This trial is becoming a nightmare. Even as I sit across the aisle from a man accused of doing horrendous things to his wife, I find myself questioning whether he really did them or not. Like the rest of the opposing counsel, I've seen the crime scene photos and, no matter what I do, I can’t erase them from my mind. That beautiful man with his dark hair and blue eyes sits across from me day after day, expressionless, his hands folded serenely in his lap. He shows no contempt, no remorse.

Nothing.

I've combed through his past, spoken to his previous lovers--all women from before his marriage to the deceased--and they tell me this man is not the Sean Ferro they knew. The Sean Ferro they knew was kind and compassionate¸ full of life. He laughed easily and gave his love freely. Their version of him does not mesh with the shell of a man that I've studied across the courtroom these past months.

Mr. Ferro is clean-shaven, his hair smoothed back into a perfect frame for his vacant blue eyes. There's something about him that's utterly intimidating, but the vibe I get when I'm around him is off. It’s as if I can sense the two men living within that gorgeous hollow shell.

The counselor sitting next to me is convinced that weird vibe implies guilt. All of my coworkers are way past wondering if he's guilty. They believe, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he is. I'm not so sure anymore.

During our preparations for the trial, I played the role of devil's advocate. Basically, my job was to anticipate the defending counsel's strategy for making the jury believe Sean Ferro is innocent. It turns out I was excellent in that role--so good, in fact, that I began to believe in the possibility of his innocence.

Is the man sitting across the aisle from me guilty of murdering his pregnant wife?

"Objection." David Cunning sits in the first chair to my left. He jumps to his feet, making a passionate plea while waving his hands in the air as if this is a matter of life and death. "She's leading the witness."

Before the judge can reply, the opposition says, "Withdrawn."

Susanna Titleman is a named partner at the most prestigious law firm in New York City. She's a tall, thin woman with jet-black hair. She wears it slicked back into a neat chignon that rests at the nape of her neck. The slim skirt of her charcoal gray suit forms perfect leading lines down her long, lean legs. Coupled with a pair of Armani pumps, she looks like she walked straight off the Harvard Law school billboard.

While in law school, we all thought we'd change the world--and that, like Susanna, we'd look awesome while doing it. We also thought we'd get paid enough to live off of, maybe even enough afford things like that suit. It's ok, though. I've since learned the good guy isn't supposed to be rich. Working for the District Attorney's office means I rent an apartment I can barely afford and own a closet full of bargain basement suits. My heels are designer irregulars from Nordstrom Rack. My makeup is Maybelline. Despite my frugality, it's still been hard to repay my loans and afford to live. Nobody said any of this in law school. We were so focused on saving the world that we missed the fine print--you can't be a good guy without taking a vow of poverty.

It's been hours since we stopped for lunch. The sun is setting behind the tall glass and steel buildings, causing their shadows to creep across the marble courtroom floor. In all this time, Mr. Ferro has not moved. Others have also noticed and speculated it's because he's incapable of grief. They think he sits here day in and day out, not feeling a thing.

But sitting second chair has given me a front-row seat, and I know that's not true. Whether he committed murder or not, the man can feel. If I hadn't been sitting here I wouldn’t believe it either, but here I am, close enough to observe his ice blue eyes thaw when they exhibited pictures of his dead wife and child. His mouth didn't move. His jaw didn't tighten. He never loosened the grip of his hands, and he never stopped staring straight ahead. Sitting this close and studying those eyes, I could see the pain of loss and the desolation of grief. His refusal to move isn’t callousness--it’s a survival instinct. He’s frozen himself in time, locked himself in that night, and he can’t escape.

Since I noticed these things, I've watched him more carefully. As I’ve played devil’s advocate during preparations, I've become increasingly intrigued by the man sitting across the courtroom from me. Sean Ferro has erected walls of steel around himself. He'll never let anyone in again. I know that, I can see it, and as I sit here, day in and day out, I'm unconvinced that I'm on the right side.

Everyone thinks he's guilty--and I mean everyone, from random people on the street, to Amanda's parents, to his own mother. I thought he was guilty, too--until I started to notice things about him.

The gavel slams down and echoes through the courtroom, interrupting my thoughts. "That's all for today."

The judge is an older man with dark gray hair, a round face, and a big nose. He's highly educated, but when he speaks he sounds like a sanitation worker. A lot of people think this is intentional, as his political values lean toward defending the common man. His political values do not make him more lenient in his decisions, though, and he's earned a reputation for being a hard-ass.

A guy like Sean Ferro doesn't stand a chance in this courtroom, but attempts to obtain a change of venue, a change of judge, a change of anything were all denied. Being privileged may be enjoyable for Mr. Ferro on the outside, but in this courtroom the judge will fault him for it.

David looks over at me and smiles widely. He lifts his case notes from the desk and taps them down into a neat stack before slipping them into his attaché case.

"That went well. I don't know how you do it, Paige, but your insight has been priceless in this trial."

I smile and nod, accepting the praise with grace as I slip my notepad into my bag. It's a Vera Bradley, also an irregular. I couldn't figure out why until I put it on my shoulder and realized one strap is longer than the other. If I stand slightly lopsided the bag looks right, and it makes me look impatient and annoyed, so I blend right in with the other New York City residents.

"Sure, no problem."

I don't know how I do it either, and the whole thing is starting to take a toll on me. To see things from Sean Ferro’s side means I need to get inside his head. It's not just a matter of arguing from the opposite side of the courtroom and pretending to be the defense. The rest of my associates think it's easy, that all I need to do is put my feet into the opposing attorney’s shoes--but it's so much more than that.

Once I slip into Sean Ferro's mind, my argument is bulletproof, my plan of action is ironclad. I'm the one who suggested using his blank stare against him. I'm the one responsible for him being labeled a monster. When the press spoke to David about the shock seen on Mr. Ferro's face, it was me who suggested it was arrogance instead. The press took my subtle suggestions and ran wild. Suddenly my words are everywhere, flowing freely from the mouths of every news anchor in the city. Mr. Ferro was deemed a monster beyond comprehension, showing absolutely no remorse for his wife and child. Since Mr. Ferro refuses to speak on the matter, even to defend himself, the hype surrounding the trial grows bigger and bigger.

Even as he stands up, our day in court concluded, the defendant doesn't look around the courtroom. He acts as if the other people aren't here. A sympathetic person might believe this man is dying inside, but there are no sympathetic people here. Everyone around him now believes the story I created. They believe he is a cold and distant husband who killed his wife and unborn child on a whim. They see his contempt as indifference and think this man doesn't care about life at all. Even if Sean Ferro manages to escape jail, he's already been given a life sentence by society. This city will never forget what he did. He will live the rest of his life alone, disgraced, and feared.

David stands there watching me. He clears his throat, loosens his tie and asks, "How about drinks? You and me blowing off some steam? Maybe you can tell me what's going on inside that prim and proper little head of yours?"

My jaw drops open, and I make a strangled noise. The last thing I am is prim and proper, but they don't know that. I laugh it off and act like he's joking.

"You know the rules, no fraternizing is allowed. If you haven't noticed, I really need this job."

David smiles and runs a hand through his blonde hair. "Drinks with a colleague is okay, Paige. What we do beyond that is up to you."

David is a few years older than me, with a long, lean body, sandy blonde hair, and bright green eyes. He thinks everyone we prosecute is guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt, and he wants to nail their asses to the wall. Everything is black and white to him. There are no shades of gray, no room for the law to be unclear. I wish I had his certainty because everything seems gray to me.

I laugh and wag a finger in his face as I pass him. "Nice try, Romeo, but you're not my type."

David feigns hurt as he follows me down the aisle. "Even if not with me, you should take tonight off, blow off some steam. We’ve been working our asses off, and there's no way this deviant is going to walk. Seriously, give yourself a break."

"That sounds good."

"I mean it, no work." David disappears down the hallway weaving amongst people without another word.

---

I find Jess draped over the arm of the sofa, blonde hair cascading to the floor where it pools. She's tapping her foot and singing along with music I can’t hear. Kicking off my shoes, I pad across the worn carpet and plop down next to her head.

Jess screams and jolts upright, taking a swing at me as she moves.

“Get off!” Her fist connects with my hip as she rounds on me.

I shriek and jump back as another fist comes flying my way. I grab it before it can connect and jerk her arm forward, making her faceplant against the couch. Before she can regroup, I swing my leg up and straddle her back. She’s laying facedown in the cushions and swearing up a storm. Breathless, I yell, “It’s me, dumbass!”

She shrieks something I can’t make out, but relaxes enough for me to know I'm safe from attack. I roll off of her, yank down my skirt and smooth my blouse. Jess sits up. Her hair covers her entire face making her resemble a golden version of Cousin It.

“You suck!” She huffs and bats at her long hair until it flips over her shoulders and falls down her back.

I laugh. Surprising Jess is easy and happens too frequently to count.

“Yeah, well, that’s debatable.” I pick at the run in my stocking and frown.

Jess takes a calming breath the same way she teaches her students in yoga class. People who know us both think she’s the crazy one. If they knew what I do to blow off steam, they'd reconsider. But that's my secret--even from Jess.

Jess sits Kumbaya-style, placing her hands palms up on her knees. She breathes in, holds the breath in her lungs, and then dramatically releases it. After repeating the process several times, she looks over at me with a lethargic smile.

“So, how was your day?”

“Lovely. I single-handedly crucified a man’s reputation, had the DA hit on me, and got punched in the hip by my yogi roommate who never hits anything except me.”

“You snuck up on me!” She drops her hands and her back curves like a sulky teenager. “Fine, I was spaced out, but you know how Journey affects me! I get lost in the glorious haze of 80’s music. I can’t stop believing, Paige. I gotta hang on to this feeling!”

I snort-laugh and grab a pillow before sinking back into the couch. “You’re a dork.”

“You need to go out." Jess shoots a worried smile in my direction. "I can hear your aura screaming for attention. It’s freaky. What’d you do today?” She scoots closer to me and starts swatting at my aura as if it were visible. I stare at her. She’s like a human cat. I want to tape a laser pen to the topside of the ceiling fan and randomly turn it on just to see what she would do.

“Jess, you can't just swat away the invisible crap that’s messing with my force field. I’m still going to be moody.”

She stops, drops her hands to her lap, and shakes her head.

“Then you do it. Visit your happy place--though you might need to bring ID just in case they don't recognize you.”

I grin. “Shut up. And it’s not my happy place.”

“Well, call it whatever you want, but when you come home, you are always way happier. Where do you go anyway?”

She tucks her bare feet under her pink yoga-panted butt as she watches me. I try to act like it’s not a big deal. I shrug and grab a magazine off the coffee table. Opening it, I sit back and scan the pages. “Nowhere special. Even if I did have a so-called happy place, I'm too tired to go there right now.”

“And grumpy. And mad. And maybe even,” she reaches up over my head and snatches something invisible out of the air. She holds it in her hand as if it were real and grimaces. When she meets my gaze again, she adds, “remorseful? That can’t be right. You enjoy making people miserable for a living. I’m the one who patches them up. We’re yin and yang. I’m light and fluffy bunnies, while you’re black holes and grunge.”

“Grunge?” I laugh and point to my suit. “What about my outfit says grunge?”

“That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about your spirit, your soul. That thing inside you that you abuse day in and day out. That thing is getting beaten beyond recognition. The case you’re working on right now is about a wife killer. You should want to make him suffer, so what’s with the pity?”

The last word is like an icy spike in my spine. I sit up and pull away from her, wishing I could run. I laugh nervously, knowing she sees through me.

“I don’t pity him. He deserves everything coming to him and more.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and I feel her gaze on the side of my face. When she talks again, her voice is soft and careful.

“That may be true, but after everything you went through with your mom I'd understand.”

“You’d understand what?”

“How much you want to make sure guys like that don’t hurt anyone else. How much it stings when some of the guilty ones still walk away. How much it hurts to remember your mom, and—”

I cut her off, unable to hear it right now. I stand and snap at her, “Don’t go there.”

But she doesn’t stop. “--and how she died. Her death rules your life, Paige. She wouldn’t want that.”

“You didn’t know her.” My voice is quiet and gruff, nearly a growl. My eyes narrow to thin slits, and it’s taking everything in me not to lash out at her. Jess is my friend, but she has no idea what it feels like to see her mother crying on the floor, covered in blood, gasping for air but unable to breathe. I can still hear Mom begging, and that agonizing gurgling sound fills my head, even now. I helplessly watched her die, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do to stop it.

Jess stands slowly and lifts her hands, palms toward me.

“I don’t want to fight. I just know how invested you are in this case. I can see you're worn thin, and I don’t want this to destroy you. I love you, Paige.”

Now I feel like an asshole. My lips twist into a scowl because she’s right. I hate it when she’s right.

“Fine, I get it, okay. You need to realize there’s more to it than that. Life isn’t so simple, and things aren’t that black and white.”

“I know, and I get it." She nods and offers a careful smile. "I just don’t want to see you suffering like this.”

“This topic isn’t open for discussion. Drop it.”

“Paige.”

“I said stop!”

“You can’t keep pretending that your past has no bearing on your future. It does!” She’s pleading with me now, and I can’t bear it.

Without a word, I head for the door. I grab my shoes with one hand and my purse in the other.

“Stop running! You need to talk with someone, Paige. If not with me, then someone else. Anyone!” She follows me to the door and calls after me, but I don’t look back.

There’s a cab parked at the curb, waiting for a fare. I jump in and give the address. He nods and pulls into traffic. My stomach sinks into my shoes. I’m not ready for this.

Not tonight.

---

Maybe I’ll just sit at the bar.

Maybe I won’t go back there.

I push through the door with my heart beating hard. Every time I walk through those doors is just as intimidating as the first time. On the outside, I’m confident--hard, even. On the inside, I’m falling apart. Maybe I should do it. I need to stop thinking for a while, stop feeling the fear that strangles me.

Jess’s words bounce around in my head like drunk Ping-Pong balls. Their movements make no logical progression. I just see them hopping from my mother’s memory to Sean Ferro, and it disturbs me. I don’t know why I’m comparing them, but for some reason I see a connection. I wish I knew why.

As I step over the threshold, the familiar scent fills my lungs and makes forgotten sensations come rushing back. I hate this place, but I love it. I need it. When things get like this, when I can’t find my way around my own mind anymore, I find myself here. My dealings with the district attorney’s office make this risky, though. That’s part of the reason I haven't come in so long.

There was a time when this place was the only way to get my mother out of my mind. I was sixteen when she died. I was eighteen when a friend first took me here. At twenty-three I'm still not over it. The people I met here in the beginning have moved on, found other vices. For me, this isn’t a fetish—it’s not something to do or not do—it just is.

I walk toward the black glass bar, past the tables with white linens and romantic music. This place embodies the nine levels of love, from pretty to perverted. The further back, the deeper you explore the building, the more likely you are to meet someone who’s into what you’re into. The bar in the front divides the happy-go-lucky types from the darker crowd. I know I belong in the back, but right now I just want a drink.

I pull up a stool and gesture to the bartender. There’s a decent number of people here, and almost every spot at the bar is taken. When I get my order, I tip my head back and shoot it in one smooth gulp. I slap the glass down on the bar and order another. I intend on sipping this one, and pick up the freshly filled shot glass. When I press it to my lips, I sense someone watching me. I glance around and see him.

My heart stops.

I can’t breathe.

I don’t move.

Bright blue eyes lock with mine and pin me in place. Sean Ferro sits at a small, expensive private table across from me. He’s alone, still wearing his suit from earlier. The tie is tight, and his jacket is still on. He has a bottle of amber liquid in an ice bucket and a crystal glass in his hand. His lips form a straight line, and his jaw is locked.

Fuck. I slam down the second drink and turn back to the bar. Maybe he’ll leave. I’m not leaving. I’ve never seen him here before. I would have thought a reporter or someone would have used this to smear him by now.

Before I can order a third drink, I’m given one.

“Compliments of that gentleman.” The bartender points over my head to the table where Mr. Ferro still sits.

I nod once and follow the protocol. A drink means interest. My accepting it means I’ll comply. I know the rules here. I grab my purse with one hand, the glass with the other, and walk over to his table.

Being here is stupid. If anyone sees me, I’m screwed. I’ll lose my job, and everyone will know I’m completely messed up.

I wipe all emotion from my face and slip into the booth across from him. I set the drink on the table and stare at the beautiful man. Those sapphire eyes swim with heartache, but they're hardening. It’s getting harder to see it.

When he speaks, his voice is deeper than I remember. “Are you following me, Miss Driskill?”

I’m not, but if I say I'm not, he’ll know I’m here for the same reason he is. So, I lie.

“Yes, of course. It’s my job to know about everything you do.”

“So you can use it against me in court?” He says it like we’re discussing the weather. He’s emotionally distanced himself from the conversation, from me.

“That’s the plan.” I lift my cup and grin. “Thanks for this.”

He nods and watches me as I press the glass to my lips. The liquid burns as it slides down my throat. When I finish, I place the shot glass on the table and prepare to stand with every intention of walking away.

But Ferro's piercing eyes are trained directly on mine and, when he speaks, I can’t remember what I was doing. “You’re not following me. If you were, I’d never have seen you. Give me a little more credit, Miss Driskill. Additionally, there’s no way you plan on reporting my presence in a place like this. You’d have to explain why you were here, and why you’ve already had more to drink than is socially acceptable. So tell me, why are you at Club Noir this evening?”

I stand stunned into silence. The longer he speaks, the more I want to hear. What the hell is wrong with me? I shake it off and let a lazy smile fill my face.

Leaning forward, I look at him from under my lashes. “The truth, Mr. Ferro, is simple and presumably the same reason you’re here.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t lean in, mirror my smile, or speak. He’s perfectly still, watching me, waiting for the explanation I won't give.

I expect him to deny it, but he doesn’t. I breathe in slowly, watching the muscles in his jaw tighten. His hands are in front of me, holding the glass. He’s not white-knuckled, so he’s controlling that temper very well. He does have a temper. I’ve seen pictures of him, hands in the air, screaming, his chiseled face twisted with rage. He hides his thoughts well, now, much better than when the trial began.

I tap my pointer finger on the table once, then twice. On the third tap, he reaches out and covers my hand with his, stopping the movement.

“I know why you’re here.”

The breath is sucked from my lungs. Those azure eyes bore into me, and I feel trapped. His hand grows hotter and heavier as it rests on top of mine. I want to run, but I don’t. I sit there, waiting for him to say words I can’t hear—words I’ll never say myself. I swallow hard and watch him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to come spilling over those sexy lips.

I hate him. Why'd he have to be right here, right now? Damn it!

I fake a smirk. “Really? Then tell me. Why am I here?”

Sean glances to the side and then tips his head forward. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he wants to smile. He presses my hand harder to the table, and I let him.

“Level Nine. You’re here for the activities on nine.”

---

My heart slams into my ribs and falls to my feet. I start to pull my hand away, but he holds onto me.

“I should go.” My voice sounds hesitant.

“You should stay, and show me around.” His voice is softer than before, more careful. He lifts his palm from my hand and returns it to his drink. That suit fits him well, accentuating his lean body. I wonder what he looks like under all those clothes, what his skin would feel like beneath my hands.

No.

I shake my head and push the thought away.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t work with beginners.”

“Who said I’m a beginner?” Sean leans forward, and I feel his foot slide between mine. My knees separate slightly. His touch feels charged. I wish I could feel more, but I shouldn’t.

There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on, and it has nothing to do with the murder. Prior to Amanda, Sean Ferro was a manwhore. He had a different co-ed on his arm every night. He slept with everyone and loved no one. Then--poof!--he was a committed husband for years. The District Attorney's dossier on Sean Ferro includes tons of dirt—just none from during his marriage to Amanda. Either the man is a mastermind…

Or he truly loved her.

I want to know which one. Curiosity is going to kill me, assuming David doesn’t when he finds out I was here.

My gaze sweeps over Sean once again, considering. Would it be so bad? What if I could find out if he really did it? That would abate my guilt regarding the public perception I've fostered toward him.

“Miss Driskill, you can stay, or you can go—it’s all the same to me. You know what happens here just as well as I do, though I don’t frequent this place as often as you.”

“I don’t frequent Club Noir.” I spit out the words, irritated, enunciating each one as disgust clouds my face. “Screw off, Ferro.” The alcohol is dulling my senses, but still I know I need to leave. I can’t be here, not with him. Not now, not ever.

He’s so calm, so completely in control of himself. He leans back in the booth, placing one arm on the backrest and surveying me with those gorgeous eyes.

“Go, then. No one is holding you here.” The corners of his lips twitch into a smirk. “As much as you’d enjoy it.”

I roll my eyes and decide to leave. At the same moment, a woman stops in front of the table and blocks me in. She leans toward Sean, acting like I’m invisible. She pulls the collar of her shirt down--way down--revealing ample cleavage beneath a pink collar set with two gleaming gemstones. If she falls into that set of DDD falsies, she’ll drown.

“I’m looking for a partner tonight. Come on back.” Her massive Louis Vuitton bag swings forward, slapping me in the head as she pulls away.

“Hey!” I snap, pushing the purse out of my face. “Watch what you’re doing.”

Her overinflated lips snake into a smile. “Oh, I am. Better try again, honey. This one is mine.”

Sean says nothing. He sits there watching, his eyes moving slowly between the two of us. If he thinks I’m going to fight some bimbo for him, he’s out of his mind. At the same time, I’m not letting her think she’s better than me. I reach into my purse and pull out my own collar. It’s black leather and studded with nine gems.

“This thing is so bulky,” I say, placing the collar on the table with a thud, then digging deeper into my bag. I pull a packet of mints from the bottom and pop one into my mouth.

Her jaw drops, and she looks at me again, I mean really looks.

“So, the librarian type does get all the action?”

“More than the Barbie type. Everyone knows what they’re getting when it’s all hanging out.” I point at the twins, which seem ready to burst out of her blouse.

Sean’s gaze drops to the table and lands on my collar. He reaches for it and lifts it reverently. “This is the highest level here, is it not?”

The woman nods.

“And the gems, there aren’t more she can receive—are there?” He brushes his thumb over the center stone. It’s a black diamond. I wonder if he knows how I earned that one. Most women don’t have that--Barbie included. She sucks in a breathy gasp and puts on her pouty lips.

“I might not have as many, but that just makes me more eager to please. I’ll be in the back, waiting for you.” She says the last sentence in a porn star voice. She probably is a porn star. “Bye, sugar. Good luck.”

My gaze narrows and I’m seriously considering slamming my fist into her nose job. Sean’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Miss Driskill. You won’t like the consequences. Club Noir isn’t the type of establishment that enjoys a chick fight.”

“Good night, Mr. Ferro," I say with a laugh as I stand up from the table. "Have a lovely time fucking a real Barbie doll--because that never gets old.” I roll my eyes and toss down a twenty. “For my drink.”

“I wouldn't know. I don’t have an affinity for plastics. They seem crass, but maybe that’s just me.”

My face contorts. I want to hit him. Sure, people have accused me of being gay, but I’m not. I may have tried it once, but that was a long time ago. Based on how he said it, I think he knows that, though. I freeze my face and lock my emotions away.

I fold my arms across my chest and blurt out, “What do you want?”

“You have memories you’d prefer to forget. So do I.”

I cock one hip to the side and shoot death rays at his heart with my eyes. “Find a different partner. I’m not your type. You couldn’t survive me.”

He swallows hard, an unintended movement. He’s still holding my collar, and I can’t leave without it. I did all sorts of things to earn that, and I won't toss it away like trash. I unfold my arms and tap the table once, pressing my finger against the dark wood indicating I want the collar--now.

He looks down at the center gem and rubs it with his thumb, slowly in small circles. The sensations he evokes overload my senses, and I can’t stand here anymore. I reach across the table and snatch it away from him. “That's as close as you’ll ever get to touching me.”

“Of course, Miss Driskill. Have a good evening.” He lifts his glass and sips his drink.

As I rush to leave, I hear another woman trying to entice him. Before I push through the door, I look back into the room. If he went with her, I’d be able to see his back following her down the long hallway.

The corridor is dressed in gold and black. Amber lights dim softly against the walls making it look like a passage into Heaven.

It’s empty.

---

A week passes at zombie speed. In my attempt to release my frustration, I destroy my favorite dildo. It's no wonder why I don’t have a boyfriend. Guys probably sense I could break their junk and avoid me to keep their jewels safe. I should reconsider being a lesbian. There are no body parts on a woman to snap off accidentally. Too bad I like men.

My attention is barked back to the present by the tone in the DA’s voice. David is nearly yelling, “But the problem is that he sounds distressed. You can clearly hear him swallow a sob. The jury is going to eat that up! The bastard planned it. We need to prove his tone during the call was all an act.”

Janna Bent is an older woman with frizzy dirty blonde hair that curls uncontrollably. She’s a little thick around the middle, but has a killer rack and a pretty face. She’s also a bitch on steroids when it comes to winning.

“So we don’t use it!” She’s sitting across from David, on the other side of his desk in a well-used chair.

“Then they will! This recording is already admitted into evidence. We’ve been over this, Janna.” David slams his hands down on his desk. He inhales sharply and looks up at me. I’ve been quietly sitting in the corner, picking at the hem of my skirt. “What would you do, Paige?”

He likes that I’m definitive and that I usually have an answer ready to go, but this time I don’t. I buy time. I drop the fabric and look up at him. “Play me the recording again, please.”

He presses the button, and I listen. Through the cheap speaker, Sean Ferro makes a strangled noise, as if his voice won’t come out. With the sound of his voice, an image forms in my head. I picture him crying silently, cradling his dead wife in his arms, and not noticing her blood stain his hands and clothes. And if I can see it, the jury will, too.

Without that part at the beginning, the remainder of the call sounds stoic, precise, like a man thinking clearly. I push up and walk across the room to David's desk. I stop the recording and play the beginning a second time. I play it and stop. Play it and stop. I’m sitting on the edge of his desk, staring into space, and consider it.

“What are you thinking, Paige?” David knows by the expression on my face that I’ve thought of something. The problem is that I'm not sure if I can be this horrible of a person. What if Sean really was cradling her body? What if he really was crying?

This angle will destroy him completely. Any empathy he has left will be eradicated. My eyes sweep the room, considering the stacks of papers and hours of research spent building a case to nail this man. In all that time, we couldn’t find anything to prove, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he planned his wife’s murder or that he committed it. Nothing except his being the one to find her in the crime scene. The pieces of this puzzle fit both ways.

I blink a few times and stop the recording. I can’t listen to his voice like that anymore. Sean Ferro doesn’t sound like that. There’s no control in the tone of the recording. It’s like he’s trying to hold back tears--or another equally jarring emotion.

I say it. I say it because I have to crush him. I have to come at him with everything and know I did my job to the best of my ability.

“He’s laughing.”

“What? No, he isn’t.” Janna sits up and grabs the recording. She presses the button, and her eyes light up. A smile spreads across her face. “Oh, my God! He is. He’s trying not to laugh. That sick son of a bitch.” Her jaw hangs open, and words fail her.

David takes the recorder and replays the call again and again. He’s staring at the metal box in his hands without seeing it. He’s picturing the jury and their reaction to my suggestion.

“We need a story to go with this, to make it real for the jury. Comb back through the case files and find out what Sean Ferro was doing the night of the murder.”

I nod, slip off the desk, and pick up the police report. Before I open it, I turn back and tell them the rest of my plan. “Get him to laugh, just once, while he’s on the stand. Then play the recording. The jury will hear it, and you won’t need a story--they’ll believe for themselves.”

---

The pit of my stomach is sinking. I feel like I’m going to be sick, and that’s not something that happens to me often. When I was a girl, my mother joked that my stomach must be made of steel. I could eat anything, then go on a carnival ride, get whipped every which way, and jump off, only to stuff my face more.

But this isn’t a carnival ride. Maybe that’s the problem.

I’m destroying someone’s life and it’s not because I'm certain he did it. How did I get to this point? Why am I willing to flush away my principles for a crappy paycheck? Nailing a Ferro for murder would bring more notoriety, more opportunities. But can I live with myself, condemning a possibly innocent man?

I finish painting my face and grab my leather jacket before heading out. Jess is coming up the stairs as I’m rushing down them. I’m in the right frame of mind, and I can't let her soften me.

“Hey, Jess. I'm headed out to work for a little bit, but I saved you some fried chicken. I ate all the biscuits.”

She grabs my arm, stopping me. “Look at you! Hot thang!” She grins as she visibly checks me out. Then she teases, “You mean you saved me chicken because you ate bread for dinner again? Are you turning Vegan or something?”

I laugh. Loudly. “No! I just—”

She finishes my sentence, “--love buttermilk biscuits and can’t control yourself. Got it. Thanks for the chicken! See you later! You look hot tonight, Paige!”

As I race down the stairs, I call back to her, “Thanks!”

The air is crisp, and it smells like snow. I tuck my chin into my coat and run down the street to a cab. I slip into the back seat and tell the cabby, “54th and Madison Avenue.” He nods and takes off. The traffic isn’t too bad, so the ride won’t be long. The cabbie does his thing, and I get lost in my thoughts.

I haven’t done this in months. Approaching Ferro is suicide, isn’t it?

My gut is saying no, but my head is screaming yes.

There’s something about the guy that puts my nerves on edge. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that primal reactions shouldn’t be ignored. There’s something there, something dark and dangerous beneath his plastic smile and perfect manners. I intend on finding out what it is, where he really was the night his wife was killed—because I don’t think he told the cops the whole story and the gun is still missing.

Occam’s Razor is usually right, the simplest explanation is often the truth, but I can’t swallow this explanation. It’s almost as if Ferro wants us to believe he killed her. He never refutes the charges. He’s never offended. Add in visiting a club a few times per week during the trial--specifically, an establishment known for connecting people with singular tastes--and damn! He’s either incredibly stupid or completely genius.

The cab pulls up to the curb and stops. The driver looks up in the rearview mirror. “Club Noir.”

I hand him the fare and slide out of the cab, smoothing my small tight skirt, and adjusting my jacket as I go. The wind whips my hair into my eyes, so I look down until I reach for the door. At the same time I tug it open, someone is coming through. The glass door opens forcefully, causing me to stagger backward. The heel of my thigh high boot catches a crack in the pavement, and my balance is lost. I'm flailing, frantically trying to right myself, when a warm hand firmly grips my arm. I'm pulled forward, and crash into a firm, muscular chest wrapped in a luxuriously soft black coat.

My fingers splay across the fine wool coat buttoned midway up, a cobalt blue scarf tucked into the opening at the top. I glance up and gasp, suddenly realizing it’s him—Sean Ferro.

His voice is sinfully deep, rumbling beneath my fingertips as he speaks.

“Apologies. I didn’t see you there.”

I mean to step back and shake him off, but he doesn’t move. His hands remain fixed above my elbows, and his indigo eyes darken as if he’s thinking about my skin against his skin, slick and hot. I make sure my voice comes out clearly, even though I’m insanely nervous.

“I didn’t see you either. Sorry about that.”

He’s still holding me, a breath away. If I leaned in, I could taste his lips. They’re smooth and full, and perfectly pink. I wonder how he kisses, if it’s soft or hard, playful or intense. My gaze lingers on his mouth, and I shiver involuntarily. His thumb rubs against my arm in a slow circle.

“If you’re ok…” His voice trails off like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t.

I’m suddenly very aware of how fast I’m breathing. It sounds way too loud in my ears, but I can’t help noticing his chest rise as he gasps for air. What the hell is happening? This was going to be a controlled pairing. I was supposed to come to the club and whip out my collar. I wasn’t supposed to slobber all over him on the sidewalk.

I nod, unable to find words, and wonder where all my gusto goes when it gets sucked away. From the looks of it, this encounter has shaken him as well. His gaze fixes on my lips, and he’s visibly fighting the pull between us. I want to press my body to his and feel him writhing beneath me. I want things I shouldn’t want. This attraction wasn’t part of my plan. As long as he’s touching me, I can’t think.

I twist my shoulders slightly, causing him to release his hold on my arms. He collects himself and looks over his shoulder at the black Bentley sitting at the curb. There’s a light dusting of stubble on his jaw and, for once, it isn’t clenched tight. He presses his lips together, then looks back at me.

The wind blows his dark hair into his eyes. Extending his hand, he commands, “Come with me.”

---

---

---

THE ARRANGEMENT

Chapter 1

The night air is frigid. It doesn’t help that I’m stuck wearing this little black dress in my crap car. I shiver as I try to keep the engine running at a red light. My little battered car is from two decades ago and stalls if I don’t rev the engine while I have my foot on the brake. I’m driving with two feet, in a car that’s supposed to be an automatic. The heater doesn’t work. If I try to turn it on, I’ll get my face blasted with white smoke. It’s awesome, in an utterly humbling kind of way. At least the car is mine. It gets me where I need to go, most of the time.

The light flips to green and I botch it. I don’t gas the car enough and it shudders and stalls. I grumble and grab for the can of ether. The cars behind me blare their horns.

I ignore them. They can go around me. I grab the can on the seat next to me, kick open my door, and walk around to the hood. I shake the can and spray it into the engine intake. The car will start up as soon as I turn the key now, and I can drive away in shame.

The night air is crisp and filled with exhaust. This road is always busy. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is. Angry drivers move around me. Everyone is always in a hurry. It’s part of the New York frame of mind. I’m treated to a catcall as a car full of guys blows past me. I flip them the bird and hear their laughter echo as they fade from sight.

Tonight couldn’t possibly get any worse. I put the cap on the can of ether. Then it happens. My night takes a one-eighty straight into suckage.

As I drop the hood, it slams shut, and I look through the windshield. “Seriously?” I say at the guy who jumps in my seat. He’s wearing a once-blue fluffy coat and hasn’t shaved for weeks. He turns the key and my crappy car roars to life. He gasses it and takes off, swerving around me. I stand in the lane staring after him. What a moron. Who’d steal that piece of trash?

Still, it’s my car and I need it. After the night I had, I don’t want to run after him, but I have to. I need that car. I take off at a full run. My lungs start to burn as I suck in frozen air and exhaust. I run down the shoulder, avoiding trash that’s laying in the gutter. My attention is singularly focused on my car. I push my body harder and feel my muscles protest, but I don’t hold back. He’s getting away.

I manage to run a block when a guy on a motorcycle slows next to me. “That guy stole your car.” He sounds shocked.

I can’t see his face through the black helmet. It has a tinted visor that covers his face. “No shit, Sherlock,” I huff and keep running. My purse is in the car, my only pair of work-acceptable heels, my books--awh, fuck--my books. I paid over a grand for those. They’re worth more than the car. I run faster. My dress flares around my thighs as my Chucks help me sprint forward. My body doesn’t want to do it. The stitch in my side feels like it’s going to bust open.

The guy on the bike is annoying. He rolls next to me and flips up his face shield. I glance at him, wondering what he’s doing. Biker guy looks at me like I’m crazy. “Are you trying to catch him?”

“Yes,” pointing ahead, huffing. There are three lights on this stretch of road before the ramp to get on the parkway. If he hits a red light, the car will stall and I’ll get it back. My lungs are burning and it’s not like I have time to explain this. My car has already passed the first light. “If he stops, the car will stall.”

“You want me to help?” he glances at the car and then back at me.

I stop and nearly double over. Holy hell, I’m out of shape. I nod and throw my leg over the back of his bike, flashing the cars driving past us. I so don’t care. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I hold on tight and say, “Go.”

“I was going to call the cops, but this works, too.” He sounds amused. I hold onto his trim waist and plaster myself against his back. He’s wearing a leather jacket, and I can feel his toned body through the supple material. He pulls into traffic and zips through the lanes. The wind blasts my hair and plasters my eyelashes wide open. We bob and weave, getting closer and closer to my car. My heart is racing so fast that it’s going to explode.

I see my car. It’s passing the second light. Motorcycle man punches it, and the bike flies under the second intersection just as the light changes. I manage not to shriek. My skirt flies up to my hips, but I don’t let go of the biker’s waist to push the fabric back down.

We’re nearly there when the thief catches the third light. The car in front of him stops, forcing the carjacker to stop as well. As soon as he takes his foot off the gas, my car convulses and white smoke shoots out the tailpipe. The engine ceases. The driver’s side door is kicked open and the guy runs.

Motorcycle man pulls up next to my car. I slip off the back of the bike, my heart beating a mile a minute. I can’t afford to lose this stuff. I’m barely making it as it is. I look at my car. Everything is still there. I turn back to the guy on the bike as I smooth my skirt back into place.

Tucking my hair behind my ear, I say, “Thanks.” I must seem insane.

He flips his face shield up and says, “No problem. Does your car always do that?” A pair of blue eyes meet mine and the floor of my stomach gives way. Damn, he’s cute. No, not cute--he’s hot.

“Get jacked? No, not always.”

He smiles. There’s a dusting of stubble on his cheeks. I can barely see it because of the helmet. He raises an eyebrow at me and asks, “This has happened before, hasn’t it?”

More times than you’d think. Criminals are really stupid. “Let’s just say, this isn’t the first time I had to chase after the car. So far no one’s made it to the parkway. That damn light takes forever and I keep stalling out in the same spot. You’d think I’d figure it out by now, but…” But I’m mentally challenged and prefer to chase after car thieves. I stop talking and press my lips together. His eyes run over my dress and pause on my sneakers, before returning to my face. Great, he thinks I’m mental.

Turning to the car, I grab another can of ether from the backseat and walk around to the front. I dropped the last can somewhere behind me. I pop the hood and spray. I’m so cold that I’ve gone numb. As I walk back to my door, I shake my head saying, “Who steals a car that barely runs?”

“Do you need any help?” The guy holds my gaze for a moment and my stomach twists. He seems sincere, which kills me. A strange compulsion to spill my guts tries to overtake me, but I bash it back down.

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head, and swallow the lump in my throat. Today sucked. I’m totally alone. No one helps me, and yet this guy did. “No, I’m okay,” I lie as I slip into my car and yank the door shut. “Thanks for the ride.” I turn the engine over and smile at him. The window is down. It doesn’t go up.

“Anytime.” He nods at me, like he wants to say something else. All I can see of his face is his crystal blue eyes and a beautiful mouth. He’s sitting on a bike that cost more than my tuition. He’s loaded and I’ve got nothing. A pang of remorse shoots through me, but I need to go. The haves and the have-nots weren’t made to mingle. I already learned that lesson once. I don’t need to learn it again.

“Thanks,” I say before he can ask my name. “I’ll see you around.” I smile at him and drive away, holding back tears that are building behind my eyes.

It’s weird. There are so many shitty people in the world, and on the worst day of my life, I finally find a nice one and I’m driving away from him.