I shook my head and called him. “We talked about this,” I said as soon as he answered.
“Fine.” He didn’t sound overjoyed by the prospect, but Jake was never a fan of lawyers to begin with. His ex was one—some guy named Seabrooke. Last time we talked about him, Jake said he still saw him around the city sometimes, but they never spoke.
I managed to leave practice without any hassle and met Jake at Mr. Polunin’s office. The firm—Demchenko, Weston, & Polunin—was located on the second floor of a city building they shared with other businesses such as architects. The lobby that doubled as a reception area was classy, simple yet elegant with white leather couches, a coffee machine, and soft music. I wasn’t surprised when Jake stopped to stare at some of the artwork of landscapes, including one of New Gothenburg at night, on the way through the reception area and to the elevator. I had to drag him away from the pictures so we wouldn’t be late.
Once upstairs, we passed a small area that I thought should have been reception, but was hung with plastic for construction. We followed signs forward into another room. The firm itself was simplistic in colors and had tan couches, a contrast to the white in the building’s lobby. It had a water cooler and a bookcase full of law books that visitors could read while they waited. A false wall had been erected behind a thick wooden desk, and the sounds of drilling and hammering filled the area behind it. The receptionist greeted us with a wide pearly grin when we walked in, and it seemed clear her desk wasn’t usually in its current spot with the disarray around her.
“We’re here to see Mr. Polunin. I’m Declan Greenwood.”
She giggled. “I know exactly who you are. My boyfriend’s a big fan of your team. Can I get your autograph?”
Someone cleared their throat, and our attention jumped to a tall man filling a temporary doorway. The gold frames of his glasses glinted under the light, and he raised his dark eyebrows at the receptionist. “Professionalism, Becky.”
She flushed. “Sorry, Mr. Demchenko.”
“No, it’s absolutely fine,” I argued with a genuine smile. “I’m used to it and don’t mind giving autographs. Here. What do you want me to sign?”
She bounced in her seat as she gave me a piece of blank printer paper. Using her name, I gave her a short message about winning before I signed my name and passed it back. The expression on her face was worth it. That was one of the reasons I loved fans—even when they didn’t forgive you for fucking up a game, they were passionate. I could respect that.
Mr. Demchenko pursed his lips but didn’t say anything as he gestured his next client in by his name—a big guy he called King. I didn’t know anything about the Kings of Men MC, aside from knowing PD, but even a blind man could tell that wastheKing, the president PD had talked about a few times. The patch on his leather coat that saidPresidentmade it obvious, too.
“What do you think?” Jake whispered, elbowing me as we sat down in the waiting area. “He’s as hot as PD says, huh?”
“Let’s say I’d go bad for him,” I teased, and we laughed quietly. I didn’t want my new receptionist friend hearing me talk about King’s hotness because some people thought it was weird that Jake and I could appreciate another man’s attractiveness without feeling jealous. We loved each other, and Logan, too, even though he was new to us, and there were no issues of cheating.
After ten minutes a short man with a baby face and a wide smile, wearing a crisp black suit, opened the door Demchenko and King had disappeared into and smiled at us. “You must be Declan Greenwood-North and Jake North-Greenwood. I love that, by the way. Fun to say.” He waggled his eyebrows.
We nodded as we stood, and I couldn’t help but notice I towered over him. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-five, or shorter, but if he was fazed by the height difference, he didn’t show it. The handshake he gave me was strong and confident before he led us to his office. Men were working around the room, standing on ladders and knocking in walls behind sheets of plastic. The sound of drills filled the space and made me wince.
“Please excuse all the work being done. We’re expanding. I shared an office with my coworker before this. It wasn’t very privacy friendly.” His charming smile put us at ease as he took us into an office with temporary walls and a wide oak desk.
The chairs he gestured to were black leather and really comfortable when we sat in them. I almost wanted to fall asleep against the cushioned back.
“How can I help you today?” Mr. Polunin took a seat in his chair and rolled up to his desk, resting his elbows on the thick wood with a grin. A photo sat on the desk of him shaking the hand of an elderly gentleman, both wearing academic gowns and mortarboards, and behind him on the wall were his degrees, protected in glass-covered frames.
“We have a friend,” Jake said carefully.
Mr. Polunin held up a hand. “Before we begin, I would like to remind you that this is a safe space. I don’t care if it’s you, your cousin, your uncle Bob’s great-aunt, your brother from another mother, or your sister’s hairdresser. I’m not here to judge, I’m here to defend you. Saying that, if you’ve committed any crimes, please don’t tell me. I do need to know the situation you are in, though.” He waved his hand at us, as though telling us to continue.
Jake glanced at me from the corner of his eye before he sighed. “We’re in a throuple. Our third, Logan, is the one in a situation.”
We took turns explaining what we knew, from the visit to his ex’s apartment to what he’d told us about the cops paying him a visit. By the end of the story, Mr. Polunin’s brows were furrowed in thought and he nodded.
“We can fix this. Even if it goes to court, which I’ll make sure it doesn’t, we can bring in character witnesses to destroy her image. I have a private investigator who can help if you want to pay for him, but until that happens, right now we focus on the police. If they approach him again, I want you to contact me immediately. Tell them he has a lawyer and wishes to see him. I don’t want him to talk to the police alone, am I clear?”
We nodded, and he grabbed his laptop, typing away. Mr. Polunin told us how the cops worked, and every time he talked about them, his lips twisted in disdain. When he was done speaking, we were satisfied with him. Or, at least, I thought we were. When we paid the bill and got to the front of the building, Jake twitched in annoyance. The signs were there—the way he wouldn’t look me in the eye, how he kept squeezing his hand into a fist then releasing it again, and how he clenched his jaw.
I grabbed his hand to stop him from walking and spun him around. Who the hell cared that we were in the middle of the city at two in the afternoon? Not me. I dragged him against my chest and kissed his cheek, breathing him in. He always smelled like disinfectant during a workday. “Talk to me.”
“I don’t like this,” he muttered immediately, like he knew what I was going to say anyway. “We have no control over this situation.”
“It’ll be okay. That guy in there sounds like he knows what he’s talking about, Jake.”
“How do you know that? He looks like he’s nineteen. He’s probably still sucking on his mom’s tit.” He buried his face into my chest and sighed.
I laughed. I’d noticed a second photo on Mr. Polunin’s desk when we stood to leave, and if he was sucking anything, it wasn’t a tit, but rather a hunky man who looked tall and wide enough to throw him around some. “I trust him. They’re the best. I mean, they represent the Kings, right? They must get a lot of practice.”
He shrugged and shifted away. The tense lines in his face worried me, but he smiled. “I’m fine. I should go back to work, and you should go to practice. Coach will only be nice for so long.”
