I saw her get out and head for her place. It’s been thirty minutes since then, and I have no clue what to do. Ring the bell and beg again? That’s beneath me. Wait all night? Also dumb. So, why the fuck did I even follow her?
I check my watch: almost 7 p.m.
Livy’s probably home. She should be fed and bathed by now.
But with her mother you never know. I just hope my ex can handle tonight.
I didn’t mean to get so loud yesterday, but she always starts screaming and throwing things.
It’s not easy, and I just want Livy safe.
She’s everything to me, but I’m not allowed to keep her.
Fathers’ rights laws suck. There are a thousand shitty dads, sure—but my daughter has a shitty mother, and I’d do anything to protect my baby.
The law doesn’t make it easy for me though.
My ex only got pregnant for money. I never meant a thing to her.
But Livy means the world to me. I’d give up my career, my money—everything.
I stare at the building’s door.
Classic New York walk-up, old windows like something out of Carrie Bradshaw’s world.
Why do I know Sex and the City? Because I binged every American show to learn English.
I watched Gossip Girl, Grey’s Anatomy—everything.
No matter what my teammates say, those shows don’t make me less of a man. Why would it?
But right now, I feel like crap.
So, I start the car again and decide to call it a night.
Maybe head home.
Or maybe just drive by my ex’s place to check on Livy from outside again.
Maybe—
Then I see Jenna coming back out.
No idea why, but I leap from the car and watch her lug a heavy trash bag toward a dumpster around the corner. I want to help her—but then I freeze. What the hell am I doing?
I stand behind a white van, watching her try to heave the bag into the bin. That’s when I notice it: her perfect office makeup is smeared now. She’s been crying?
My stomach drops.
And I’m surprised by my reaction. I don’t really know her, and I definitely shouldn’t care—but I still feel it. That odd pull to comfort her anyway. So, why is she crying?
Without thinking, I step forward—just when a sketchy guy steps out of the building. I duck behind the van like some wannabe gangster. If anyone saw this: a giant Russian behind a van? Yeah, that would be fantastic for sure. My mom would be proud.
The guy heads toward her, and I tense up.
Is that her husband? Her boyfriend? She isn’t wearing a ring. I don’t usually notice things like that—but in her office, I caught it immediately.
No, she’s not married. But they live together. He’s why she cried, I’m sure of it.
I lean against the van and eye him up and down.
Baggy sweatpants, greasy curls, five o’clock shadow—looks like a lunatic.
Why is she with someone like that? She’s completely out of his league.
He says something to her, and her face goes white. It wasn’t nice, I guess. My hands clench into fists, but I force them to relax. Today I’m acting like a damn psycho.
“Bye!” he yells, then stomps off.
Another tear falls down her cheek.
She looks so different now. Like a different person. Soft. Vulnerable. Not intimidating at all.
I watch her drag the bag to the edge of the dumpster. She tries to heave it in again. But then the lid swings open and everything spills out of her bag—comic figures, old clothes, all of it scattering. She slumps against the bin, and I watch as she breaks down again, crying. Okay. I can’t take it.
I walk over to her.
Smart? Hell no. But it feels right.
She stops crying when she sees me. She turns away, wipes her eyes, hoping I didn’t notice.
I say nothing. I grab the torn edges of the bag, jam it back into the dumpster, and close the lid. Then I stand there, clueless.
Damn. On the ice, I never have to think like this.
“What are you doing here?” she snaps, spinning around. The tears and her smeared eyeliner gone. She’s back to her hard shell, arms crossed, chin up—ready to fight. Nothing like she was just a few seconds ago.
“Thanks.”
“What?” She frowns, utterly confused.
“‘Thanks’ is the word you’re searching for.”
“Stalking is illegal, and I’d be a terrible lawyer if I thanked you for a crime.” Her voice is ruthless—no hint of fragility. Now she’s angry at me? It’s her boyfriend treating her like shit, not me.
“Look, I didn’t mean… I…”
“Let me guess—you just happened to drive by and thought, ‘You know what sounds fun? Helping strangers with their trash,’ because you’ve got absolutely nothing better to do?”
I grunt.
She lets out a short laugh. “Wow. That’s impressive. I’ve never seen anyone say so little and somehow still be annoying.”
I give her a look.
“What?” she says, shrugging. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
I grunt again.
“Right. So, you were just auditioning for garbage man of the year, and I’m supposed to say thank you for your services? Anything else, or are we done here?”
I don’t answer immediately because I still need to process but she turns away and walks off. I follow.
“Wait!” I shout. She freezes.
The streetlight hits her hair; it glows orange like a sunset.
“I really need your help.”
“You don’t understand the word no, do you?” she says, turning around to face me again. “I told you I don’t have time for your case. I’m not the only lawyer in New York.”
“Thirty minutes,” I try again. “Give me thirty minutes to show you we’re worth it.” She’s silent for a second, so I add, “Please.”
It’s the first time I’ve ever begged like this. For my daughter, I’d do anything—even get on my knees in front of this woman.
She exhales slowly, like I’m already wearing her patience thin just by standing there. Opens her mouth. Closes it again.
“Please,” I say.
“Fine.” She lifts both hands in surrender. “Thirty minutes.”
“Right now? At your place?”
She stares at me like I’ve just suggested something criminal. “Are you insane? I’m not letting a stalker into my apartment.”
“Sorry—just checking—the guy from earlier passed your screening, but I didn’t?”
“Colton. Stop talking.”
I almost smile.
“One,” she says, pointing at me like she’s issuing warnings in court. “I remember exactly what you were like in high school. And two. My private life is none of your damn business. Got it?”
I hold her stare for a beat, then cross my arms.
Yeah. She’s not wrong about that but over my dead body am I saying it out loud. “Tomorrow, 10 a.m. in my office. I want a matcha latte. You have thirty minutes. Not one second more,” she says.
“What’s a matcha latte?”
“Do I look like Google?”
That fucking bitch.