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“None.” I was bloody careful. My last relationship ended nearly two years ago, and while I had a few of lovers since, hookup culture isn’t my style. It’s been a while since I’ve entertained anybody but my own hand.
Three hundred and seventy-eight days, to be exact. Not that I’m counting.
“Anybody new in your life?”
“No,” I say. “Well, I have a new neighbor, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I mean,” says Rand.
“Finn moved in next door around Christmas. I don’t see him much.”
“Finn?”
“Finnegan Hale.” I’d seen his name on an ad the mailman left in my box by mistake one time. “Late twenties or early thirties, blue eyes, dark hair, maybe six feet.”
“Oh, really,” says Rand. The drawl is back. I can feel a flush creeping up my neck.
“Knock it off.”
“Oh, no, sir,” he says. I tug at my tie.
“He’s harmless,” I say, perfectly aware that I barely know the man but trying to move the conversation along. The tone in Rand’s voice is one I’d heard a lot back in college and despite the stress of the moment, I’m feeling every one of those three hundred and seventy-eight days.
“We’ll see,” says Rand, the interest in his voice dialing back down. “Text me his address when you send the photo of the note. I’ll find out what I can and get back to you in the next day or two.”
“Rand—”
“Don’t even start, you sentimental sonovabitch,” he says. “I’ve got work to do, and I bet you do, too. Call the police, file the report. We’ll suss this bastard out.”
I knew he’d get it. “Thanks, Rand. I owe you.”
He snorts. “Bet your ass.” He hangs up.
We bonded over keeping our secrets secret in the Deep South. His parents are deeply religious, while my family lives their lives for the public. Neither of us had much privacy growing up, so college was an education in more ways than one.
I kept my private life private, and that went double for my sexuality. Who I go to bed with is nobody’s business but the man or woman with me.
I texted Frederick at Legal Aid and then called the police. I sent Rand all the information he asked for while I waited for the cops. They met me down in the parking garage and berated me for moving the note, but an hour later, I was finally able to leave. By then, the rest of the building had cleared out, and I was grateful I didn’t have to worry about getting home to feed Cat. She has her routine, same as I have mine, and we don’t much care for having it disrupted.
Of course, a man doesn’t get blackmailed every day. Exceptions must be made.
The note gave absolutely no indication who might be interested in my sex life, and while I have pissed off some people professionally—no self-respecting lawyer could claim otherwise—I can’t think of any personal enemies. No scorned ex-lovers or anything like that. So, who the hell found out that I’m bisexual and that I want to keep it private? Who knows I want that so much I’d be willing to pay for it?
4
NATALIE
Something is wrong.
Nic isn’t prone to drama or overreaction. He can be stone-cold when he chooses, but he is never loud or theatrical about it. Instead, he takes you apart with bloodless logic. I have wondered more than once how it was he chose contract law, when that intensely competent calm seems well-suited for big corporate takeovers. Or getting murder convictions. Or avoiding them.
As it is, I’m just thankful to be working with a man who clearly knows his stuff, and if that turns out to be more attractive than I expected, well, that’s my problem.
In any case, Nic was tense this afternoon, and tense Nic is not good. If all he needs from me is to feed Cat, I’ll do my best to make sure it’s one less thing he has to worry about.
My earlier purchases are burning a hole in my proverbial pocket, but there had been no time to change after I said goodbye to Moira, and I’m not about to jump into a whole new forties-film-noir persona without at least washing my face first. Monday morning will be soon enough to show off my brand-new self and will give me the weekend to prepare. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get crazy and go out.
For the second time this afternoon, I swipe the keycard to get into Nic’s building. His place is several tiers nicer than mine, hence the fancy keycard security and passcode lock on his door. But for all the fanciness, Nic’s apartment itself is spartan, with only the minimum of solid, unfussy furniture that probably costs more than I make in a year. The sofa is, nonetheless, the highest quality leather I’ve ever laid eyes on. Function over form is the phrase, and it suits the man himself, deep brown leather sitting on top of dark gray tile. I counted three paintings on my first trip here, and I suspect they’re actual paintings, not discount canvas prints ordered off the Internet.
