Chapter 17
Chase
Monday morning’s meetings went well. Better than well, actually. The Hendersons signed off on the settlement I’d drafted, both Bob and Catherine complimented my work in front of their clients, and Mrs. Henderson had smiled at me after they left.
That almost never happened.
By Tuesday, I was well and truly back in the grind. I sat through three client meetings while Catherine or Bob handled the actual talking. I took notes, learning by observation.
One deposition prep session lasted four hours.
Another discovery review lasted so long my eyes crossed.
And then there were the emails.
One after another after another.
Wednesday started the same way, with a morning meeting with the Kowalskis, whose mediation was scheduled for next week. Afterward, there were documents to review. The afternoon was spent drafting a motion that Bob would rewrite anyway.
He insisted I practice regardless of what he might do with my finished product.
By 4 p.m., I was staring at my computer screen, the words blurring together, when Ashley appeared in my doorway.
Pop.
“You’ve got a walk-in,” she said, cracking her gum. “Mrs. Chenza says it’s urgent.”
Mrs. Chenza was a newer client, a divorce case in which her husband had left her for a woman twenty years younger. It was the standard story except for one part—the part where he claimed she’d hidden assets during the marriage.
She hadn’t. I’d checked. Extensively.
“Conference Room B?” I asked.
“Yep. I already got her water.”
I grabbed the Chenza file and headed to the conference room, expecting another routine check-in about timeline or paperwork or one of the seventeen other things divorcing people worried about when they couldn’t control anything else in their lives.
Mrs. Chenza was in her sixties, small and neat in a way that reminded me of my grandmother, and she was crying. But it wasn’t the angry crying I witnessed in family law.
It was a quiet, defeated weeping that broke my heart as I entered the room.
“Mrs. Chenza.” I sat down across from her, setting the file aside. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
“He took my mother’s bracelet,” she said, her voice shaking. “When he came to pick up more of his things, he took it from my jewelry box. It was my mother’s. She . . . she gave it to me before she died twenty years ago. It’s not worth much money, but it’s—it’s all I have left of her.”
I pulled up the asset inventory we’d compiled during discovery. “Did you list it in the initial filing?”
“No. It’s costume jewelry, maybe worth a hundred dollars. I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think he’d take it.” She wiped her eyes. “He knows what it means to me. He’s doing this to hurt me.”
Technically, if it wasn’t listed in the initial inventory, it was going to be hard to claim. Her husband could argue it was marital property. Technically, this was the kind of thing that would drag out the settlement and cost her a hundred times more in legal fees than the bracelet was worth.
But technically wasn’t the point.
I pulled out my phone. “What’s his lawyer’s number?”
“I don’t—why?”
“Because I’m going to call them right now and tell them that if your husband doesn’t return your mother’s bracelet by end of business today, I’m going to make this divorce so expensive and time-consuming that he’ll wish he’d never left you.”
Mrs. Chenza blinked. “You can do that?”
“I’m a lawyer. Being an asshole is part of my job description.” Her eyes widened, and I realized what I’d just said. “Forgive me. That was poorly said.”
She nodded but said nothing.
I found the number in my notes and dialed.
The call lasted seven minutes. I used words like “bad faith negotiation” and “emotional distress” and “punitive damages” and “I will ensure this case drags on for two years if I have to.” The other lawyer—some guy named Pinkerton who sounded bored until I started threatening timelines—agreed to speak with his client.
An hour later, Mrs. Chenza’s husband showed up at our office with the bracelet in a Ziploc bag. I took it from him at the building’s sidewalk entrance, never letting him step foot in our office.
Mrs. Chenza cried when I handed it to her.
But this time it was different.
“Thank you,” she kept saying. “Thank you so much. Mr. Sullivan . . . thank you.”
“This is important to you. That makes it important to me, too.”
“You’re not the blood-sucking leech I expected,” she said into my shoulder as she embraced me. I stood there awkwardly patting her back while trying not to cry myself.
Being compared favorably to a leech was not a high bar. In fact, it was pretty funny.
But it felt good.
When Mrs. Chenza left, clutching the bracelet like it was made of diamonds instead of costume jewelry, I sat in the conference room for a long moment, staring at nothing.
This was why I’d gone to law school.
Not for the billable hours or the partnership track or the prestige of working at a successful firm.
For this.
For helping people when everything else in their life felt out of control.
For making a difference, even if it was just getting back an inexpensive bracelet that was priceless to someone.
I left the office around six-thirty. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that would’ve been beautiful if I’d had the energy to appreciate them.
I walked to my car in the small lot behind the building.
My apartment wasn’t far away. I could walk to work.
But I’d lived in Tampa long enough to know that afternoon rainstorms were as regular as squirts after a Nachos BellGrande.
The last thing I wanted was to swim home, clutching my briefcase, while hoping its watertight features actually held.
So, I drove the one minute and twenty seconds from door to door.
It wasn’t until I sat behind the wheel that I noticed something tucked under my windshield wiper.
I pulled it out, ready to crumple it up and toss it into the back seat, when I saw the logo.
Barbacks.
LIGHTNING vs HURRICANES - TONIGHT! 7:30 PM
Drink Specials! Food Specials! Best Burgers in Ybor!
Come watch the game with us!
Barbacks – voted best new gay sports bar in Tampa by everyone who’s visited this week.
The last line made me chuckle. Clever Finn. Cheeky Finn.
Fucking cute Finn.
I checked my watch. 6:34 p.m.
The game started in less than an hour.
I should go home. I knew I should go home.
I had work to do, more work than I could ever finish.
I looked at the flyer.
Looked at the darkening blue sky.
Blue like the Lightning jerseys.
Blue like Finn’s eyes—though not quite the same shade, but still—
“Fuck it,” I said to no one.
I climbed out of my car, locked the door, and headed toward the edge of Ybor.
Barbacks was packed. Again.
Unlike the smattering of team spirit from Sunday night, nearly every dude in the bar was wearing a Lightning jersey. The sea of blue and white was almost overwhelming. The noise level was already at “need to shout to be heard” and the game hadn’t even started yet.
I stood in the doorway, debating whether I should just leave, when I spotted my corner booth.
Two guys and a girl were collecting their credit cards and readying to stand.
Somehow, miraculously, I was about to land my booth again. I made a beeline for it before anyone else could claim it, sliding into the seat and feeling like I’d won some kind of prize.
Finn was behind the bar. He wore an electric blue tank top that set his hair on fire and made his skin look even more pale than it already was. The stretchy fabric of his shirt gloved its way across his pec, leaving nothing—and I mean nothing—to the imagination.
His hands flew—pulling beers, mixing drinks, pouring shots—all while he talked to customers and occasionally shouted something toward the kitchen.
His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead that suggested he’d already been at this for hours.
Jacks was running between tables with a tray of drinks, his golden retriever enthusiasm somehow still intact despite the chaos.
The older guy with the graying beard—the one I’d seen on Sunday—was alternating between restocking glasses behind the bar, running food from the kitchen, and doing what appeared to be seventeen other tasks at once.
It was controlled chaos.
And Finn was the captain of the ship.
He was commanding, competent, and completely in his element.
I couldn’t look away.
Then the older guy appeared at my table, slightly out of breath but smiling. “Hey there. You’re the corner booth guy? The lawyer? Right?”
“I, uh—yeah, I guess I am.”
“Thought so. I’m Mark.” He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “Co-owner. Business partner. Professional errand-runner. Whatever Finn needs, basically.”
“Chase,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. What can I get you? Brady Burger again?”
I blanched. He knew my burger? I’d just met the guy. “Actually, what’s the Penalty Box?”
Mark’s grin widened. “Oh, you’re gonna love this.
It’s Rod’s take on a Japanese bento box, but Venezuelan.
Arepas, tostones, empanadas, and some kind of grilled protein that changes depending on the day.
He packs everything in these little compartments.
It’s like a sampler platter but fancy and Latin. ”
“That sounds incredible.”
“It is incredible. Rod’s a genius. You want a beer with that?”
“Please.”
“You got it.” Mark started to walk away, then paused. “Hey, just so you know—Finn knows you’re here.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He’s been looking over here every thirty seconds since you walked in. Just thought you should know.” Mark grinned, winked, and disappeared into the crowd before I could respond.
Finn knew I was here.
I tried very hard not to smile like an idiot and failed.
The crowd let out a roar as the first puck dropped.
The Lightning scored early, three minutes in. It was a beautiful shot from the slot. People were jumping, shouting, hugging strangers, giving terrible high fives, and spilling alcohol like a drunk priest blessing a crowd of squirming children.
I glanced at the bar.
Finn was grinning and high-fiving someone across the counter. His whole face was lit up with genuine joy.
He didn’t look at me.
Not once.
Not during the first period, when the Lightning scored again.
Not during the second period, when the Hurricanes managed to get one back.
Not during the third period, when the Lightning went up 4 to 1 and the crowd started celebrating early.
He was too busy, too focused, too buried in orders and chaos and running a successful bar on a Wednesday night.
Which was fine.
It was good, even.
I was here for the game and the food, not to stare at a bartender I barely knew. I was definitely not there to obsess over whether he’d noticed I was there.
(Even though Mark had just told me he had.)
My Penalty Box arrived, delivered by Jacks with a grin and a “Finn says to let him know what you think.”
Finn did, did he?
That was my inside voice. On the outside, I smiled and said, “Thanks.”
It was possibly the best thing I’d ever eaten.
The arepas were crispy and soft at the same time, the tostones were addictive, the empanadas were filled with something that tasted like goat cheese smothered in heaven and spices, and the grilled chicken was marinated in something that made me want to cry.
I grabbed my phone and texted Diego a photo.
Me: This is what I’m eating.
Diego: Where are you?
Me: Barbacks.
Diego: AGAIN???
Me: The food is really good.
Diego: The BARTENDER is really hot.
Me: That, too.
I turned and tried to pretend I was reading something on my screen as I zoomed my camera and snapped a pic of Finn, shaking the martini thing up by his ear. His bicep flexed right as I snapped the photo.
Diego: Well, hello, Irish. If Chase doesn’t get your number, I’ll give you mine!
Me: You’re married!
Diego: Doesn’t mean I’m dead. Besides, we have rules for this.
Me: I work in family law. I don’t want to know your rules.
Diego: Get his number and you won’t have to hear them. Unless Irish wants a little Diego Dog, if you get my meaning.
Me: I’m never talking to you again. Goodbye!
I chuckled as I put my phone away and went back to my food.
The game wound down.
The Lightning dominated the third period, stretching their lead to 7 to 1 with less than three minutes remaining. The crowd celebrated before starting to filter out. It was a work night, and normal people needed rest.
My inner voice said, “I should leave, too.”
I’d finished my food, finished my third beer, and the bar was thinning out.
Finn hadn’t so much as glanced in my direction, and I was losing hope that would change anytime soon.
So, I pulled out my wallet, dropped cash on the table, again tipping way more than necessary because the food had been that good and because I couldn’t help myself, and started to slide out of the booth.
“Not going anywhere, are ya?”
That Irish lilt sounded like music.
I looked up.
Finn was standing next to my table with a bar towel slung over his shoulder.
And he was smiling.