4. Janet
JANET
"One drink," I say. "Then we're leaving."
"Got it," Rosemary says.
The city from the back of a cab is blurred lights and wet pavement. We cut downtown through streets that get narrower and darker the further we go, the glass towers giving way to old brick and string lights and doors with no names on them.
The cab pulls over on a cobblestone street.
Nocturne.
Rosemary is already out, smoothing her dress, checking her reflection in the window glass.
"Let's do it," she says.
The building isn’t much from the street. No sign. A line stretches down the block, a velvet rope, a man in a suit checking names off a tablet.
"I'm not standing in that," I say.
"Janet."
"I mean it, Rosemary, I'm not?—"
"Janet Graham?"
The doorman is looking at me. I stop.
"Yeah," I glance at Rosemary. "How do you know my name?"
"Mr. Trent described you."
"How did he describe me?"
"Perfectly. Come right in," he says.
Rosemary grabs my arm. "Aren't you special," she says, like she can't believe her own luck.
The man unclips the rope and steps aside.
Heads turn as I pass. The looks I get aren't subtle. Half curiosity. Half envy.
Inside, the noise of the street disappears, replaced by something low and slow, a bass-line you feel more than hear, threading under the hum of conversation. The room is dark in a way that is deliberate, gold light pooling low over leather booths.
A table of men in suits laughs too loudly near the bar. A woman in a couture dress leans into a man's shoulder, whispering something that makes him grin. Somewhere behind the bar, ice cracks against glass in time with the music.
"Look at that," Rosemary says, scanning the room.
We find two seats at the end of the bar.
Rosemary orders something with champagne in it and spins her stool to face the room instead of the bottles.
The music shifts into something with more heat in it, a woman's voice over a slow, deliberate beat, the kind of song that makes people lean in closer to be heard.
"Okay." She nods toward a man near the window, jaw cut sharp enough to see from across the room. "I would let him explain hedge funds to me for an hour."
"You hate hedge funds."
"You have to let them explain it to you; it makes them sound smart."
I don't answer her. I'm scanning the room the way I scan a courtroom, the way I scan anywhere — looking for him without meaning to.
I haven't seen him yet.
Two men peel off from the group by the window before we've finished our first round. One of them is the jaw Rosemary picked out. He sets a fresh drink in front of her like he's been planning the move since she walked in.
"It's your birthday. I'm buying," Rosemary says.
"Actually, I'm buying," the man says. "Happy birthday."
"Thank you," I say.
"What, twenty-two?"
"That's a terrible line."
"It worked on my first wife."
"That's worse."
He grins and introduces himself as Dane. His friend slides in next to me, already talking, already confident I'll find him interesting.
"So what do you two do?" Dane's friend asks.
"I'm a lawyer," Rosemary says before I can answer. "She puts murderers in prison."
"Watch yourself, Dane," his friend says.
"I'm always careful around lawyers." Dane raises his glass at Rosemary. "Especially the ones who look like that."
"Smoothest thing you've said all night," Rosemary says, but she's smiling into her drink when she says it.
Dane's friend asks me something about how long I've been a prosecutor. I tell him. He asks if it's hard putting people away. I give him the short answer, the one I give at dinner parties, and he nods like it's the most fascinating thing he's heard all year.
Rosemary is fully in it now, leaning into Dane's shoulder, asking him something about a ski trip he name-drops like it should mean something to her. Another round appears. She doesn't seem to notice.
I sip my drink and let the friend keep talking. I nod in the right places. I laugh once, in the wrong place.
I see him.
Mike, across the room, in a booth with two men, head tipped back mid-laugh at something one of them said. Easy. Loose. Like the room belongs to him.
My whole body lights up at once, a hum low in my stomach that has nothing to do with the drink in my hand.
His head turns. His eyes find mine across the room, and for one second, neither of us looks away.
My pulse jumps. Heat climbs up my neck. It's stupid, reckless, like standing too close to the edge of something — exciting and terrifying in the same breath, the same way it does right before a verdict comes back.
The friend says something. I have no idea what.
Mike doesn't get up. A waitress arrives at his booth with a fresh round of something gold and expensive, and one of the men says something that makes the whole table laugh.
Two women settle in beside them, all legs and easy smiles, like they were poured into the seats.
Mike says something back, and his eyes cut to me again before he answers whatever question the man across from him asked.
He's working. I recognize the shape of it even from here — the particular attention of a man closing something that isn't a deal exactly, but isn't nothing either.
"You're not even listening," the friend says, not unkindly.
"Sorry."
Rosemary doesn't notice any of it. She's got both elbows on the bar, fully turned toward Dane, asking him something about skiing that he's answering at length. Another round shows up. She toasts to nothing in particular and clinks her glass against his like they're celebrating something.
"To Friday," she says.
"To Friday," he says back, grinning like he's already decided how the rest of his night goes.
I look back toward the booth. Mike's still there, leaning in to hear something one woman is saying, nodding, professional, easy. But his eyes lift again, find mine, and hold for half a second longer than they should.
I look at my drink.
The friend asks me something about where I went to law school. I answer it without thinking, the words on autopilot while every other part of me stays fixed on the booth across the room.
I force myself to glance at Dane, ask him something about the skiing trip Rosemary brought up, anything to put my eyes somewhere else. He answers, pleased to have my attention. I nod along, and somewhere in the middle of his sentence, I feel it again — that pull, like a hand on the back of my neck.
I glance over.
Mike's watching me, a drink halfway to his mouth, like he's been waiting for me to look back the whole time.
Neither of us moves.
This goes on for what feels like an hour and is probably ten minutes. The friend keeps talking. I keep nodding.
The friend asks if I want another drink.
"Sure," I say.
Rosemary is lost in conversation, laughing at something I can barely hear. I let what's-his-name do most of the talking. He owns a place in the Hamptons, apparently. A place I have to see, according to him, as if the Atlantic itself might be offended if I don't.
I finish my drink and set the glass down harder than I mean to.
I've given Mike Trent time to come over here. If he thinks I'm crossing the room first, he's mistaken.
This is why I hate this shit.
The whole stupid little dance where everybody acts casual while their pride bleeds out on the floor.
"I'm going to head out," I say.
Rosemary turns, breaking off mid-laugh. "What? No, it's barely midnight."
"This isn't my thing."
"You want me to come with you?"
"No, you stay; have a good time."
She grabs my wrist, but it's loose, more reflex than real protest. "Happy birthday."
"Love you."
She looks at me for a second like she might argue, glances at Dane beside her, clearly doing the math on what she'd be giving up. "The night is young."
"Only if you're a vampire."
I lean in and kiss her cheek, tell her to text me when she gets home, and reach for my purse on the bar.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and turn toward the door.
I weave my way through the room near the door.
A hand closes around mine.
I spin around, already pulling back, and stop.
Mike.
"Janet, don't go."