CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

After the Huntsman left, I fell asleep. I’m sure there was something preternatural in that—there was no way I’d drift off with everything pinging through my head.

When my phone rang, Ricky woke first, and by the time I surfaced, he’d already pulled my cell from my discarded slacks.

He swore and turned the phone toward me. It was James. The call went to voice mail.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Two in the morning. Has he been doing this?”

“No. It’s because . . . he sent a package this morning.”

His look of concern sharpened to alarm, and I laughed softly.

“It wasn’t a bomb or a dead rat,” I said. “Just a file on Gabriel. Rumors and allegations. There was one on you, too. He didn’t dig up anything more than a couple of dismissed traffic violations, but I should have mentioned it. I planned to, and then last night . . .”

“You had trouble with Gabriel, followed by motorcycle rides, which aren’t conducive to conversation. We should talk, though. If James is—”

The phone rang again. Still James.

“Okay,” Ricky said. “Three ways to handle this. One, you answer, though I’d rather you didn’t, because it seems to only give him an excuse to keep calling. Two, you turn the phone off. Three, I answer.”

“Go for it.”

His eyes glinted. “Seriously?”

“I was hoping for a mature breakup, but he’s not letting me have it.”

Ricky answered. There was a pause, as James presumably processed the fact that a man was answering my phone at this hour. Then Ricky said, “It’s Rick Gallagher. We haven’t met.”

A murmur on the other end of the line.

“It’s the middle of the night. Can I pass on a message?”

Another murmur.

“If it’s important, I’ll wake her, but she’s been working double shifts. I’d like to let her sleep.”

He could have insinuated some other reason why I was exhausted, but he was taking the high road. Which was more than I could say for the guy calling me at 2 A.M.

Ricky listened for another minute, and I could see confusion and then surprise in his eyes. “Sure. I’ll tell her. Oh, but I’m going to ask you not to call her in the middle of the night anymore, okay?”

I heard James start to respond, but Ricky cut him off. “Also, I heard you sent her some information on me yesterday. If you’re interested in getting to know me better, just ask. In fact, if you’d like to get together for coffee, I could stop by your office tomorrow—”

Ricky stopped. He looked at me. “He hung up.”

“And you were being so polite.”

“I was.” He handed me the phone. “He called about Gabriel.” Ricky reached for our clothing and tossed me my slacks as he sorted through it. “It seems your boss paid your ex a visit tonight, in response to that package. He’s been arrested.”

I had my shirt half on. I stopped. “Gabriel?”

“Yeah. James made it sound like Gabriel tore over there, broke in, and beat the shit out of him, which I know isn’t the real story. Whatever happened, though, Gabriel’s in jail. I’m going to go bail him out.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bailing guys out is actually one of my jobs for the club. But you’re welcome to come along. Unless you’re so pissed off that you’d like to see him stew in a cell overnight.”

“Mmm, tempting. But no. I’ll come. I should learn how to do this for clients.”

—

I don’t think this particular station was accustomed to seeing bikers. Considering the median property value of the area it serviced, that’s probably a given. I was the one the desk clerk recognized first. Ricky introduced himself and told the clerk why we were there, and suddenly I swear every officer in the place found an excuse to come up front as we waited.

It was like the setup to a joke: the gang leader’s son and the serial killers’ daughter walk into a police station and . . . Well, hilarious shenanigans ensue, I’m sure.

The reality, I fear, was not nearly as entertaining. Ricky and I waited, talking in low voices, causing two officers to creep ever closer until they overheard Ricky discussing a marketing project. One walked away in disgust. The other hovered, as if convinced it was really code for some nefarious scheme.

Finally, someone came to process our bail request. In Chicago, you pay the police, not a bondsman. Bail had been set at under two thousand dollars, which is why Gabriel hadn’t called anyone to spring him—he’d be able to cover it himself with a call to the bank in the morning. The police knew that, so they were holding him in the drunk tank rather than shipping him to the Cook County jail. They could have let him stop at an ATM on the way, but this was Gabriel Walsh. The cops weren’t doing him any favors.

The desk sergeant was a middle-aged woman who seemed to know exactly who we were and, quite frankly, didn’t give a damn. We were being polite, so she was polite back.

According to her, James hadn’t called the police. His mother—Maura—had. Maura claimed Gabriel had broken in, drunk, and proceeded to beat the crap out of James, while issuing death and blackmail threats. When the police actually arrived, they’d discovered a few flaws in Maura’s story. One, no sign of break-in. Two, Gabriel was obviously sober. Three, no matter what they might think of him, they knew he wasn’t going to suddenly go raging bull on anyone. That wasn’t his rep.

The charges were simple assault and trespass, which were both misdemeanors. Serious enough, though, when you were an attorney. Yes, according to the desk sergeant, James had been taken to the hospital for possible internal injuries, but Gabriel would never have gut-punched him without provocation. James was being something I never would have thought possible. He was being an asshole.

Ricky and I were left in a room while the officer went to get Gabriel. When that door opened, I started forward, but Ricky stopped me. As Gabriel saw us, humiliation flickered over his face. It vanished in a blink, helped by the fact that I didn’t rush to him. We played it cool, as if this sort of thing happened all the time. The officer who’d escorted Gabriel gruffly told us to see ourselves out and then retreated.

Once the door closed, Ricky said, “Aren’t I supposed to be on that side of the room, and you over here?”

Gabriel only grunted, then seemed to realize Ricky was trying to lighten the mood and said, “I hope it never is reversed. I trust you know better than to get on this side. I’m presuming the police notified you, because I certainly didn’t ask them to call.”

“You should have,” I said. “And no, it was James, actually.”

“Liv was going to come bail you out,” Ricky said. “But I’m the one with the experience. So now that that’s done, I’m going to guess you’re okay handling car retrieval? I should grab some sleep before morning classes.”

He gave me a sidelong look, in case I was thinking of reminding him he didn’t have any morning classes. He was trying to make an awkward situation easier by extricating himself. I glanced at Gabriel. He looked like hell—exhausted and disheveled, with a bruise on his jaw and blood spatter on his shirt. There was a vaguely disoriented look in his eyes, too, as if he’d lost his footing and still hadn’t found it. I wasn’t letting him go anywhere on his own.

“I’ll go with Gabriel to fetch his car,” I said, passing Ricky my helmet. “Thank you.”

“Call me?”

I nodded. He made it halfway out the door before Gabriel seemed to snap out of it.

“Thank you,” he said to Ricky. “I won’t forget this.”

Ricky grinned. “That would be the idea. And I’d hope I don’t need to say it, but I’ll keep this between us. I’m sure you’ll get it resolved.”

I waited until he was gone, then handed Gabriel a hairbrush and tissue I’d dug out of my bag. I gave him my makeup compact, too, for the mirror.

“Since I’m guessing there’s no back way out . . .” I said.

“Right. Thanks.”

“If you pat some powder on your jaw, it’ll make the bruise less noticeable.”

He did. Yes, no one except the cops would see him. But to Gabriel, it still mattered. He cleaned up and brushed his hair, and by the time he looked presentable, he seemed a little more himself, reoriented, the usual chill back in his eyes, the steel in his jaw and spine. When we turned to go, that resolve softened again as he glanced over at me.

“Thank you,” he said. “For coming. I know I don’t deserve—” He cut himself short and pulled up straight again. “We’ll talk later.”

—

Gabriel’s car was where he’d left it—a half mile from James’s place. We took a cab and picked it up. I suggested Gabriel drop me off at the office, where I could hang out with a coffee while he went home and cleaned up.

“There’s coffee at my place,” he said.

I tensed. “That wasn’t a hint.”

“I know. I’m offering. I would be fine with it.”

I looked across the car at him. “No, you wouldn’t, and I’d like you to stop pretending otherwise. Your place is your place. I get that. You aren’t inviting everyone else over and telling me I’m not welcome, so I’m not offended.”

“You are welcome.”

“Can we drop this, please? Last night was not fun. I feel like I overreacted, and that’s embarrassing, but I don’t understand why you’d invite me—” I stopped and shook my head. “And that’s not dropping the subject. If you don’t want to leave me at the office, then join me for a coffee. I know a few spots we can hang out and watch the sunrise.”

It was almost comical to watch him process why anyone would want to watch a sunrise.

“We could do that,” he said at last.

“All right, then. You find me coffee, and I’ll show you a scenic parking spot.”