The next morning, I sat in my office with a pack of ice against the bruise on my jaw, peering at the computer monitor in front of me while the smell of fresh coffee filled the room, coming off the mug in front of me. My office was large and meticulously clean, but I didn’t bother with the usual all-wood fashion sense a lot of lawyers had. I’d always been fonder of a minimalist, modernist look.

The floor and ceiling were a light silver and snowy white, respectively, and half of the decor in the room was a metallic gray while the other half was deep azure. Natural light filtered in freely from the full-scale window on the east wall, and the glass panels on the west wall gave me a full view of the lobby, if I chose. Either of the walls could be dimmed to the point of being opaque, and this morning, I had them both shut tight.

I didn’t need anyone seeing me like this if I could help it. I’d have to face the music eventually, of course, but I could at least put it off until I finished my morning coffee.

What happened last night was still hard to believe. Maybe it was karma for my attitude leading up to it, but of all the things I thought might ever happen at a convention, a sucker punch to the jaw was near the bottom of the list.

After it happened, I had to play it off like it was no big deal. It was the only way I could have saved face after something like that. Running back to my apartment would have made me look weak and calling the police would have made me look whiny and just as flimsy. I had no choice but to laugh it off to the people I was speaking with and finish my glass of champagne before casually making my way to the bathroom to clean up before going right back to mingling.

Hell, it even proved to be a decent conversation-starter by the time the evening was over. But that didn’t change the fact that after years of not seeing each other, Hudson North had managed to throw me a curveball.

I should have been more furious than I was. I should have been raising a stink and prosecuting him to the fullest extent of the law. But for some reason, the only thing running through my head was wondering what he had been up to all these years since Harvard.

And so, I found myself glaring at my computer screen, browsing through his firm’s website. Like me, Hud had his own practice, but his had been around far longer than he could possibly have been in practice, I thought. Like me, he specialized in corporate law; like me, his name was at the forefront of his practice.

I was mildly surprised that I hadn’t yet been aware that he was practicing in Las Vegas, but then again, it was a big city. Just like not all doctors knew each other, it wasn’t that strange for lawyers to not know each other. And with a reaction like that, there was a chance that Hud had been avoiding me without me knowing it.

Well, he might have been avoiding me until the right time, I thought, as my jaw throbbed.

But if the North law firm had been in business longer than Hud could have his law degree, that could only mean one thing. I looked up “North attorney Vegas” without Hudson’s first name attached. I had been expecting to see Hud’s father or uncle pop up in the results, but what I saw on the screen made my mouth fall open. It went so much deeper than that.

I thought I remembered someone in school mentioning that Hud came from a family of attorneys, unlike me. My middle-class background couldn’t have been more average. But the first results for Hud’s father Chauncey North weren’t about his practice.

They were about his scandals.

How could I have not put two and two together? Of course, Hud was the son of the one and only Chauncey North. The man was something of a legend in Vegas--an infamous one. He was always involved with hot young women, some of whom were his own clients, and he earned a reputation as being one of the sleaziest, yet most effective attorneys in this part of the state. A major scandal erupted a couple of years ago that forced him to retire with his young mistress to a private island he bought.

That must have been how Hudson had taken over the practice--by picking up the scraps his father left behind for him, no doubt. I sat back and couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

Like father, like son.

No wonder there was no reference to Chauncey anywhere to be found on the website for Hud’s practice. He was probably trying to shove his dirty laundry under the rug as much as possible. It was a wonder he could even show his face at the convention.

That simplified things quite a bit, on my end. Getting punched by a rival was one thing; getting punched by the lowlife son of a corrupt attorney who retired smugly and abandoned his family might as well have been a point of pride. I was already thinking up a one-liner to have ready to explain the bruise he gave me when my phone rang.

It was Scott Ackerman, a colleague of mine I’d spoken with briefly at the conference the day before last night. He was a real estate lawyer, but I knew him from my class at Harvard. He and I liked to keep up, and in fact, as I recall, he knew both me and Hudson. This was going to be an awkward conversation.

“Talk to me, Scott,” I greeted him as I answered the phone.

“Hey, Rod,” he said, and as I feared, he sounded a little concerned. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, so terrible,” I joked, leaning back and putting my feet up on the desk. “I’m in the hospital now, surrounded by loved ones and bouquets of flowers. Bastard shattered my jaw in nine places. It’s a miracle I’m still talking, honestly.”

“Ass,” he said, chuckling. “Seriously though, it’s not every day someone gets socked like that at the convention. I mean, I know tensions run high, but…”

“I’m fine,” I said. “An ice pack is keeping me company, but I have a feeling Hudson North’s ego is the one that needs more medical attention. A stunt like that probably hurt his public image worse than mine.”

“That’s what I was calling to talk to you about, actually,” he said. “At the time you got hit, I happened to be taking a phone video of the whole conference, like a panoramic view, you know? I panned over you right as Hud threw that hook. If you were thinking about pressing charges…”

I raised my eyebrows, an amused look on my face. “Huh. Interesting.”

“Oh okay, playing tough guy, I get it,” Scott chuckled.

“No, it’s not that,” I lied. “It’s just been a wild morning. I just dug up all the shit about Hud’s father this morning while nursing this coffee. I can’t believe I didn’t know those two were related.”

“Yeah, how did you not know that?” Scott said. “It was hanging over Hud’s head the whole time we were at Harvard together. He was always paranoid that people were just going to see him as an extension of his dad.”

“Well, he’s doing a good job of getting there,” I mused. “How do you know so much about him, anyway? I didn’t think you two were close.”

“...wait, are you serious?” Scott asked after a moment.

“Should I not be?”

“Rod, we hooked up.”

My jaw dropped so hard it made my bruise twinge. “Wait, what? You and Hudson North?”

“Jesus, I figured one of the only other gay men in our class would have kept up with everything going on behind the scenes,” Scott laughed. “Hey, now I get to say I finally have a leg up over Rodney Barrington.”

“Fuck you,” I said with a smirk. “But seriously, what? Hud’s straight.”

“That’s what he let everyone think,” Scott said. “I think his dad had something to do with him wanting to be quiet about it, but yeah, he’s gay as springtime. I think I was one of only like...maybe three guys he hooked up with while he was there. Kept things real quiet so the secret wouldn’t get out. No offense, but I wouldn’t have even said anything to you, I just assumed you knew.”

“No, I guess I was too wrapped up in classwork while I was there,” I said absently, staring at the picture of Hud on the website.

When I was at Harvard, I assumed that everyone around me was out to get me, partly because my sexuality put me at a disadvantage. I was cold, and I didn’t shy away from using my peers as rungs on the ladder, especially when I knew they had advantages over me. If I had known Hud was gay…

He’d always been attractive to me, but I just put that extra energy I had for him into our rivalry.

“What even happened between you two?” Scott asked, interrupting the silence.

“We, uh…” I trailed off, rubbing my forehead. This was not something I was particularly proud of, but at the time, it had made sense. Hell, up until a few minutes ago it made sense. “Remember that big incident where Jonathan got expelled? The guy they caught cheating?”

“Yeah.”

“Jon and Hud were real close back then, like best friends,” I said, feeling guilt weigh heavier and heavier on my heart. “And I... might have let that fact slip to one of the professors while the investigation was ongoing.”

“Oh...shit,” Scott said.

“Hud got investigated along with Jon. They wanted to figure out if he’d been ‘complicit by failing to report academic dishonesty,’ as the dean put it.”

“Did you have proof that he was helping him cheat?” Scott asked.

“No, just a hunch, spurred on by the fact that he and I were neck and neck for the top of our class,” I grumbled.

“So, you almost got him kicked out of Harvard?”

“Hey, I’m the one who got sucker punched, remember? Besides, I heard they got pretty close to finding evidence to pin on him, actually. Just never enough to really take formal action.”

It had been enough to give me an edge, though. I came out top of our class by fractions of a point above Hud.

“Well, suppose you’re even now,” Scott chuckled. “Anyway, about this video I’ve got…”

“Delete it.”

“What?”

I was as surprised as he was, but I didn’t regret my words. “Delete it. I won’t press charges. Like you said, it should be water under the bridge by now.”

“If you’re sure,” he said reluctantly.

I opened my mouth to reply when I heard my intercom come on, and my secretary’s voice came through.

“Mr. Barrington, your 8:30 is here, are you ready for him?”

“Send him in,” I said, then turned the phone back to my mouth. “Scott, I’ve got to run, but yeah, I’m sure. Talk later.”

“You got it,” Scott said, and the call ended. I was not in the headspace to talk to a potential client, but business had to go on, regardless of the storm of emotions that was getting kicked up in my chest. I quickly put the ice pack away and stood up as my door swung open, and I extended my hand to the man who entered.

He was on the short side, with dark hair and brown eyes. His nose, mouth, and chin were thin, giving him an almost rat-like, slimy look, and the smile on his face told me he had a personality to match his looks. I glanced at my schedule to pick up his name, and soon after, I put on my usual smile.

“You must be Mark Delaney,” I said as he grasped my hand with a cold, limp shake. “A pleasure. I’m Rodney Barrington.”

“Yeah, hey,” he said, sitting down across from me. “I’ve heard good things about you, so I hope you’re worth the time.”

I brushed that one off. I was used to dealing with spoiled trust fund children and corporate slimeballs, and I could tell right off the bat that Delaney was going to be just like the rest of them. To me, he was nothing more than a walking paycheck, so I didn’t mind.

“You don’t get an office like mine by being a disappointment,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Delaney? Yes, I’ve read your email, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

He rolled his eyes but sat forward and twiddled his thumbs for a moment before pulling some papers out of his jacket pocket and setting them on the desk between us. I glanced them over as he spoke.

“I am, uh, technically out on bail right now,” he said. “I’ve got an arraignment coming up for charges of bank fraud and forging legal documents.”

That was also not a particularly uncommon set of charges for rich brats, but they were very serious ones.

“Tell me about the circumstances,” I said. “Full story, as complete as you can.”

He took a deep breath, looking vaguely annoyed. “Alright, let’s see. The people charging me are Southwestern First Bank.” A lightbulb went off in my head. “They’re claiming that I had some shit forged on a loan application I made, and all that amounts to bank fraud.”

I scanned down to a copy of Mr. Delaney’s supposedly fraudulent loan application, and when I saw the amount he was applying for, my eyebrows went up.

“I’m guessing you had big plans with that kind of money,” I said.

“Yeah, building some condos,” he said. “Nice ones, too.” He started rattling off details about his plans for the condo like a teenager while I browsed the file he handed me, including the court summons detailing what he was being accused of. It looked like a pretty damning case, if I was honest.

Delaney was rambling about his vacations and all the vices he liked to indulge in and how he’d like to bring all that kind of business to his condos, and generally doing everything he could to make himself seem like the sleaziest douche this side of Reno. He was probably exactly who I pegged him for--some trust fund baby mismanaging his family’s money. He probably did actually falsify documents for his loan application, badly, and with a personality like his, I was betting this case was a sinking ship not worth my time.

“And now basically, because I probably forgot to tick the right box on some part of the loan application or made a typo somewhere,” Delaney went on, rolling his eyes, “the whole bank is trying to come down on me with an iron fist.”

“Well, banks do tend to try to protect their assets,” I said.

“They even hired this hotshot attorney to lead the case,” he added. “This guy Hudson North, supposedly kind of famous in the area.”

My eyes flitted up to him and locked on. “You’re sure about that?”

Delaney stared for a moment, then shrugged. “Uh...I mean, yeah. Why?”

That changed things. I closed the folder and slid it across the table to him, getting comfortable in my chair. A smile spread across my face, and I folded my hands on the desk.

“I agree, this is completely unbecoming of Southwestern,” I lied. “I’ll take your case, Mr. Delaney. When is your arraignment?”