Savannah chuckles. “If you’re using a word like
legitimate
, Cass, you clearly already know as much about him
as I do.”
“We met recently,” I say. “He’s an
acquaintance of Jamie’s.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, you should tell Jamie to
acquaint himself carefully. You, too,” she says. “Ryder’s
not putting him in the ring, is he?”
“What ring?”
“It’s sort of an open secret that when he’s not a
nightlife impresario,” she says, “Ryder Cole also runs
the underground fight scene.”
“Like boxing?”
“Exactly like boxing,” Savannah says. “Just without
the gloves, head gear, or rules. Bare knuckles.”
Ryder Cole likes it rough. I might have guessed.
“What’s the name of his new place?” I say, setting
the swing in motion again. Night has set in and the fireflies are
out, their greenish-yellow bulbs flashing in the blackness of the
back yard.
“I think it’s called Altitude,” Savannah says. “And
you better not fucking go there without me.”
“Who can
wait for you?” I say, laughing. “You work til eight
o’clock at night.”
“Fucking entertainment law. I should have been a tax attorney,
I swear, but I’m too damn good-looking,” she says, and I
laugh again. It feels so nice to have this conversation with
Savannah, like nothing’s changed in the last two years—even
though so much has. “You’re not rushing back to your
British babe too soon, are you?”
“No rush at all,” I say. It doesn’t tell the whole
story, but it’s not untrue either.
“Good,” she says. “Let’s get together this
week in person. I’ve really missed you, Cass.”
“Me, too,” I say, leaning into the back of the swing,
bringing my knees under my chin as I sway lazily. Having a friend to
talk to, feeling the warm, humid air on my bare arms and legs,
listening to the crickets make their hopeful mating call—it’s
good to be home.
My home. Our home—Jamie’s and mine. Not Ryder Cole’s,
no matter what.
He’s not the only one who knows how to manage a fight.
CASSIE
My
first impression of Altitude is that it’s warm and relaxed and
feels like the kind of place that’s been in the neighborhood
for a hundred years, where you can have a fun girls’ night on a
Friday and then come back on Sunday to recap the weekend. It’s
inviting and spacious but cozy—basically the opposite of Ryder
Cole, so when I come looking for him the day after Savannah fills me
in on his extracurricular activities, I’m still not convinced
he owns this place. Standing in the entryway in my short, flowy
sundress—when you haven’t really had a job for two years,
“business casual” becomes a fluid term—I let my
eyes adjust to the dimness of the space as the white, mid-afternoon
sunlight squeezes through the slatted blinds. There’s a jukebox
in the corner playing Johnny Cash, and a few people at a nearby table
sharing a flatbread pizza that makes my stomach grumble with
jealousy.
Heading toward the bartender working behind the long, wooden bar, I
take in all the black and white press photos from the
Atlanta
Journal-Constitution
hung on the walls, dated from the first and
middle parts of the last century: beautiful women in 40s party
dresses; Peachtree Street covered in snow; white college students
dancing while a black five-piece band plays in a nightclub. It lends
the bar atmosphere this kind of intimacy, as though Altitude is
connected to Atlanta’s history, that everything that ever
happened in this city has led me here to this moment today. Like
trying to get Ryder Cole to call off Jamie’s debt is just an
inevitable conclusion to something that got started a long time ago.
Fate. Destiny. Things I don’t believe in anymore.
If I’ve learned nothing else in the past two years, it’s
that no one else is responsible for my life other than me. I make
things happen. It’s that simple.
The bartender puts down the glass he’s drying as I approach.
Tall and muscular, he’s lankier than Ryder, clean-shaven, hair
combed and parted on the side, his strong forearms on full display in
his rolled up shirt sleeves. He’s good-looking, and his easy,
leaned-back posture says one thing: he knows it. “What would
you like?” he says. “Other than me, of course.”
I smile in spite of myself. “I’m looking for Ryder.”
The bartender nods over his left shoulder, toward a hallway that ends
at a closed office door. “He’s in the back.” He
rests on his elbows, leaning toward me. “But trust me,”
he says, cocking an eyebrow. “I can give you whatever you
need.”
I grip my side of the bar, pitching myself forward enough that our
faces are only inches apart. “You just did,” I whisper.
“Thanks.”
I stand in front of the unmarked door at the dark end of the hallway,
knowing Ryder’s behind it. I take the knob in my hand, imagine
barging in, giving him a taste of his own medicine, but then decide
that just because he’s an unmannered tyrant doesn’t mean
I have to be, too. I knock at the door three times. No answer.
Three more. Nothing.
Well, who needs manners when there’s business to be discussed?
I open the door.
As in the bar, the blinds are closed, the light soft and dim. There’s
a small lamp on a desk, stacked high with papers. Ryder’s tall,
imposing frame leans over them, his hands steadying himself on the
desk’s edge. He looks up as I enter, surprised, it seems, to
see me, his full lips pursed, blue eyes narrowed. And definitely,
definitely piercing.
“I didn’t say come in,” he says.
“You didn’t lock the door either.”
“What do you want?” he says. His voice is gruffer than
the other night but hearing it again makes my heart race and my skin
warm, like my body hasn’t put aside the thing my mind had to
forget to get me here today: Ryder Cole is dangerously hot. Emphasis
on
danger
. And I’d be a fool to forget it.
I smooth down the skirt of my sundress. Inhale. “Figured we had
some unfinished business from the other night.”
He walks around the side of the desk, then perches himself on the
edge in front of me. Under his black blazer, his white button up
shirt has just enough buttons undone to be endlessly eye-catching,
but even more distracting is the way his dark jeans hug his pelvis in
all the right places. “You want more where that came from?”
I take a long blink, wanting to smack that smug smile off his face,
but maybe wanting more not to blush. “I want to talk about my
brother.”
“Unless you have ten thousand in cash hiding somewhere under
that dress,” he says, his gaze trickling from my face down my
breasts, my waist, my bare legs, “I don’t think there’s
more to discuss.”
“Fighting or betting?” I say.
His mouth hitches into a half smile. “Is that an offer?”
“Jamie’s debt,” I say, crossing my arms. “Is
it from fighting or betting?”
Ryder pauses, cocks his head at me. “Are you wearing a wire?”
“What?”
He takes me by the waist and pulls me to him, standing me between his
slightly open legs. “Are you wearing,” he says, his hands
running up and down my ribs, “a wire?” His fingers trail
down to my hips and just below my breasts, crossing over my back, my
abdomen, generating a heat that seems to radiate through every part
of my body and pulse between my legs. I force myself to glare at
him.
“No.”
“Alright,” he says, looking at me, his hands still
gripping my midriff. “I’ve learned it never hurts to
ask.”
“Did you pick up that tip in business school or jail?”
“Neither one, tiger,” he says. “I’m a
self-made man.”
“Made from what? The mistakes of people like my brother?”
“I earned everything I have,” he says. “Unlike your
brother who wants to take what isn’t his.”
“Like you want to take our house?” My anger rises,
unbidden, and he seems to consider it before he replies.
“I don’t want to take your house,” he says, his
fingers soft but light on my ribcage. “But that’s just
business. Your brother should have explained this before he asked you
to come do his dirty work for him.”
“Jamie doesn’t know I’m here,” I say. “I
don’t even know where he is.”
He cocks his head, his eyes narrowing. “You expect me to
believe that?”
“You can believe whatever you want,” I say. I widen the
stance of my legs a little, just enough that they push against his.
“But that’s the truth.”
He
taps his fingers against me, contemplating. “Well, wherever
he’s hiding, a bet’s a bet,” he says. “And a
debt’s a debt.”
So
the answer to my earlier question:
betting
. At least Jamie’s
not getting the shit beat out of him. Small favors.
“Maybe the police would be interested to hear about all your
success,” I say.
“They might,” he says. “But I think they know it
all already. In fact, a lot of them were there to see it happen.”
“So I guess you just know everyone and everything.”
“Not everything,” he says, working my hipbones lightly
between his thumb and forefinger, the sensation not searching this
time, but seeking, a tease of a touch. I know I should tell him to
stop, but I don’t want him to. “I don’t know your
name.”
“Why
should I tell you my name?” I say.
“I
want to make sure I use the right one when I’m alone in bed
later.”
“I
find it hard to believe you go to bed alone.”
“What
are you proposing?” he says as I feel a vibration on my leg.
It’s nearly unnoticeable at first since my whole body seems to
be vibrating from the sensation of being this close to Ryder again,
until I realize it’s his phone, tucked in his jean pocket.
Leaving
one hand casually draped on my hip, he pulls out the phone with the
other. “Yeah?” he says into it.
While
he takes the call, I take in the state of affairs on the desk behind
him. If there’s an organizing principle here, I can’t
determine it. There’s a balance sheet next to a pile of
invoices, a handful of receipts that seem to be in no particular
order, a list of one-word names—“Miller” and
“Crutcher”—in a date book with a system of check
marks and minuses.
I
wonder if the names are fighters. And if they are, I worry about what
the minuses mean for them, or someone like Jamie, who’s putting
money on them.
“Fucking
Brightfield. Just bring all the files here,” Ryder says into
the phone. “And be discreet. I’ve already got an
accountant in handcuffs, I don’t need you next to him.”
He digs his fingers into my side as the tenor of the conversation
becomes more agitated. “Unless you became a CPA and I missed
it, there’s nothing else to do. Get here as soon as you can.”
He hangs up the call, squeezing me a little between his legs as he
runs his hands through his thick, dark hair. He tips his head back
and closes his eyes.
“Personnel
problems?” I say.
“Something
like that.”
“I
thought you knew all the cops.”
“It
wasn’t my dirty laundry he got caught with,” Ryder says.
“So
you don’t cook your books?”
“Believe
it or not, tiger,” he says, “I do follow some rules.”
He stands, and we’re so close our torsos touch as we breathe.
“Though I prefer to have other people follow mine.” His
hands brush my wrists, lingering on the inside where my pulse is,
quickening as the memory of him pressed against me the other night in
my bedroom floods my brain.
Focus,
Cass.
I
take a step back, breaking from his touch, and look up at him. “I
can do it,” I say. “I can do your books. I have an
accounting degree and I was the bookkeeper at my dad’s auto
shop. I’m good at it and I’m trustworthy. And you don’t
have to pay me. Just put it towards Jamie’s debt.”
“How sweet,” he says. “Big sis wants to save the
day.”
“He doesn’t have the money,” I say. “And I’ll
be damned if you’re taking my house.”
Ryder crosses his arms, taps his lips in contemplation. “Why
are you doing this? Protecting him?”
“He’s
my brother,” I say. “What can I say? I’m loyal.”
“If
you’re so loyal,” he says, “where were you when he
was going down this rabbit hole?”
“I was,” I
start to say, unsure of how to start this conversation so I can
finish it my way—without details. “I was away for a
little while.”
“Prison?”
he teases. I don’t smile back.
Of
a kind.
“Abroad. I was living in Europe.”
“Traveling?”
“No.”
“Modeling?”
I
laugh. “Not hardly.” I shake my head.
“Sex
work?” he says. He twists his mouth like he’s enjoying
this game. “You know, it’s legal in some countries over
there.”
“I do know,” I say, riled up again. “And
no
.”
“So,” he says, his eyes wide with amusement at my
rekindled temper, “why’d you come home?
I glare. “I just needed a change. A fresh start.”
“Wasn’t being in Europe a change?”
I put my hands on my hips. “What does this have to do with
Jamie?”
“You
know, I think you should consider whether he’d do all this for
you,” Ryder says. “Give up his fresh start to save your
ass. Because I don’t think he would. And for what it’s
worth, I don’t think it’s fair to you.”
“Being
family isn’t always about being fair,” I say.
Ryder sits in the chair on the other side of the desk, taking off his
blazer. He clasps his hands together and rests his forearms on the
desk’s edge. Through the white sleeves of the shirt, I can
start to make out the tattoos that envelop his defined arms, all the
way up his strong shoulders, this rule-breaking fighter always
lurking just below the surface of the rule-following businessman,
like a secret identity.
“Well, working for me is all about being fair,” he says.
“You should know that.”