Marcel’s sigh reverberates through the speakers. “Okay. Where are you headed?”
“Eight-oh-five Henderson Road,” I say, turning onto the street in question. It’s lined with mature oak trees and nearly identical brick cracker box houses, all built in the fifties during central Indiana’s postwar baby boom.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Marcel says over the sound of typing. “You doing good?”
I shrug before I remember that Marcel can’t see me. “Fine.”
“Any reason for me to push you further on that?”
“Nope,” I reply, popping thepfor maximum effect. I’m very good at giving off social cues that sayI don’t want to talk.Unfortunately people aren’t always very good at picking up on them.
Another sigh from Marcel. Why did I end up with the only lawyer in New York who thinks he’s also a therapist? Well, because after the finance community declared me persona non grata, Marcel was the only attorney who’d return my calls. And that’s probably only because he’s married to Jameson Lewis (formerly Lander), my roommate at Princeton. So even though I’d rather stick my hand in a tiger’s mouth than discuss my personal life, I have to share all manner of secrets with Marcel. That’s what happens when you’re part of a federal investigation. For example, the federal government likes to know where they can find you at all times.
Otherwise they might track you down at a child’s first birthday party that you’re forced to attend out of family obligation (entirely against my will, I might add—my family might be worse than the feds). That will quickly make you the center of attention, and as someone who prefers not to be perceived by anyoneever, that’s basically all the levels of hell in one afternoon.
“Okay, well, thanks for the update. I’m hoping to finally get this deposition on the books soon. Do you want to schedule a Zoom so I can run you through the questions?”
“I’m good.”
“That’s what I figured you’d say. You’re my one client who I never have to worry will say too much. Honestly, you should run a training course on how to keep your answers short,” Marcel says, and when I don’t reply, he chuckles. “I know you’re totally focused on this case wrapping up, but please make sure to live your life while you’re waiting.”
“That a message from Jameson?” I ask.
“Of course,” Marcel says. “Hemisses you at dinner.”
“Tell him I said hi,” I reply, because it’s a better answer thanWhat life could I possibly be living in the middle of Indiana?
“I will. Take care of yourself,” Marcel says, and I end the call.
I pull over in front of the third house on the street, distinguishable from the others only by the red tulips blooming in the front garden and the shiny new pink paint on the front door. A bright blue older model Prius is parked in the short driveway, a sticker affixed to the back that saysif you can read this, thank a teacher.
I’ll be crashing at Carson Webber’s house—she’s my little sister’s childhood best friend—for however long it takes the elderly plumber working on the leak to finish the job. Burt has a flip phone, takes only checks, and moves with the urgency of an exhausted sloth, so I’m thinking it’ll be a good long while.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself to exit the blessed silence of my car. Because I know that it will not be silent inside the house. I’m grateful Carson is taking me in. It’s just that Carson is…well, I don’t know what she is. She’s like her pink front door or those happy little tulips in human form. She’s always smiling, always talking, always wearing bright colors. Her cheeks are always flushed pink to match her pouty lips.
And I could deal with all that—I’m well practiced at existing in a world full of extroverts—but Carson drives me a different kind of crazy. Every time I’m around her, I feel like a fucking cartoon bunny, ready to sit at the feet of the singing princess and bask in her glow. The way I feel physically pulled into her orbit every time I’m around her is fucking wild. It takes the kind of focus I usually bring to work or the gym to keep myself from getting too close to her. She’s like a pesky craving to tamp down, same as the kind I get when I pass a hot dog cart on the street in Manhattan. And I allow myself only one hot dog a year, on opening day from my season ticket seat on the Mets first base line.
But those tickets are long gone, and I missed opening day this year.
Still, as I end the call with Marcel and climb out of the car,dragging my duffel bag across the center console, I let myself linger on the image of my fingers sinking into the flesh of her soft, round hips. I imagine her pretty pink lips. I imagine twirling one of her thick blond curls around my finger.
I let my mind run wild as I take those few steps up to the door, and for a moment, my life isn’t a total shit show. I’m able to imagine I haven’t let down myself, my family, my friends. That I’m not dangerously close to an indictment, to prison.
For just a moment, I feel fucking amazing just thinking about her.
But by the time I’m face-to-face with that pink front door, I’ve shoved it all back down. Carson is bad for me, and I have plenty of experience resisting things that are bad for me.
And even if I did let myself indulge, let myself feast on her like the most decadent of cheat meals,thenI’d have to confront the fact that as bad as she is for me, I’m way worse for her.
She may be a decadent chocolate tart, butme?
I’m poison.
And with that final firm reminder, I hoist my duffel over my shoulder and knock on the pink front door.
CHAPTER 2
CARSON
