Aly
“Morning,” I called out to the receptionist as I wound my way to my tiny office in the back of the county justice building.
My mom’s rapid decline currently filled my heart with a strange combination of sorrow and peace as I walked into work on Monday. Perhaps this nightmare would be over soon. As sad as that sounded, she deserved better than to rot away in some state-funded nursing home.
I’d called Kathy on my way to work, the lovely nurse I paid on the side to spend a few extra hours with my mom each day. As long as I needed Kathy, I’d have to stay in my lousy apartment, unable to afford better. A chill of shame swept over me as I remembered Jake dropping me off in front of the run-down building.
Why did I even care? I’d been embarrassed about my home my whole life. I’d never really been able to have people over or enjoy company, and it wasn’t as if I was going to start now.
Opening my door with one hand while balancing my bag and coffee mug in the other, I found an enormous hydrangea plant on my desk. Its big blue puffballs brightened the room, their smell pungent, their beauty sensational. It was the type of plant the ladies my mom cleaned for would gasp over and then tell my mom to take care of it.
I dropped my pile of stuff into my chair and before taking off my coat, reached for the card tucked into the holder stuck jauntily in the pot.
Ms. Road (A-L-Y-S-O-N) –
I never officially thanked you for your kindness at Christmas time, so these are for you. Hope they brighten your week.
J-A-K-E (J-A-S-O-N) Wrigley
That was it. Nothing more or less said. He never officially thanked me for my kindness. I wasn’t sure I would have called it kindness, but he did and I wondered why. Had no one ever been kind to him before? I didn’t really do anything. In fact, I’d tested the limits with him, playing with his emotions and assuaging my own nerves about not pressing charges on someone who may have really deserved to be punished.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. “Want to go over the case?” my immediate supervisor asked as he popped his head in around the door.
“Sure, Barry, I’ll be right down.” I stood in front of the plant, trying to conceal the evidence of my inappropriate client interactions. Shit, I wondered who received them and put them on my desk. Did they peek at the card? I slipped the plant under my desk, hiding it from view, and went to meet with Barry.
“This is going to be a big case, Alyson,” Barry said as I entered his office. “Super big. Lots of press. Are you ready for the spotlight?”
I nodded, afraid to speak. He was right; this was definitely a high-profile case. I gave myself a quick mental pep talk, telling myself I was ready for what it would mean for my career and my personal goals, as well as for the department.
“It’s in the paper today, right here.” He folded the paper into quarters and pointed at the right corner above the fold on the first page.
Taking the paper from him, I stood in front of his desk as I scanned the article. The headline read ANOTHER BIG BREAK IN RACIALLY FUELED VIOLENT GANG CRIME, and the article started off with recent arraignments made thanks to evidence recovered earlier in the year. The story was vague, thanks to very few leaks about what the police department had on the gang in question. It did state the police got a “lucky break” on this case, “serendipitously discovering key evidence when investigating a separate unrelated crime.”
When I glanced back at Barry, he said, “Well, we knew the press was going to be following the case closely. Luckily, the judge from the arraignment—Fern Baker—appears to be following the rules and not revealing anything of importance to the media, which will go a long way in not affecting public opinion and tainting the jury pool. But I don’t think this ends pretty for our guy. Crap, we’ve got to think on this one.”
I sat down in one of the worn leather chairs across from Barry. He looked his usual disheveled self, his shirt rumpled and hair tousled, but not in a sexy mussed way, and I detected the remnants of cigarette smoke that always clung to him. If he put forth a little effort, he’d be half decent-looking, with his tanned skin and dirty-blond hair, but Barry was driven, dedicated. He was married to his job, defending criminals, and I couldn’t blame him for that—apparently, so was I.
But this case? I didn’t want it. It was the first case I’d ever tried to pass on, but I’d been overruled and couldn’t dwell on that now. The case was mine, whether I wanted it or not, so I needed to prove myself. And I would.
“I’m going to try to meet Judge Baker for a drink,” Barry said, interrupting my thoughts. “Make our wishes known, keep as many details out of the paper as possible.”
“Sounds good.” I sat back in the chair, resigning myself to digging into this case.
“In the meantime, what did Cameron say when you spoke with him last week?” Barry asked with one eyebrow raised, his pencil at the ready to take notes.
“He was vague, but still maintained his innocence. He said he didn’t like Jews, and that was his right. He agreed he could be a bit outspoken about it, but continued to argue that he wasn’t violent.”
“And?” Barry waited for more, testing my competence. And patience.
“I asked who he thought may be involved, who was violent enough to perpetrate the hate crimes pictured on his walls, and why he had the pictures if he didn’t do it. He said he didn’t know who was violent enough, claimed he wasn’t close to many people. He maintained the only thing he’s guilty of is being a fan of the handiwork because he believes in their racial cause . . . which is why he kept the photos and taped them up in his living room. My gut churned the whole time I met with him, Bar. Something is so off here. I hate the taste of this case.”
I took a long breath. “Oh, I also asked if he was in a relationship, and he said he had an on-again/off-again thing going. When I asked if I could question her and politely asked for her name, he clammed up. Said he was done for the day.”
“So, nobody? No other leads in his defense?”
“He made out like he was a loner, other than hanging in bars and sleeping around with this part-time mystery woman. I don’t know . . . something doesn’t add up. If he didn’t do it, he’s covering for someone.”
“Who do men cover for?” Barry asked, looking up from his notes.
“Women, but he’s not budging about sharing.”
“Power of pussy,” Barry said with a smirk.
My gaze glued to my notes, I abruptly changed the subject. “Now, what do we need to do this week?”
We spent the next twenty minutes strategizing, going over the rest of my notes from visiting our client in jail. I’d spent some time chatting with the guards and learning what our client had been up to on the inside, and that too had left me feeling irked. I was told he’d gotten in tight with some of the other white supremacists in the jail population, and I didn’t like how much swagger he seemed to have developed since then. I needed to spend some time later in the week investigating what was going on with that.
“Pretty sure he’s going to post bail,” Barry said. “The judge didn’t deny it, and I think his neighbors started a defense fund for him, which is crazy since he’s relying on public defense. You’re probably wondering why wouldn’t they pay for some hot-shot attorney instead? Believe me, I’ve seen it all—”
“Unless he has some other grand plan?” I interrupted him, anxious to get the whole case wrapped up and finished.
Wishful thinking.
“No, I don’t think so, just thinking aloud. He did live in the crappy apartment and had no job, so he really may not be able to afford anything else. I don’t think anyone wants to take it on pro bono. They know the police must have some tight evidence. But still, the whole thing reeks of something foul, but we’ll do what we’re paid to. Provide a fair defense.”
“But why does he want us?” I asked. “I think you’re on to something,”
“Eh, I’ve seen these types of pricks. They think they’re going to get a made-for-TV movie or whatever, and wait around for some fancy defense attorney to take their case pro bono. He’s biding his time, fixing his story, making friends and cleaning out his enemies. In other words, glossing shit up, Aly. He thinks he’s going to be a movie star, letting everyone in America hear his gospel.” Barry rolled his eyes and turned back to his newspaper, dismissing both my train of thought and me with a chin lift.
Walking back to my office, I debated mentioning my concern to Barry, but decided against it. I was competent enough to handle this on my own. As I slid into my desk chair, my foot bumped against the hydrangea. Its scent reminded me of the man who sent it, sending waves of an unfamiliar feeling up and down my spine. Want? Need? Hunger?
God, Aly. You’re losing it.
Jake Wrigley was one step above a criminal, and I was a public defender who believed in justice. He drove a fancy car, and spent Christmas in jail for a bar fight. Honest to God, something was messed up there. But what did he mean when he said, “The girl’s not around anymore”?
And what did that have to do with me? And my legs?
The way he looked at me that night in jail, I felt like he was a giant mountain lion and I was his prey. A kitten falling for a big cat, and I was pretty sure that didn’t end well. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from Googling “Jake Wrigley and Fizzle Fitness” under the pretense of getting a phone number and leaving a message to thank him for the hydrangea.
What I didn’t expect was to have several pages of results come up on Fizzle Fitness. Like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, I couldn’t stop from clicking on each and every link. There were two locations plus a third on the way, and review after review about how Fizzle was the “it” place to work out.
Apparently they had state-of-the-art locker rooms and equipment, the best staff, and the hottest fitness instructors. Is that even a thing? Yelp loved Fizzle, the Pitt students claimed it was the place to be seen, and even out in the suburbs, the stay-at-home moms couldn’t get enough of their superstar trainer, Anthony. Photos of “Toned Tony’s” wicked gleaming smile and bulging biceps littered the page.
Geez, their Facebook page had some thirty thousand likes. Did everyone in Pittsburgh work out at Fizzle except for me? I’d heard of it years ago, but it was like a cult or something now.
I scrolled through the ABOUT US page on their website.
Owner Jake Wrigley, a highly regarded baseball player while studying sports management at the University of Pittsburgh, has always been into fitness.
That pretty much jibed with what he’d told me. What he didn’t say was that he employed a half dozen trainers at each location, plus a fabulously fit and peppy front desk staff, and a small army of spinning, yoga, and Zumba instructors. Bess Wrigley was listed as the company’s web developer, and I was curious how she was related to the man in question. I felt like I’d heard her name before.
Then right there smiling at me from the center of one page was a photo of the ever-present bubbly blond cheerleader, Camper Shure, their marketing director. The girl’s photo mocked me, her affluence and perkiness evident in her perfectly straight white smile. Her eyes told me she was a satisfied woman; by her boss, no less. But he claimed she was “no more.”
My God! I dropped my head into my hands. How could he be ogling my legs when he spent all day around fit, gorgeous women? I ran stairs and jogged around the track. I didn’t do Zumba or even know how to work an elliptical.
My manners urging me to call and say thank-you warred with my insecurities. There was no way I could compete with the beauties who paraded through his life, day in and day out, and I didn’t even know if I wanted to. I felt myself reaching for my cell phone despite my heart pounding out a staccato beat against my silk blouse, and my head aching from thinking too hard.
“Fizzle Fitness, city location,” a perky voice said. “Are you ready to get pumped today?”
I imagined it was the tall, lanky one with shiny, straight brown hair I’d seen in the website photos who answered the phone.
“Hello, I was hoping to leave a voice mail for Mr. Wrigley.”
“Um, hold on one sec!” Ms. Pep-in-her-step said.
I sat there listening to the Katy Perry blaring in my ears while I was on hold, chiding myself for being an idiot, and urging myself to hit END CALL.
Peppy Girl came back on the line. “Mr. Wrigley doesn’t use his voice mail, and he’s over at the new site. Is this important? Can I help you?”
“It’s no big deal, perhaps I’ll try again—”
“Oh, wait!” she blurted, interrupting me, then it sounded as if she put her hand over the phone, but I could still hear her clearly. “Jake! Phone’s for you, wanted to leave you a message. I didn’t tell her you didn’t know how to work your voice mail or even set it up.” She laughed, her voice going all breathy, and even through the phone I could tell she was flirting with her boss.
In the background, I could hear Jake say, “Cut it out, Chloe. This is a business, not a sorority house.” Then his rumbling voice was in my ear. “Hello?”
He’d just told poor Chloe off and grabbed her receiver. I pictured him standing at the front desk of Pittsburgh’s Most Popular Gym for the last three years running, waiting for me to respond, and all of a sudden the hilarity of what I was about to do hit me. A tiny giggle bubbled up my chest and I pushed it down, clearing my throat as I reached for some decorum.
“Hello?” he said again.
“Hi, Mr. Wrigley. It’s Aly Road.”
“Excuse me?” The phone receiver rustled as it was moved. “Can you all quiet down? I can’t hear the phone.”
“It’s Alyson Road . . . from jail.” I whispered the last word, instantly regretting that I chose that as how to describe myself.
“Hey, it’s Jake. What can I do for you? Did you decide to take me up on my offer for a free membership? It still stands.”
I gripped my forehead with my palm. Calling him was such a mistake. “I just wanted to say thanks for the plant. It really wasn’t necessary.”
“Oh, it was. But you don’t need to thank me for a thank-you gift, Aly. Is that okay? For me to call you Aly?”
“Um, sure. Okay, so thanks,” I said, injecting finality in my tone as I tried to end the stilted conversation.
“Hey, can you hold on one sec?”
“Okay . . .” I drawled out the word uncertainly, but what I really wanted was to hang up. What else was there to say?
I was back on hold, this time forced to listen to some crazy hip-hop that pummeled over the line. I was trying to tune out the constant blaring of what sounded like “pop that pussy” when Jake came back.
“Hey, I’m back. I’m in my office now. Sorry for all that mix-up. Listen, good thing you called, saves me a trip to the county building. I was going to ask you to dinner. So, what do you say?”
“Um, Mr. Wrigley—”
“Jake, remember? I’m not in jail anymore, and you’re no longer an attorney on my case.”
“Jake, I don’t know. I still don’t think it’s appropriate.” My palms were so sweaty, I ran them one by one along my skirt to dry them, having to shift the phone from hand to hand while I did, but it was futile.
“It’s just dinner. We started out on the wrong foot and we keep running into each other, so that’s got to mean something, right? Let’s get together on purpose, Legs.”
“You just like my legs.” Holy shit! Where did that come from? I was flirting with him, egging him on.
“Well, yes, definitely that too. Why do you think I offered you a membership the first night we met? We need more of those legs in my gym.”
I felt the blush creep up my pale skin all the way to my forehead. Forget my face, I was seriously burning all the way down to my core. What the hell was I doing? I was supposed to be preparing for the case of my career, and instead I was flirting with a guy I met in jail—who did happen to look amazing in ratty jeans and a tight Henley.
“I’m sorry for bringing that night up again,” I said hesitantly. “That was really inappropriate of me. You weren’t charged with anything, and I shouldn’t hold it against you. Professionally, I mean.”
“Aly, we’re on the phone. I’m a man and you’re a woman. We’re not discussing business or law, or any of that shit. I’m trying to ask you out on a date. Drop all the professional stuff. So, how’s Thursday?”
“Well . . . ”
“No well. Say yes.”
“Yes. Okay.”
I was going to hell. With one quick phone call, all my promises to put my career first and never to get involved with the cool kids went out the window because clearly Mr. Wrigley was already interrupting my work. And according to the Yelpers of Pittsburgh, he was most certainly a cool kid.
“Great! I’ll pick you up at seven. I already know where you live, so don’t come down. I’ll come up and get you. What unit?”
“Not going to be that easy, Jake. I’ll wait in the vestibule.” Vestibule? More like an ant-filled hole-in-the-wall.
“Just wait inside safely then. And here’s my direct number . . . ”
He rattled off his cell number, and like I did it all the time, I gave him my number. With that, we hung up with a plan all set for Thursday.
The cool kid and me!
Poor, dirty, geeky, stuck-in-the-corner Aly Road.