Lauren Blakely - After This Night

“Consider it done,” Clay said, pushing the menu to the side. He had every intention of not only talking to Charlie, but breaking bread with the man. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years as a lawyer, it was that the more you knew about the opposing side, the better off you were. And the less fear you showed, the more likely you’d win the points you wanted. Besides, he had a hunch Charlie was the type of man who would act supremely gentlemanly to a worthy adversary.

Clay planned to be just that.

“So, you messed up the nose of my new guy,” Charlie began, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

“It got in the way of my fist.”

Charlie scratched his neck, as if he were a dog itching fleas. “He shouldn’t have been there. He’s too hot-headed to be on the street.”

“Yeah?”

Charlie shook his head, and blew out a long stream of air. A man frustrated, he placed his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “Stevie was supposed to give her the message, but he came down with the flu, he claimed,” Charlie said with a scoff.

“I’m guessing that’s the last time he’ll duck out of work for a sick day,” Clay said dryly.

Charlie laughed, throwing back his head and letting loose several deep chuckles. Then he took a deep breath, and the laughing silenced. “What are you here for?”

“Seems we have something in common, don’t we?” Clay said, establishing first their mutual interests.

“Red.”

“That’s what you call Julia?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s the thing, Charlie,” Clay began, keeping his voice completely even and controlled as he knew how to do. “Can I call you Charlie? Or do you prefer Mr. Stravinski?”

“Charlie is fine.”

“So here’s the thing,” he repeated, leaning back in his chair, mirroring Charlie’s moves. “You’re going to need to go through me now.”

Charlie arched an eyebrow. “I am?”

“You are.”

“And why would I do that?”

“I’m her lawyer and I’m handling you. And that’s how it’s going to work. You want your money, I presume?”

“I would like it,” Charlie said. “I am fond of money.”

“I had a feeling you were, so I brought some extra to settle some matters,” Clay said, then dipped into his pocket for his wallet. Taking his time he opened it up, wet a finger, and counted some crisp bills. He laid $500 on the table. “This is for your guy. It’s a way of saying I’m not sorry his nose ran into my fist, but I do aim to take responsibility for my actions.”

Charlie eyed the money approvingly. “Go on.”

He peeled off another five $100 bills, adding them to the stack. “This is for you to leave her alone this week.”

A laugh fell from Charlie’s lips. “It’s going to cost more than that.”

Clay added $500 to the pile, then raised an eyebrow in question. Charlie nodded. “That’ll do.”

“And this,” he continued, adding five more to the pile, “Is a promise that we will have the $10,000 remaining on the debt to you by next weekend.”

“Or?”

“There’s no or,” Clay said firmly, never wavering as his eyes remained locked on the man across from him. “It will be paid. And you will be done with her. Is that clear?”

“Why should it be clear?”

“Because that’s how deals are done, Charlie. When the final $10,000 is paid, she’s free and clear and I never want you to talk to her, be in touch with her, or send your men after her again,” he said, his eyes locked on the man he despised, never wavering.

“Are you going to ask me to sign something? A legal contract, perhaps?” Charlie said in a mocking tone.

He shook his head. “They don’t make contracts for this kind of deal. That’s why I paid you the extra just now in good faith. Those are the terms of our contract. Good faith.”

Charlie paused, and cocked his head to the side. Looked Clay up and down. Then his lips curled up. “I can live with those terms.”

“And you can live with the other ones? When this is done, it’s over and out?”

“If she has the money for me, I will not ever need to see her again,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I told you. We will have the money. But she’s not playing in your games anymore.”

“Really?” Charlie said, doubt dripping from his mouth. “What is she going to do? Play the slot machines in Vegas to get my ten grand?”

Clay laughed and shook his head. “No. But does it matter? Do you care where your money comes from, or just that it arrives in a neat, green package?”

“Green is good. But I will be in New York next weekend. I’m moving a game there.”

“What a coincidence. I happen to live in New York,” he said.

“You will pay me there. By Sunday morning I want it. One week,” he said, holding up his index finger in emphasis. “We will meet at eleven at my favorite restaurant in the Village. I will get you the name.”

“Consider it done.”

“And we will do business like men. We will shake on it when the deal is done.”

“I’ll be there.”

The waiter arrived then with two orders of chicken and two sets of chopsticks.

“Dig in,” Charlie said.

Clay took a bite and nodded in approval. “That’s some damn fine kung pao chicken.”

“As you can see, it would have broken my heart to drive this place to the ground like I could have. I kept it open for the chicken. It’s rated best kung pao chicken in San Francisco. Nothing makes me prouder.”

“It’s the little things in life, isn’t it?” Clay said, holding up a piece of chicken between his chopsticks as if in a toast to the dish.

“Indeed it is,” Charlie said, a smile spreading across his face. “I like you. You have balls. You should work for me. I can always use a good lawyer.”

“Thank you. But I’m going to have to pass on that. I have a pretty full client list at the moment.”

They spent the rest of the hour talking about sports and eating chicken, and discussing whether San Francisco or New York had better restaurants. Though he didn’t enjoy the time, and in fact, he spent the vast majority of it in a coiled state of restraint so he wouldn’t strangle the man with his bare fists, at least he left understanding the enemy.

And that always counted for something.

“How much do I bring to the game?”

Clay glanced up from the check, shooting Michele a quizzical look. “The game?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically, holding her hands out wide. They’d just finished lunch at McCoy’s on Madison, in between their respective offices. He tossed his credit card on the table.

“Saturday night. Your game,” she added.

“You don’t usually come to poker,” he said as the waiter scurried by with plates for another table.

“Am I not invited?” She crossed her arms.

“Of course you’re invited, Michele,” he said, trying to settle her. He didn’t want her to be irritated, but she seemed in a seesawing mood. “I was just surprised.”

“Liam invited me,” she said, drumming her fingernails against the table as if she were trying to get his attention. But he was paying attention already.

“Oh yeah? You guys are a thing now?” he said, though he knew the answer because Liam had called him a couple of weeks ago to make sure it was all right to ask Michele on a date. Clay had said yes in a heartbeat, and then had barely thought about it afterwards. He had a two-track mind these days—work and Julia.

“Sort of,” she said with a shrug, as the waiter rushed over to the table.

“He’s a good guy. He’ll treat you right,” Clay said, handing the waiter the check and the credit card. “Thank you,” he said to the waiter.

“He is a good guy, so when he asked me to the game I said yes,” Michele said, tapping the table once more. Then she took a deep breath, and spoke quickly, the words tumbling out. “And your lady friend is going to be there, right?”

“Yes, she’ll be there. My lady friend,” he said, sketching air quotes. “Her name’s Julia.”

Michele only knew that Julia was coming to the game. She didn’t know about Julia’s financial troubles. None of his friends did, because it was no one’s business.

“Julia,” Michele repeated, saying the name as if it had ten syllables and they all tasted bitter on her tongue. “So I can approve of her then,” she said, changing her tone, seeming suddenly light.

“Sure,” he said, going with it. Because, women? Who knew how to read them sometimes? And every now and then, Michele was impossible to figure out. “I’m sure you’ll approve.”

“I need to make sure the men I care about choose the right women for them. I worried about Davis. I worry about you,” she said, reaching across the table to rest her hand on top of his.

Ah, he got it now. He understood what was going on with her. “You don’t have to worry about me, Michele.”

“But I do,” she said, lowering her eyes.

“I know,” he said, softly. She worried about a lot of things. It was her nature. She hated to see the people she loved get hurt. She’d been like that since her parents died, and Clay had wondered from time to time if she was trying to somehow prevent more hurt in the world. Odd for a shrink, but then he wasn’t one to try to psychoanalyze anyone. “I know you worry. But I’m okay. You’ll like Julia. I know you will.”

“You think so?”

He nodded. “I do.”

Something sad flashed in her eyes. “Do you ever think what would have happened if . . .?”

“If what?”

“If we’d . . .” she said, her voice trailing off as she gestured from him to her.

He raised an eyebrow. She couldn’t possibly be referring to that kiss in college, could she? Nah. She must just be in one of those melancholy moods.