Red Blooded Murder. Laura Caldwell

laughed. “No, sweetheart, that’s a year. TV pays crap. You should know that. You’ve negotiated the contracts.”

      “But I’m a lawyer,” I said.

      “You’d be an analyst and a reporter now.”

      Just out of principle, I considered saying no. I was a lawyer; I was worth more than that. But the fact was, unless I could find entertainment law work, I was worth almost nothing. I knew nothing else, understood no other legal specialties. I’d been job hunting for months, and trying to make the best of the downtime—visiting the Art Institute, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Museum of Science and Industry and just about every other museum or landmark Chicago had to offer. But, depressingly, there was no entertainment work up for grabs in the city. Though most Chicago actors and artists started with local lawyers, when they hit it big, they often took their legal work to the coasts. The lawyers who’d had it for years wisely hoarded the business that remained. And, months ago, after the dust had settled after the scandal with Sam, Forester’s company had decided to use attorneys from another firm, saying they needed a fresh start and a chance to work with someone new. I couldn’t blame them, but it had left me in the cold. My bank statement had an ever-decreasing balance, teetering toward nothing. I hadn’t minded the lack of funds so badly when I couldn’t buy new spring clothes, but soon I wouldn’t be able to pay my mortgage, and that would be something else altogether.

      For the first time in my adult life I was flying without a net. Fear nibbled at my insides, crept its way into my brain. I was buzzing with apprehension. But the job offer from Jane was a ray of calm, clean sunshine breaking through the murky depths of my nerves.

      I knew, as the negotiator I used to be, that I should ask Jane a lot of other questions—What would the hours be? What was the insurance like? But in addition to needing the money, I needed—desperately needed—something new in my life.

      So I leaned forward, meeting Jane’s gaze and those mauve-blue eyes, and said, “I’ll do it.”

      2

      When we left the Park Hyatt, Jane told the waiter where to meet us, and three hours later, when he walked in the club, Jane and I were surrounded by five other guys.

      I was talking to one in particular, a tattooed twenty-one-year-old with shiny, light brown hair that fell halfway to his shoulders. He knew Jane—they’d met at a party a year ago—and he strolled up to us within moments of arriving. But it was me he was talking to, and although he was way too young for me, he was so pretty in such a big, strong kind of way, I couldn’t tell him to beat it.

      “Theo Jameson,” he said, when we first met. He reached for my hand, shook it, squeezed it, then held it … and held it. He smiled at me as if he had been waiting to see me for a long, long time. “Great hair.” His chin—strong and tanned—jutted toward the top of my head. But his eyes didn’t move from mine.

      “Thanks.” I pulled my hand away, patted my head idiotically. My hair had a life of its own. When the gods smiled, which was infrequent, it corkscrewed into perfect spirals. Most of the time, like now, it twisted prettily in some places and frizzed about in others, and the result was a long tangle of orange-red curls.

      The club was on Damen—lounge-ish and made to look like a French salon. Apparently Jane went there frequently and knew the manager, and even though we’d had too many celebratory glasses of wine earlier, she’d convinced me to stop in with her and “say hello.” She needed to cut loose, she said. She’d been working for a month straight, and she’d be in rehearsals all weekend. In days of yore, I would have declined, and then I would have skidded over to Sam’s place and crawled in bed with him. I would have woken him up with a few select kisses up his thighs—I loved those thighs, dusted with gold-blond hair. Back when I was with Sam, I would never have known such lounge-ish salons existed. But now was a different time, and there was something about Jane that made it very, very hard to say no.

      Theo and I started talking. When he told me his favorite meal was champagne and mussels, I was mildly interested. When he told me he ran a company that made Web design software, and that his clients included a bunch of Fortune 500 companies, I was intrigued, but not sure I bought it.

      Two of his friends were standing nearby at the time. From the very few words they spoke, they seemed younger than Theo. One wore a T-shirt that read Objects Are SMALLER Than They Appear. I stared at that shirt. Being a decade older than him, was I somehow missing the joke? Or was the slogan what I thought it was—an odd, thinly veiled reference to the kid’s small penis?

      “Come sit,” Jane said, herding Theo and me to a large, round powder-blue booth. Two guys were already sitting there. Jane gestured at them. “Writers,” she said. “They write books.” She mentioned their names, but with the jazzy, club music pumping loud, I couldn’t make them out.

      We all shook hands. One of the writers was an attractive guy with thick, prematurely gray hair that contrasted with his youthful, tanned face.

      “How are you?” he asked me, after all the hand shaking. He had the kind of eyes that looked right into yours, not necessarily in a romantic way, just a way that was truly interested, that was keen to other people.

      “I’m great. Jane just offered me a job at Trial TV.”

      “Really?” His eyebrows rose. “Congrats.”

      “Yeah, congrats,” the other writer said. He had blond hair and a shy smile.

      Theo slid into the booth and began talking to the writers, but Jane held me back. “Theo is the real deal,” she said. “Started this software company while he was in high school. Went to Stanford on a full-ride scholarship but he dropped out after a year. Making millions upon millions now.”

      I looked over my shoulder at him. “He’s so young.”

      “Who cares?”

      I changed the topic. “How do you know the writers?”

      Jane shrugged. “I’ve met the one with the tan once before. Something about him intrigues me.” She playfully shoved me into the booth. “Someone needs to buy me a drink,” she said loudly to the group.

      Ten minutes after we sat down, Theo’s buddies joined us, and ten minutes after that, the waiter walked in, looking unsure in his black jeans, his hair newly wet and combed back. He saw Jane and me packed into that leather banquette with five men and shook his head as if to say, Nooooooo.

      “Jane!” I called toward the end of the banquette, gesturing at the waiter as he began to walk away, but she was engrossed in a conversation with the two writers.

      I tried to move around Theo, but he glanced from me to the waiter and then put his arms on the table, blocking me. “If you think I’m letting you get up to talk to some other guy, you’re wrong.” He leaned closer, his sleek hair brushing my cheek. “Sorry. I don’t want to be pushy, but I’m into you.” His last few words hushed themselves into my ear. And just like that, I forgot about the waiter.

      Vodka bottles came and left the table, wine bottles disappeared even faster. I went to check my watch at one point. I thought I caught a glimpse of well past midnight, but Theo covered the watch with his hand. “It’s Friday, remember? There’s all sorts of time on Friday night.”

      “You’re right. I have lots of time,” I said, quite tipsy by then and thinking I might be philosophical. “And I used to have no time. I mean, I used to be inundated. Work and billable hours and an assistant and clients and a wedding and—” I thought of Sam “—and people. But now, I have all sorts of time. My time is empty, my time is …” I died away, trying to come up with something profound and falling short. I closed my mouth. If there was one thing I’d learned as a lawyer it was when to shut up.

      But then I remembered my time wasn’t empty anymore. Monday morning, I’d start as an analyst for Jane. Even sooner, tomorrow afternoon, I’d meet with John Mayburn to consider working another case with him.

      Mayburn was a private