Sexy Lies and Rock & Roll (27 page)

“Awesome,” I say. Because it is. Midge took over the case since Emma left, and she got my former bandmates to agree to a lump sum of seventy-five thousand, which I assume they split three ways. They also signed a confidentiality agreement and I am now free from that drama.

“I’ve also gone over the breach-of-contract suit,” she says briskly. “He doesn’t have a leg to stand on, but I’m betting he’s going to drag this out all the way. He’s looking for a quick payday and will probably jump at any offer you make to him.”

I grimace. The “him” she’s referencing is Tyler. Two weeks ago, a sheriff’s deputy served me in Washington D.C. with a lawsuit Tyler filed against me for breach of contract and wrongful termination. Figures that fucker would still want to take a piece of me, which infuriates me considering all I lost because of him.

“Don’t offer him a fucking dime,” I growl at her from across the table. “Not one penny. Drag this out for years if you have to, and if you want to make him suffer in the process, that would make me very, very happy.”

Midge chuckles. “That’s definitely part of my DNA swimming in your veins. Never one to back down from a fight.”

“Damn skippy,” I mutter. “Now let’s move on to more pleasant things to discuss.”

We continue to chat, getting caught up on each other’s lives. While we talked frequently by phone while I was on tour, it wasn’t the same as just good old one-on-one time with a loved one. Midge spends a great deal of time talking about Cary, and this is done with an unbreakable smile on her face. It amazes me still how much she’s changed since she started seeing him. I swear, if it’s possible, she actually looks even younger because of it.

The waiter brings our drinks.

We order thick ribeye steaks with fried Brussel sprouts.

We talk about everything under the sun.

Well, almost everything.

“So, Cary and I are thinking about taking a trip in the fall,” Midge says as she daintily cuts off a piece of steak.

“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Where are you going to go?”

She shrugs as she holds the steak poised on the tip of her fork. “We’re batting around a few ideas. Maybe Europe.”

“Sounds great,” I say with a smile. She gives me a pensive look, puts the steak in her mouth, and delicately chews as she stares at me.

After she swallows, she points the fork at me. “Want to come with us? You could use a vacation.”

I’m shaking my head in the negative. “A romantic trip to Europe and you drag your nephew along? No thanks. Not into being a third wheel.”

Midge chuckles and puts her fork down. Picking up her second martini, she rotates her wrist to swirl the liquid before taking a sip. When she sets the glass down, she looks at me slyly. “You don’t have to be a third wheel. You could bring someone.”

I thought that empty feeling would have diminished by now, but every time I think of what could have been with Emma, my chest cramps from a deep hollowness within.

While I had promised myself I was not going to ask Midge about Emma, I find myself almost obsessively curious about her right now. I’ve purposefully refrained from bringing her up to Midge over the course of the last few months as she has intimate knowledge about Emma and what she’s up to. While I refused to ask it didn’t mean that I wasn’t always secretly hoping Midge would drop me a little nugget of information that would appease my curiosity, but she never did. I think she was trying to make me suffer for the fact that I refused to reach out to Emma, particularly after she sent me that email telling me not to take the Phoenix deal. I didn’t know what to make of it, but ultimately… it didn’t matter. She clearly wasn’t moving past the “incident” because she didn’t say a damn word about it. Didn’t ask me how I was doing or if I was lonely, or tell me she missed me.

Her message was blunt and to the point, and totally nothing more than some legal advice, I’m sure.

So I moved on.

Sort of.

Not really.

“So how’s Emma doing?” I ask casually even though I swore to myself a million times today that I wouldn’t ask. I keep my gaze on my steak as I cut a piece.

She doesn’t answer me, and I’m forced to look up. She’s staring at me in amusement. “It’s about time you asked.”

I shrug like it doesn’t matter. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I was just making some conversation.”

“Sure you were,” she says with a chuckle. She doesn’t say anything else, and that totally grates on my nerves.

But because I’m a stubborn son of a bitch, and I’m not feeling up to amusing her further, I change the subject. “I’m thinking of selling my house and getting something a little smaller.”

“She’s in Asheville,” Midge says, finally answering my question, and that causes a jolt of surprise to spear through me.

“What?” I ask, completely forgetting about my totally fake plans to downsize just to make conversation.

“She moved to Asheville a few months ago,” she says nonchalantly. “Had me get her a job at an old law school buddy’s firm, doing mergers and acquisitions.”

I stare at Midge, slack jawed as that sinks in. I realize with brutal clarity I had some level of comfort being back in Raleigh, knowing Emma was just miles away from me if I ever got the nerve to go see her. But she’s clear across the state now, and that couldn’t be a clearer message to me.

Feels like I lost her all over again.

“Oh,” is all I can say. I put my fork and knife down on my plate and push it away, no longer feeling hungry.

“Totally a coward move,” Midge adds on. “And frankly, I thought she was a little conceited for doing so.”

“Pardon?” I ask, completely off kilter now from the frosty tone of Midge’s voice.

Midge leans across the table a bit and says in a low, judgmental voice. “It’s clear, Evan. She thought you would return and try to woo her back, and she knows how devastatingly charming you can be. So she made the decision to cut and run, and she’s probably betting you’ll come running after her. She wants to lead you on a merry chase across the state.”

I’m shaking my head. “She’s not like that.”

“Of course she is,” Midge scoffs. “Conceited and self-centered if you ask my opinion. I mean, you explained everything to her, and she didn’t even give you the courtesy of considering the truth. You’re probably better off to be rid of her.”

One of my eyebrows slowly rises upward and I give Midge a sardonic smile. “Really? You’re taking that tack with me?”

She grins slyly across the table. “Is it working?”

“No, Midge,” I tell her truthfully. “You can’t bait me into doing something about this whole fiasco. Ball’s in Emma’s court.”

She shrugs. “Fine. Sit around and wait until you get gray hair. You’re missing out on some happiness.”

“Emma’s made her choice,” I remind her, sounding determined to my own ears but knowing deep inside that I’d do anything to get her back.

“Whatever,” she says dismissively. “So, back to our fall trip. Cary and I are thinking of taking a month off, maybe more.”

“That’s great,” I say half-heartedly, because while I didn’t like anything she just told me about Emma, I still enjoyed at least talking about her. The hollowness returns with a vengeance.

“It is great,” she agrees. “I’m looking forward to it. No work. No stress. No obligations.”

“You deserve it.”

“I’m glad you think so,” she says bluntly “Because you’re going to have to find another attorney to represent you against Tyler’s lawsuit. I won’t have time, and the responsive pleadings will be due when I’m gone.”

My jaw drops. “You can’t be serious?”

“Dead serious,” she says. And oh yeah… that look in her eyes.

Absolutely serious.

“Assign another attorney in the firm,” I challenge her.

“No can do, nephew,” she says with a sweet smile. “They’re all too busy.”

“You have almost seventy attorneys,” I say in exasperation.

“And all of them are just so very busy,” she coos at me.

“You’re a pain in my ass,” I mutter, but secretly inside… I’m glad she’s cutting me off.

That means I have to find a new attorney to help me, and it appears I know of one such other person who could be right for the job.

Emma

M
y eyes skim
over the paragraph entitled
Interpretation and Enforcement Notices
. I blink hard to keep my vision from going hazy.

I yawn.

Completely and utterly bored with what I’m doing.

With a sigh, I push the document away from me and slouch down in my chair.

I hate my job with a passion that creates a fiery burn in my belly.

Hate it. Hate it. Hate it.

Oh, the people here are nice enough. The firm is well respected, and this is earning quite a feather in my cap. The city of Asheville is lovely and progressive. The scenery is stunning. The food is good. The air smells sweet.

And I hate it.

A timid knock on my door arouses me from my dark thoughts, and I mutter, “Come in.”

The door slides open and Ben Cambridge stands there, looking hesitant but determined. “Hey. Got a minute?”

Not really.

“Sure,” I say halfheartedly.

“So, there’s a jazz festival this weekend and I was wondering if you’d like to go,” he says hopefully.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from grimacing. To all outward appearances, Ben is exactly the type of guy I always saw myself settling down with. He’s five years older than me, does quite well for himself here at this firm, and he told me at lunch the other day he wanted three kids and possibly a cat.

He’s also been hinting around at wanting to ask me out, and I’ve done everything to discourage it. I’ve been polite but businesslike with him, trying to focus conversation on this case I’m helping him with. I’ve refrained from asking him personal questions, and I’ve brushed off his compliments.

Apparently, he’s not been taking the hint.

Another sigh, this time internal, but I give Ben a warm smile and tell him the God’s honest truth. “I’m sorry, Ben. But I’m fresh off a bad break up, and I’m just not ready—”

“Well, we could go just as friends,” he provides helpfully.

Shaking my head, I tell him, “That’s a really nice offer, but I think I’m going to go back to Raleigh and see my dad for the weekend.”

I truly hadn’t been considering doing that, because I know my dad will take one look at my face and know I hate my job and my life here, and I’m not ready to have the “I told you so” speech.

Ben opens his mouth, to say what I don’t know, but my phone chimes and the receptionist says, “Miss Peterson… your two o’clock is here to see you.”

I glance down at the day planner I keep on my desk. This law firm has a very sophisticated digital calendaring system, which I do use, but I also like my handwritten planner. It’s old school, and that’s still a very big part of me deep down.

No clue what this appointment is about as the only thing I was provided on my digital calendar, that I dutifully transferred to my handwritten one, was that my client’s name was Horace Wigglesworth and that he owned a large construction company that was interested in buying up several local companies.

This didn’t intrigue me and the only thing that has my attention in the slightest is the fact that this man had parents who apparently hated him because that’s the most God-awful name I’d ever heard.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell the receptionist, then I hit the disconnect button.

Standing from my chair, I give Ben another polite smile. “Again, thank you for the offer, but it’s just not a good time for me and besides… going home this weekend and all.”

“Sure,” Ben says, giving me almost a tiny bow as he backs out of my office, but there’s no mistaking the disappointment in his eyes.

Smoothing down my skirt, I nab a yellow pad off my desk along with a pen and make my way up to the reception area. This firm is only about a quarter of the size of Knight & Payne, and it’s decorated in a more traditional style. The firm itself is in a converted historic home. Heavy cherry furniture with brocade fabrics, emerald green carpeting and dark paneled walls. It’s exactly the type of environment I’d once longed for, and yet I find myself missing the noise of The Pit or the rumble of the highway underneath a tour bus while I worked on my laptop.

When I step out into the lobby, I immediately focus on the receptionist as she hands me a clipboard with an informational sheet attached to the top that Mr. Wigglesworth—internal giggle because seriously, so stupid—filled out. I give it a brief scan, not really taking in any of the background information.

Instead, I turn halfheartedly to my newest client as I say his name, “Mr. Wigglesworth.”

When my gaze lands on him, a surge of adrenaline washes through me and my knees almost buckle as I see Evan sitting in a high-backed Victorian chair done in gray, mauve, and green paisley silk. He swamps the chair with his frame and looks completely out of place in his classic rocker wear. Faded jeans with a hole in one knee, black Chucks unlaced, and a dark gray V-necked t-shirt. He’s got a burgundy-colored beanie on his head under which his bangs are tucked, exposing the smooth lines of his forehead and making me take stock of his brilliantly expressive hazel eyes as they bore into me.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“Having a consultation,” he says as he pushes up out of the chair. “I’m in the market for a new lawyer.”

My head snaps back to the receptionist, intent on glaring at her for letting a man into this firm who’s clearly not a Horace Wigglesworth, but as I look at Gloria with her gray-bunned hair bent over her computer and her old-fashioned reading glasses on, I realize she’d have no clue who Evan Scott was. As famous as he is, she’s not exactly his demographic of fan.

Taking two steps, I walk up to Evan. In a very low voice so Gloria can’t hear me, I tell him, “I’m sorry. I’m not taking new clients on, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Evan’s hand shoots out and grabs my upper arm. His head drops down, and he whispers back to me in a very threatening tone, “If you don’t meet with me about my case, I’m going to toss you over my shoulder and walk right out of here with you in tow. So to save yourself some embarrassment, how about finding us a nice, quiet conference room or something where we can talk civilly.”