Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (12 page)

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From:
Emily Stone

To:
Leo Conrad
 

Subject:
RE: Alexis

Instantly delete this?
 

And miss an opportunity to tell you to go fuck yourself?

No way in hell.

P.S. Go fuck yourself.

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From:
Leo Conrad

To:
Emily Stone

Subject:
RE: Alexis

My mistake. I forgot I was communicating with a child.

Trust me, you're the last person in the world I want to talk to right now. Or ever. Yet here I am.

Let's cut to the chase. I'm going to assume a few things:

1. You are coming to town for Christmas.
 

2. You know what happened between Alexis and me.

3. You want your sister to be happy.

4. You know that she can be with me.

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From:
Emily Stone

To:
Leo Conrad

Subject:
Recap: Fuck off and die

I forgot I was communicating with an arrogant, self-absorbed pretty boy.

1. Did you really just make a numbered list?
 

2. You broke my sister's heart.

3. And so she hates you.

4. And so I hate you.

5. The best thing you can do is to forget anything happened between the two of you because trust me, she's way over you.

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From:
Leo Conrad

To:
Emily Stone

Subject:
 
RE: Recap: Fuck off and die

I hate that I have no idea what to use as bait to lure a vicious man-eater to meet with me.

What is it, anyway—your bait? Is it man blood?
 

I'm O-Negative.

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From:
Emily Stone

To:
Leo Conrad

Subject:
RE: Recap: Fuck off and die

Trust me, I'm the last person in the world you want to meet with. Because I can't guarantee I won't drive my very sharp heel into your crotch and puncture your balls—that is, if you even have any.
 

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From:
Leo Conrad

To:
Emily Stone

Subject:
 
RE: Recap: Fuck off and die

I honestly don't care if you like me or not. I don't get the sense that you are the sensitive type so here's the truth: the feeling is mutual. You may not like me, but this isn't about you and me. It's about Alexis.

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From:
Emily Stone

To:
Leo Conrad

Subject:
RE: Recap: Fuck off and die

I'm sure you miss her, blah blah. Want her back, blah, blah.
 

But it's time to own up to your shit, Leo.
 

You lost her. Now go after something that suits you, something cheap and easy. From what I've heard, you've got that department covered.

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From:
Leo Conrad

To:
Emily Stone

Subject:
Truce?

Here's the truth. I am in love with your sister. Insanely in love. Every second she slips further away from me feels like I'm losing a part of myself.
 

All I want is to make Alexis happy.
 

Please, hear me out.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Truce, my ass.

Lex and I spend the rest of the weekend together. I don't mention the emails and decide not to give Leo Conrad another thought. Lex's office is closed for the holidays and she won't have to see him until after New Year's. By then, I'm positive, she'll have gotten over him enough to where he'll be just a small splinter in her ass.

My sister treats me to a pedicure at a salon. It's my first time, since I usually couldn't care less about the color of my toenails. But to my pleasant surprise, the process involves so much more than I expected. It's not simple, mere nail painting. Oh, no. This is a goddamn experience. Why did no one ever mention the massage chair?

There're freaking industrial strength rods in there kneading all the muscles in my back as the salon woman massages me all the way up to my calves before layering on a mask that smells faintly of spearmint. I can't keep a straight face. I'm certain this chair is seducing me.
 

"Do you like it?" Lex asks from the chair beside me, laughing at the way my eyes threaten to roll into the back of my head.
 

"I need one of these. Holy hell, this is what I call a back massage."

"No kidding," she says, "I try to come every two weeks. But, I haven't been in for a while…." She trails off, then shifts and looks away, uncomfortable. I guess what's kept her away is she and Leo screwing like rabbits.

To distract her from thoughts of the asshole, I tell Lex about Owen. This topic peaks her interest, as I knew it would. She leans into my words as I describe how hard he is to read. I go on describing his appearance in obnoxious detail and even go as far as making a cupping gesture in midair, squeezing an imaginary ass. Then I throw my head back as though the description is getting me riled up and I let out a frustrated groan. "I want him so bad, you have no idea."

"I mean, since when are you shy about going after what you want?" Lex asks.

"I'm in no way shy—"

"Don't act like you're an innocent. We all know that ship has sailed. It sailed and it was ransacked by pirates, and those pirates burned it down…"
 

My sister erupts into a fit of self-indulgent snickering and while it's nice to see her laughing, I look on, glaring playfully. "It's not that. Trust me."

"What is it then?" she asks, rearranging her face to innocent curiosity.

"I'm not sure. It's like we're doing this seductive dance around the bush." I wave my arms around to demonstrate, ignoring the bewildered look the woman painting my toenails gives me. "All primal, caveman like. You know, daring each other to—"

"Screw the other's brain's out?" Lex offers.

"Well, yeah."

"Okay, so I get that you obviously like him. But what happens when you leave town? Do you really want to get caught up in a long distance thing?"

"Well…no."

"Just…" She hesitates. "Keep your focus on what's important. A man is never what's important."

I know she's right. San Francisco is where my future is. But where I'll be in the coming weeks doesn't change where I am now.
 

It doesn't change how I
feel
now.
 

I can't deny the real force pulling me back to the diner. It's not the food. It's not the ambiance. It's Owen. This mysterious, guarded man making me wish I had a way to access hints of his thoughts.
 

I know I shouldn't be curious. I shouldn't wonder what his body looks like lit from behind by the glow of a lamp, glistening with sweat as he handles me in all the ways I suspect he can.
 

What I should be doing is pulling my life together. Simplifying. Not lusting after potentially complicated things.
 

I know this. I do. But, dammit, I still want him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I'm hung-over Monday morning, forgetting my sister will be there when I wake up. Having her off work for the holidays is an adjustment to the previous week when I had the condo to myself during the day. She makes another remark about me drinking too much and tasks me with helping her wrap Christmas presents. I don't get to sneak away to the diner for breakfast like I wanted, opting, instead, for helping my sister run errands.
 

Early Tuesday morning, I wake up to an unexpected call from the law firm that agreed to interview me after the holidays.
 

"A change?" I clutch the telephone tighter and try to keep my voice even. "May I ask what's changed?"

The woman on the phone, who isn't Janie—the one I originally spoke with—stays vague. Says there's been a misunderstanding. The interview is off.

They were perfectly interested in me just a few days ago. The change of heart is curious and, if my suspicions are correct, I'm in deep, deep shit.

Calling the dozen or so firms I've sent job applications to takes a surprisingly short period of time. Each call is almost identical, lasting two to three minutes. By the fourth one, I've got the steps memorized like a choreographed dance.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Receptionist's greeting, professional, distant. I ask for the status of my application and am asked to hold. Papers shuffling. Receptionist's voice returns, audibly awkward, as though glimpsing an embarrassing note on the file.
 

From then on there's a variation of responses.
 

"We apologize, we are no longer accepting applications for this position," and "Your application did not make the first round of reviews," and "Thank you for your interest but you are not in consideration at this time."

With each call, the disbelief, dread, and anger braid into themselves in the pit of my stomach.
 

I make one last call.

"Bernstein, Snyder and Associates, this is Mona."

"I need you to tell me what's going on, please."

A pause.

"Emily?"

"Just tell me."

Background noise trickles through the receiver but when her voice returns, it's slightly isolated. Like she's cupping a hand over where her lips meet the phone.

"Davenport dropped Bernstein."

"Because of me?"

"I don't think so. He came in the day after your meeting. Seemed fine. Even asked for you."

"What the hell for?"

"Said he wanted to apologize for being…uh, I forget the term he used. But it's like he didn't know his girlfriend put in the complaint—" As if on cue, the phone rings on her end. Mona puts me on hold; my hand tightens over the metal body of my cellphone until she returns. "Sorry, I really can't talk right now. But the gist of the story is, he and Bernstein got into it. Not sure what it was about, but the two never really liked each other, so honestly, this has been a long time coming."

"But Bernstein blames me?"

"Yes."

"I want to talk to him. Bernstein, I mean. Put me through."

"Emily…"

"Please?"

Mona exhales into the phone. "Okay, but I can't guarantee he'll want to talk to you."

Her voice cuts out to the 'hold' sound. A loop of three beeps followed by a brief silence. I shut my eyes and gather my thoughts.

"This is Bernstein."

My eyes fly open at the coarse voice, the bored tone. I was sure I'd be sent to his voicemail. Clearing my throat, I begin. "This is Emily Stone. I'm sorry for the way I behaved. It was unprofessional of me. I know. But I'm trying to move past that. Bernstein, I'm not asking for a reference, I'm just asking that you don't sabotage my job-hunting efforts."

"Sabotage?" His voice is slick and disingenuous. "What are you talking about?"

"I—" The anger I've been struggling to keep down closes around my neck, squeezing tight. "You're blacklisting me. That's what I'm talking about. Blacklisting, by the way, is slander. Defamation. It's illegal."

"I am well aware of what's within the scope of the law, Ms. Stone. I'm also aware of what can be plausibly proven."

I shut my eyes.

A casual conversation he may have with some other firm's partner about the crazy associate who told Collin Davenport to 'choke on a dick' wouldn't be recorded anywhere. This wouldn't, technically be libel. But Bernstein's not just having casual conversations with friends. I'm positive he's making sure my application is rejected by every firm I apply to. How he's done this in just under a week, I have no idea. But it just goes to show his actions are deliberate enough.
 

Sabotage.

Bernstein's blacklisting me and he knows it. The problem is, I have no way to prove this. He'd be smart enough to cover his tracks which, for me, means no real chance at fighting him on it. Other firms' partners would protect him—thank him, even, for warning them away from the troublemaker associate.

I don't realize how long the silence stretched until Bernstein voice comes to my ear again, tone dripping with the smirk he is undoubtedly wearing. "Will that be all, Ms. Stone?"
 

I hang up and my arm jerks from under me, hurling the phone across the room. It bounces off of the opposite wall of the living room and crashes to the floor.
 

Cursing under my breath, I run over to make sure I didn't break it. The last thing I need is to delve out the money for a new phone. The phone is still functional, surviving my vicious attack for the most part. Except the glass screen now has a crack creeping halfway into it from the edge. Okay. I deserve that. And anyway, it felt pretty damn good.
 

Setting the phone down on the coffee table, I sit on the edge of the couch.
 

What a mess.
 

I'm under no delusion bringing Bernstein into a civil suit could give me anything but more problems. Even if I won, I'd lose. Because after it's all said and done, all I'd be doing is becoming a martyr for a cause that isn't going away. Blacklisting won't suddenly be a thing of the past. Firms in the area won't then feel inclined to hire me. I don't want to disappear into the wayside, blend away before my career really begins. There has to be another way. Some way that I can move out from under Bernstein's reach.

Options tick past the forefront of my mind like credits at the end of a movie. Firms are closing today or tomorrow for Christmas. The holidays stagnate everything and everyone; the world slows and churns to the same tune of enforced ignorant bliss.
 

I'm marooned on an island of twinkling pine trees, unable to do a damn thing about my situation until after Christmas. More than likely, not until after the New Year.
 

Needing to vent, I call Amelia. She's at work, of course, but gives me a solid three minutes to spew out profanities in the name of my vindictive ex-boss. As I speak, I fix myself another cup of coffee. My line of sight shifts without reason and lands on the bottle of vodka cradled between the bottles of wine on the counter.