Page 1 of The Allure of Ruins

THE ALLURE OF RUINS

Paxton Walsh has a comfortable life, which wasn’t always the case. But ever since he left his tumultuous life on the West Coast, trading it for a new beginning on the East Coast, things have settled. He can thank himself for the change, but also his boss and friend, Colton Gates. Their relationship is…a bit too codependent and close for most people to understand, but it works perfectly for them. So what if thoughts can be conveyed with a glance? That doesn’t really mean anything. Or at least not what other people think.

But now a threat from Pax’s past is back, shattering that hard-won peace. With Pax in danger and needing protection, Colton immediately steps up and takes him in. Without distance, though, without retreating to separate homes, both men have to be honest about their feelings. The truth is, Pax was hurt, body and soul, and if he reaches for Colton and finds they can’t be more, he’ll lose everything. If Colton does the same and it doesn’t work, he’ll lose Pax, his best friend and the person who knows him better than anyone. With both of them terrified of the what-ifs, it might be too hard to have faith and jump. If only they could both be brave.

ONE

Icould have made an excuse not to go to the dinner, but I was trying to be more engaged with the people I worked with. Basic human connection was important, and my therapist had told me on more than one occasion how wonderful my progress was. I wanted to keep that going.

The issue was, when you sustained trauma as a child, and it progressed into early adulthood—this was how my therapist explained it to me—you could become trapped there, in that space and time, and would not be able to move beyond. Since it sounded believable, and I didn’t want to be closed off to making friends, I forced myself to do things that made me uncomfortable. And while I wasn’t always successful—some of it stemmed from being an introvert with a very small social battery—I had made the decision to go to dinner just as I had when I was invited in the past to go out and play pool, bowl, or simply have drinks. Not that I drank, but I could sit there and visit with everyone.

Saturday morning, everyone from our office had to meet downtown at one of the homeless shelters to perform our once-a-month community service. One of the three name partners at our law firm, David Burgess, had all the partners and associates at Mayhew, Burgess, and Somerset show up with blankets, coats, whatever we had collected, and help serve lunch as well as sit and create résumés for those who wanted one. We also coordinated clothing drop-offs and pickups for participating dry cleaners who helped with interview wear, made trips back and forth to the various establishments, and cleaned the shelter. Everything needed sterilizing, and because I didn’t mind, I was basically zipped up in a hazmat suit and put to work. Other people, when they had to unclog and clean toilets, scrub the showers, bleach the floors and walls, and remove hair and bugs, a lot of them hyperventilated or barfed. For me, having grown up in squalor, in similar conditions, all I wanted was to make it as pristine as I could in the amount of time given to me. I remembered what I dreamed of back when I was on the street, how sanitary I would have wanted it to be. I tried to make my past and my present intersect.

As always—which was nice after working all day—everyone was invited for dinner at Mr. Somerset’s condo in Streeterville, near the Gold Coast area of Chicago, where he had a lavish meal catered. His place wasn’t as big as the mansion that Henry Mayhew, our first name partner, called home, it wasn’t fifteen thousand square feet, but to me, it was still mammoth at ninety-four hundred. It was contemporary with that industrial feel in sparseness, open floor plan, and stainless-steel appliances. There were five bedrooms and a roof deck, walnut hardwood floors, Italian marble, quartz counters, fireplaces, floor-to-ceiling iron bookshelves, and a heated infinity pool and a Jacuzzi out back. The man was sixty-two, divorced, and was now a serial dater, and the women on his arm were socialites, heiresses, models, TV personalities—the glitterati of Chicago. Since our clients included some of the biggest names in sports and politics, lots of movers and shakers, everyone from moguls and architects to philanthropists and reporters, our law firm was one of the largest in the city.

A few years ago, the firm had struggled through a public-relations disaster as the last senior partner in charge of hiring had brought on Barrett Van Allen, who turned out to be aiding a psychopath in taking revenge on innocent people. It had taken a concentrated effort to redeem the firm’s image—they brought in a public-relations firm from New York, and their number-one suggestion was to bring on a new partner to change the culture. Because without a new face, a new name on the door, no one would notice what had been done. The new name partner, Winston Somerset, had always been a big believer in service to the community, and in that vein, created a pro bono department at the reenvisioned Mayhew, Burgess, and Somerset. No longer would they take on the occasional case for free—now it would be continual as there was an entire department whose sole purpose was helping those less fortunate who otherwise could not hope for justice.

Mr. Somerset had moved from San Francisco with his youngest daughter. I had no idea why she’d come with him instead of staying with her mother, and honestly, I didn’t care enough to find out. The only reason Mr. Somerset entered my circle of interest at all was that his money and the changes he made saved the firm where I worked. Most importantly, he was the one who lured my boss away from the state’s attorney’s office to Mayhew, Burgess, and Somerset.

Colton Gates now ran the pro bono division that was completely devoted to civil rights cases, which included whistleblowers, innocence projects, police-misconduct lawsuits, medical-malpractice cases, and anyone facing discrimination based on race, religion, gender, or disability. I liked what my boss did now much better than his old job. Now he was a champion of the underdog, for all those who had no voice, and he never had to work a case he didn’t believe in. Back when he was an ASA, he had been the David in a David-and-Goliath situation many times, and I especially liked when he won against very rich men who had hurt someone of little means. Those were my favorite karma moments. I liked to see the faces of the oppressors when they lost.

There had been times in the past, though, when Colton was forced to prosecute those he would have rather pled down, or in many cases, out. He was a big believer in probation to make someone think twice. But he wasn’t always able to sway his boss. To get reelected, the state’s attorney had to have a winning record, so sometimes people’s lives got burned in the process. Now, though, he was always the good guy, which I knew was much more his natural state. In his heart, he was a knight, no matter how much he protested when I called him that. What was funny was that after so much time, people still occasionally suggested I go work for someone else in another department. I knew they were doing it because they cared about me, wanting me to move up and make more money, but as considerate as that was, they should have known better. On the other hand, they didn’t know that Colton Gates was more than simply my boss. He was my touchstone, my anchor, and I would no more think of leaving him than I would cutting off my own arm. It was ridiculous to even consider. But that part was my fault—I didn’t disclose much about myself, so in that lack-of-information vacuum, they made assumptions. Which was why, on a cold winter night in Chicago, inside Mr. Somerset’s warm home, standing at one of the three buffet tables, I was engaged in yet another conversation about my future.

“You’re never going to move up being stuck with Gates,” Libby Morrow, who worked for Brize Redmond in family law, told me for the hundredth time. She liked me, far better than any of the other assistants she saw on a daily basis, and for that reason, wanted to move me under her umbrella. “Being a non-equity partner means Gates is basically senior management, but that’s all. He doesn’t have any pull to make change. I mean, my God, Pax, he’s on a fixed salary, for Christ’s sake.”

This was the crux of the matter. The whole non-equity-partner piece meant that neither he, nor I—because I worked for the man—received any bonuses. To Libby, and many of the other assistants, that was the absolute worst thing they could think of. I smiled at her because her concern came from a good place, even though Colton and I were not money-driven people. We were in it for the change and, more importantly, the help we could offer.

“Paxton Walsh, that is a big deal!” she insisted, her voice rising.

The thing was, she wasn’t telling me anything new. My boss had the word partner in his title, but he didn’t share in the profits when the firm made big money, and he didn’t have a vote in what the firm did. He had no actual stake in Mayhew, Burgess, and Somerset. As his assistant, the same was true for me. We were both merely employees. What she didn’t understand was that my salary was still the most money I’d ever had in my life. Same for Colton. The extra money would have been amazing, as I wanted a house someday, but I wasn’t missing anything by not having what the others did. I think she thought I would be jealous, but that wasn’t my way. It wasn’t Colton’s either. He didn’t dream of owning a yacht, a fancy car, or a penthouse in the sky. I knew he too wanted a house, preferably something old, on a tree-lined street, in a quiet neighborhood, far from noisy downtown traffic, trendy nightclubs and bars, and absolutely no new-age or fusion restaurants. He hated those two descriptors most of all. The last date he’d gone on, he was there for about fifteen minutes, until the appetizers came. I got a picture of something with foam on it and then got a message that he was bringing me pho. Of course I was mortified for the woman he was on the date with, but they were out with her friends, so he didn’t leave her alone. He would never have done that. He only left people in safe places with safe people. Still, it didn’t make it any less rude.

“Right now, we have an opening that would be perfect for you, Pax.”

Someone gently bumped me from behind.

I turned and saw Natalie Granger, a second-year associate I was friendly with. I had gone out with her and others from work a few times. Her inelegant snort of laughter made me smile. “Something you want to say, Nat?”

One of the things I liked about our firm was how much all the assistants, paralegals, legal secretaries, typists, mailroom personnel, human-resources staff, and IT support were valued. At other firms I’d visited, an attorney, even a new attorney like Natalie, would talk down to Libby. It didn’t happen with us.

“I’m simply wondering why, again, for the fifth time in—what is it?” she asked me.

“Three months,” I muttered, not daring to look at Libby.

“Three months,” she continued cheerfully, “there’s another opening for an assistant in Brize’s department.” She tapped her cheek like she was thinking.

“He expects a lot of his support staff,” Libby replied irritably.

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

Libby growled, which was fun because seeing her—the fifty-two-year-old mother of three and one of the most stylish dressers in our office—get ruffled was ridiculous. I had no idea why she let others get under her skin. But I did appreciate her loyalty to Mr. Redmond, even though, by all accounts, the man could sometimes be an ass. But that could be said of everyone, really. And Mr. Redmond was a senior partner, the head of family law, and the biggest moneymaker for the firm. High-profile divorces, prenups, and estate planning brought in the most revenue. Even litigation wasn’t as large a cash cow, coming in second. That division was headed by Pilar Mata, who had also sent her assistant, Ruby Hernandez, to feel me out on the subject of moving.

Apparently, I was a better assistant than my boss gave me credit for, which really, was not a surprise. Getting any kind of compliment out of the man was like pulling blood from a stone. But in the five years I’d been his assistant—three at the ASA office and two at Mayhew, Burgess, and Somerset—I learned to basically read the man’s mind, so changing, learning someone else, was out of the question. Plus, there was his great heart to consider. There was no better man, period. I was where I was supposed to be. I had never had the sense of peace I did now, and that was worth more than anything.

This all went back to being bounced from place to place as a foster child, being resented and beaten up in every home I’d been placed in. Once I was older, I’d gone from the frying pan into the fire…so now safety was not something I took for granted.

At twenty-eight, my life finally made sense, and most importantly, I was safe. I was safe at work, safe at home, and safe with my friends. I couldn’t ask for anything better. Never again would I have to choose between keeping the electricity on or eating. No part of me would ever be for sale again, not my time, my smile, or my body. Now there was a safety net between me and the grasp of strangers, and especially…people who professed their love. Because yes, friends were good, but it would be a cold day in hell before I was stupid enough to love again.

But that wasn’t quite right. Because the truth was, I loved Colton Gates. So I could, in fact, give my heart to another. It would be impossible not to love him when I knew precisely who he was. The man had no secrets from me. What I could not do was trust anyone, ever, with my body. I would be celibate until I died. It was good to have things straight in my head. Lying to myself was not something I engaged in.