After This Night Read online

  Charlie pushed back from the table and rose. He stalked closer to Julia, forcing her to back up against the wall. He crowded her, caging her in with his hands on each side of her head.

  “Let me explain what it means, Red,” he said, spitting the words on her face. “It means they’re not coming. They’re not playing my game. It means I won’t get their money. And that also means the next time you play, you take a fall.”

  “What?” She furrowed her brow in disbelief. “How does that help any of us?”

  “It sends the word to the street that my games are fair. You take a fall. And you are in my debt, Red.”

  “I won tonight,” she said, trying to insist. “I won $6,000. I’m close. I’m almost there.”

  “You didn’t win $6,000,” he said breathing on her. The scent of fried pork coming from his mouth curled her stomach. “You cost me $6,000.”

  She wanted to sink to the ground, to crouch down and hug her knees and curl up in a corner. She felt like she’d been smashed with an anvil. Every time she got closer, he moved the finish line.

  “It’s not even my debt,” she said, her voice bordering on begging.

  “It is your debt. I have seen your pretty little bar, with your pretty little bartenders, and my pretty little money that you put into it. And let me remind you of what happens if you ever think I will forget that you owe me.”

  He grabbed her by the hair and yanked. She stifled a scream, and her mind flashed to how different it felt when Clay pulled her hair or boxed her in against the wall. When he did those things it was fair and it was wanted, and it was part of the way they played with each other. There was no game with Charlie. He played to hurt, and he gripped her hair so tight she believed he had the strength to tug it right off her scalp.

  He jerked her through the empty restaurant, out the door and into the foggy night, then down the block, stopping in front of a pub. He let go of her hair, and she wanted to cry with relief. “This bar? See this bar? Picture it as yours. It’s Cubic Z, and if we’re not clear by the end of the next month, it’s mine.”

  “No!” she said, trembling from head to toe. She had employees; she had a co-owner. She was responsible for them all, for their livelihood, even for the little baby growing in Kim’s belly.

  “Yes,” he said with an evil smile as he nodded vigorously. “Yes, it will be mine, and I have not decided if it will be Charlie Z or if I will simply take great pleasure in running it into the ground and then having my way with you.” He stopped talking to coil a strand of her hair around his index finger. “I might be starting some new businesses with some very pretty women who can make money for me the old-fashioned way. Would you like that, Red? To be on your back?”

  Every cell in her body screamed as fear plunged its way through her veins. “No,” she said, her voice shaking.

  “I didn’t think so. Now get out of my sight.”

  He turned her around and shoved her hard on her spine. In her skyscraper heels, she stumbled and the sidewalk loomed ominously close, but she gripped the doorway of the bar in time, and walked away from him. When she reached her building, she stopped at the mailboxes in the lobby and grabbed bills, flyers and coupons. She quickly sorted the letters, tossing credit-card offers and carpet-cleaning deals in the trash. Then she spotted a letter that would make any citizen groan.

  From the IRS.

  She slid her finger under the flap as she trudged up the stairs, wondering what the government could want from her. She paid her taxes on time every year. She unfolded the letter and scanned it—a letter of inquiry. The IRS was asking if she knew where Dillon Whittaker was living these days since he hadn’t filed his taxes for the year before.

  She scoffed as she unlocked her door. If Charlie didn’t know where Dillon was, the IRS sure as hell wasn’t going to find him.

  * * *

  Later that night, the hot water from the shower rained down on her head and her mind returned to Dillon. When they’d met he seemed like the easygoing photographer, the funny guy with a quick wit, and a sweet word.

  But he was so much more. He was insidious in ways she never imagined he could be, because he’d figured out how to leave town with $100,000 scot-free, and no strings attached. Tra la fucking la. She could still recall the moment when her world came crashing down. She and Dillon had already split, and she wasn’t keeping tabs on him so she didn’t know he’d fled the country. She’d been mixing a pitcher of margaritas for a bachelorette party when Charlie strolled into the bar, parking himself on a sleek, steel stool. He steepled his hands in front of him, and cocked his head to the side. “How is the expansion going?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked curiously. She knew Charlie, had met him once before through Dillon, but they’d never broken bread or toasted together.

  “I understand you needed some money for your bar. Dillon asked me for a loan on your behalf, and since he’s been good and loyal to me, and was willing to pay 15 percent, I happily said yes. And seeing as Dillon has left the country, it seemed the right time for you and I to get acquainted.”

  The saying you could hear a pin drop took on new meaning as the sound in the bar was vacuumed up. She could hear everything, from the chatter of nearby patrons, to the waiters placing drinks on low tables, to the frantic beat of her heart and the blood roaring in her ears.

  “What do you mean?” She carefully set down the pitcher she was holding. If she held it a second longer she’d drop it, and it would shatter and break. It would be her tell, and if there’s one thing she knew from the mobster movies she’d seen, you don’t let them smell your fear. When they do, they pounce.

  He drummed his fingers against the counter. “What I mean is we need to talk, Red.”

  “About what?” she asked, feeling like an animal crouching in a corner.

  “About what you can do to repay me.”

  Her eyes widened. “But the money wasn’t for me. I didn’t even know he got a loan from you,” Julia had said, her voice rising in fear, her skin turning pale.

  Charlie arched an eyebrow. “That’s very funny.”

  “But it’s true. This is the first I’ve heard of this, I swear. I never got that money. I never saw a dime. I had no idea,” she said, trying so hard to prove her innocence, as her stomach twisted and her hands turned clammy.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Charlie cackled. “That’s what they all say. I had no idea. But now it’s time to have an idea about how you’re going to pay me. I hear you like poker. Make me a gin and tonic and I will tell you how you will be playing for me. Because what this means, Red, is that you are mine.”

  She still was his, and she had no idea how much longer she would have to pay for that son-of-a-bitch’s twisted act of deception.

  * * *

  Julia couldn’t sleep, which bugged the crap out of her. She’d never suffered from insomnia, not even in the darkest days with Dillon. Not even in those early weeks of Charlie’s indentured servitude when she was still dazed and shocked that this had become her life. But now she lay wide awake in her king-size bed, the window open, the late night sounds of San Francisco drifting in: the occasional car horn, the faint hum of the bus that ran on electricity, the crash of a garbage can, likely knocked over by a vagrant.

  Clay had seemed a bit wary of her neighborhood, and while her section of The Mission wasn’t bad per se, it hadn’t yet come into its own. She didn’t mind the seedier elements; she knew real danger didn’t lie with the guy panhandling on the street corner. But she liked that Clay had a protective side, and a helpful side, too. He’d tried so hard to get her to open up the other day and tell him all her troubles. She’d been tempted. She could see herself laying them at his feet and serving them up for him to solve.

  But then her problems would become his problems, and she couldn’t abide by that. Dillon had sloughed off his garbage onto her, and she wasn’t going to hot potato it on to someone else, especially someone she cared so deeply for. Because she did ca
re for him. So much more than she’d planned to when she said yes to that one weekend in New York. She’d thought she could jet across the country and have a fantastic getaway. Instead, she’d gone all in.

  She had nothing to show for it though.

  All the anger that fueled her during the game had faded, and she simply felt weary, and lonely, too, as she flashed back to the pained look on his face, to the tortured gaze in his eyes, to the way he’d reacted when she’d pleaded.

  Then she cast her mind further back to the night before when he’d tried so hard to find his way into her heart. Her chest tightened at the memory, and she longed so deeply to let him in the way he wanted, and the way she wanted too.

  The very least she could do was say she was sorry. She grabbed her phone from her nightstand and began tapping out a message to the man she missed more than she had ever expected.

  CHAPTER THREE

  As he stepped off the red-eye from Los Angeles to New York the next morning, his email burst with a flurry of messages.

  First, a note from Flynn about the Pinkertons, and how the deal was coming together for their next film. Then one from his friend Michele, reminding him that they had tickets to the theater in a week. Damn, he’d nearly forgotten they were going to see an adaptation of The Usual Suspects for the stage. Next, a quick update from an actor client, Liam, who was starring in that play and also opening a hip restaurant in Murray Hill. Clay had been advising him on the deal. Liam was a busy guy and Clay liked it that way. Then a note from Chris McCormick, the TV show host he’d met with in San Francisco after spending one more night with Julia.

  One unforgettable night that had as much to do with her answering the door wearing only stockings and a shirt as it did with her finally starting to open up to him.

  But that had all been a lie, he reminded himself, willing his heart to fossilize when it came to her. Telling himself not to linger on the memories of how she seemed to be sharing her fears, and inviting him into her life, because that was all upended when she lied about who he was to that thug on the street.

  His fingers tightened on his phone, gripping it harder, as if he were channeling his frustration into the screen. He needed to get into Manhattan as soon as possible, make a pit stop at his boxing gym, and then get his ass to work. That was his plan of attack: the way to rid Julia from his mind. Head down, nose in work, client meetings—the recipe to numb him to the effect of that woman.

  He scrolled through Chris’s note, a quick summary of what he was most looking for in his next contract with the TV network that carried his show, and then he read Chris’s previous contract that the host had handled on his own. As you can probably surmise, negotiating on my own behalf is not my expertise. Happy to have you doing it for me going forward, Chris had written.

  He replied quickly to Chris, eager to prove his value to his new client. That the guy was marrying Julia’s sister in a month didn’t even factor into his decision. Because he wasn’t thinking about Julia, not as he walked past security, responding to a note, not as he found his driver while answering another email, and certainly not as he slid into the backseat of a town car that would zip him into the city.

  Then he saw a new email land in his inbox. From her. The subject line gave nothing away: Hi. But Pavlovian response kicked in, and he opened it before he could think. Because seeing her name still felt like a damn good thing, still held the promise of a sexy note, a naughty line, or a sweet nothing. But more than any of those options, it held the promise of her.

  from: [email protected]

  to: [email protected]

  date: April 25, 4:08 AM

  subject: Hi

  Clay,

  Hi. I’m lying awake in bed thinking of last night. How only 24 hours ago you were here with me. How much better it was to sleep with your arms around me, all safe and warm and snug. How much I would love to have you here again. But I know that won’t happen. And I understand. I truly understand. If I were you, I would hate me too. If I were you, I’d be suspicious as hell. And I probably wouldn’t trust me either. So I get 100 percent where you’re coming from and I wish there were another way. I want you in my life so badly that I can feel this ache where you’re supposed to be. But I know I can’t have you, and I’m sorry I can’t be open right now. You deserve more than this. More than me. All I will say is this sucks, and if I could turn back time and do certain things over there’s a lot I would change.

  But I wouldn’t change a second with you.

  Wow. I just re-read my note. I think that’s the mushiest I’ve ever been with anyone. Damn, you did a number on me, and I’ve got it bad for you. I’m hitting send while I still have the guts in me to do so, even though I will probably regret it. Except this is all true.

  Xoxo

  Julia

  He dropped his head in his hand, and cursed. A wave of frustration and longing rolled through him, and he knew he should turn the damn phone off and ignore her. But this woman, she was under his skin. He hated lies but he’d be lying to himself if he pretended he’d forgotten her in a day.

  from: [email protected]

  to: [email protected]

  date: April 25, 7:12 AM

  subject: Hi

  I don’t hate you. The farthest thing from it.

  He hit send before the regret washed over him, as it eventually would, he was sure.

  * * *

  By the end of the day he wasn’t feeling much. He was riding at the perfect levels of blankness. A day in the trenches had done wonders for him, and a night at the gym would drain him of any residual feelings that threatened to resurface.

  The next day he did the same, burying himself in business, making sure every T was crossed and I dotted, that points were won, and clients weren’t just making more money, they were being protected in their business deals. His job was a hell of a lot more than wringing more dollars from networks, studios and producers. It was checking out the fine print, making sure clients were looked out for when it came to two, three, four years down the road in a deal.

  His days followed that pattern for the next week, and the regular routine of work, gym, business drinks or dinner, sleep, then rinse, lather, repeat the next day turned Julia into a hazy blur in the rearview mirror. Soon, she’d migrated to the back of his mind, and the fact that she’d been relocated there pleased him immensely. A few more days of supreme focus and she would be a distant blip on the horizon.

  At seven-thirty on the dot on a Wednesday night, he left his office and headed for Times Square, threading his way through the crowds of tourists in their I Love NY sweat-shirts and Property of NYFD nylon jackets, with pretzels and hot dogs in hand, as they snapped photos of the neon signs and the famous intersection. He walked past the St. James Theater, tapping once on the poster for Crash the Moon, feeling a surge of pride for that show’s quick success. His friend Davis had directed it, and it had become a smash hit in the first month alone, playing to packed houses every single night.

  He crossed the street, dodging a cab stalled in traffic, as he made his way to the bright lights of the Shubert Theater where Liam was playing the Kevin Spacey character in The Usual Suspects. Michele waited outside the theater lobby, smiling when she spotted him, and Clay took some comfort in the reliability of a friend like her. She’d been here through the years, always available for a drink, always willing to chat, or to see a movie or show. She was a good one, steady, dependable, and patently honest. A warm feeling rushed over him with the reminder that there were people you could trust implicitly. She would never dance around the truth.

  “Hey you,” she said, waving her fingers, and then giving him a quick kiss on each cheek.

  “Are we French now?”

  “Of course,” she said playfully. “We’ll grab baguettes and sip espresso after the curtain call.”

  “That’d be nice,” he said, as they walked into the theater and he handed two tickets to the usher who led them down the aisle to some of the best seats in
the house.

  Michele raised an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

  “Like this is a surprise? We always get the best seats. Your brother is a Tony-winning director,” Clay said, gesturing for Michele to take her seat.

  “I know. And I don’t ever take that for granted. And you,” she said, wrapping her hand around his arm, and leaning in close, “are the man behind the scenes who makes this stuff happen, too.”

  He waved off the compliment. He wasn’t in the business for compliments. “Tell me about your day,” he said, and listened as she shared the little details that she could, not breaking any client confidentiality but talking in general terms about her work listening to the woes of others as one of New York’s finest shrinks. Her voice was calming and soothing, so he barely noticed that she’d kept her hand on his forearm the whole time.

  When the curtain rose at the start of the play, she stayed like that, palm wrapped around him. A few minutes into the first act, he almost asked her to move her hand, but then it wasn’t really bothering him, and they were old friends. Even if they’d kissed once back in college, it didn’t matter that she was touching him, shifting closer. Her shoulder was brushing his by the time the cast took their bows. She smelled nice, he thought. Some flowery scent to her hair, maybe jasmine? He’d never noticed it before.

  “Did you like the play?” he asked as the theater rang with cheers for the actors.

  “Loved it.”

  “Never gets old, does it? Even when you know it’s coming, the Keyser Soze reveal.”

  “It’s a brilliant twist,” she said, agreeing.

  “I need to go see Liam.” He gestured to the backstage entrance. “You gonna come along?”

  “Of course.”

  Once backstage, Liam greeted him with a clap on the back and a hearty hug.

  “Nice work. You were better than Spacey,” Clay said.

  Liam beamed and pointed his index finger at Clay. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Then he turned to Michele. “And who is the lovely lady on your arm tonight?”