The Spark

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 5

Donovan

 

I sat at my desk with a business card between my fingers, turning it over and over, lost in thought. I didn’t even notice that Juliette had walked in until she planted her ass in one of my chairs.

“Tu en fais une tête,” she said.

“Nah. I’m not in the mood for a handjob. Thanks anyway.”

She laughed. “Why the long face, my friend?”

“Just thinking about a case.”

Juliette was originally from France, but we’d started as summer interns at the firm together, along with Trent and twelve others. The three of us had been the only ones hired that fall, and we’d been tight ever since. She and Trent spent a lot of time talking about their love lives, or lack of, usually—analyzing why their relationships never seemed to work out. I’d comment and give my opinions, but it wasn’t often that we scrutinized my dating life, because for the most part, I’d been relatively happy with how my non-relationships worked out. Today, though, I thought I could use a woman’s opinion…

“Let me ask you something—do you have a type?”

“In men?”

I nodded. “Either in looks or personality?”

“I do. I tend to be attracted to losers.”

I gri

“Unfortunately, I’m not joking. I’m attracted to the artsy type—painters, sculptors, writers—most of whom are unemployed half the time.”

“What attracts you to them?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I love that they wear their heart on their sleeves. Artist types tend to be in touch with their emotions and care about things I care about, like the environment and social justice. I find a man who’s passionate about things that don’t necessarily make him money very sexy.”

“What about physically?”

“You’ve met guys I’ve dated. They’re usually thin with a hippy kind of earthy look—sort of like you’re not quite sure if they might be homeless or not.” She looked me up and down. “Basically the opposite of you, pretty boy. But why are you asking me this?”

“I’m trying to figure out how a woman could date me and then a total asshole.”

She smirked. “Aren’t those the same thing?”

I wadded up a piece of paper from my desk and threw it at her.

She laughed and caught it. “What’s going on with you? Spill the beans, Decker.”

I sighed. “Do you remember me telling you about Autumn?”

“Sure. The woman you spent an entire celibate weekend with and fell for because she didn’t give it up and dumped you before you could dump her?”

I rolled my eyes. She sounded like Trent. “That’s not why I liked her. But whatever—I don’t have time to debate it. I still need to bill twelve more hours today, and there’s only six hours left. Anyway, I ran into her.”

“Oh, wow. How’d that go?”

I frowned. “She told me she hadn’t left me her number because she wasn’t looking for more than we had.”

“Ouch.”

I shook my head. “But our chemistry is still there.”

“Sounds like she’s just not into a relationship, then.”

“That’s the thing. She’s seeing someone now.”

“Maybe you caught her when she was going through something.”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Did you get her number anyway?”

I held up the business card still in my hand. “She’s the social worker on a pro bono case for a minor who was arrested. So she gave it to me for business, not exactly because she wants me to take her out.”

“Okay… I’m still lost on where we started this conversation. Is Autumn the woman who’s dating the asshole?”

I nodded.

“You met him? He was with her?”

“No, he wasn’t with her. But I’ve definitely met him.” I looked her straight in the eyes. “She’s dating Blake Dickson.”

Juliette’s eyes narrowed. “The Blake Dickson? Like, as in one of the partners whose vote you need to make partner?”

I blew out a deep breath. “One and the same.”

 

***

 

That night, I decided to take a detour on my way home from work. I was a little overdressed for the neighborhood I’d be going to, so I removed my tie and shoved it into my pocket—not that it was going to make me stand out any less as I roamed the streets after I got off the subway.

The looks I got as I walked down the sidewalk were pretty amusing—half the people eyed me like they were considering stealing my wallet, and the other half scattered like cockroaches, assuming the guy in the dark suit was probably a narc.

I found Dario exactly where I’d left him eleven years ago: sitting on his stoop four doors down from where I’d once lived. It was almost eleven o’clock at night, but you wouldn’t know it from all the people hanging around.

“Oh, shit.” He stood and smiled. “What the hell are you wearing? Did you lose a bet?”

We shook hands in a way no one around the office ever did—a series of shakes and bumps ending in a one-shoulder guy hug.

“This is how men who don’t live in the same building as their mothers dress, shit for brains.”

He shook his head. I was just busting chops, and he knew it. Dario had never left because his mother refused to leave the apartment she’d been in for more than forty years. She was confined to a wheelchair, and he would always stick close to take care of her.

He looked around at his buddies, most of whom I’d never seen before. “Anyone got a hankie? My boy here probably doesn’t want to sit on a dirty stoop.”

I laughed. “I don’t. So whadda you say we take a walk around the block?”

He nodded and told his buddies he’d be back, that he needed to walk me back to the train so I wouldn’t get mugged.

Once we were out of earshot, I said, “How’s Rosa

“Mom’s doing alright. You remember old man Stimpson?”

“Of course. He decapitated that big snowman we spent hours building after that crazy snowstorm we had when we were seven or eight.”

Dario smirked. “That’s right. I pretended my mom sent me down to borrow sugar or something and stole his corncob pipe. How can you make a snowman without a pipe?”

I laughed. “What about Stimpson? Something happen to him?”

“Nah. He’s still kicking around. But he comes and spends time with my mom a few times a week. His old lady died a few years back. Mom says he’s her special friend.”

“No shit? Your mom is stooping Stimpson?”

Dario punched me. “You don’t want me to mess up that suit, do you?”

I chuckled. “Good for Rosa

“Poor little bastard…”

“Yeah, no shit.” I smiled. “Any chance you know a guy they call Sugar?”

“Sure. He’s a pharma over on Lyme Street.”

Pharma was short for pharmacist, which meant he was a local drug dealer. I knew that much already since Storm had admitted the truth about their fight.

“Know anything else about him?”

“I know he used to rough up his old lady. She’s got three older brothers, and they paid him a little visit. The next day both his arms were in casts from shoulder to wrist.”

I was glad he was an asshole and not a friend of Dario’s. “Who’s he work for?”

“I’m assuming what we’re talking about here is between us? I don’t mind if you jam him up, but I don’t want my name getting out as no snitch.”

“Of course not. I might dress like one, but I’m not a total douchebag.”

Dario snickered. “Sugar works for Eddie D., who works for the Big Man.”