My Enemy Next Door Page 2

  “Oh, god... Stanton...”

  Realizing I wouldn’t get away with it, I stepped back and noticed Stanton’s jacket hanging on the doorknob. His phone was peeking from the pocket, so I took it out and hit Facebook Live. Then I set it on the hallway table—giving all of his friends and his wife a perfect view of him fucking my girlfriend.

  Then I left my condo and headed for the airport. There was no use confronting people I no longer gave a fuck about anymore, and the sooner I left for New York, the better.

  There was only one woman in the world I would actually want to see again, but since I’d failed to run into her in over ten years, it was time to just focus on myself.

  I’ll send for all my shit later...

  TWO

  Courtney: Present Day

  SO, THIS IS WHAT BEING a “hot-ass mess” feels like...

  I rushed through Manhattan’s crowded sidewalks—muttering “Excuse me,” “Please excuse me,” and “Get the hell out of the way!” as I rushed toward the courthouse. Since my alarm had failed to go off this morning, my body was running on nothing but a slice of bread and a banana, and my brain was far too fried to go through my opening statement.

  My hair was frizzy—thanks to my blow dryer dying, there were coffee stains all over my cream-colored coat, and I was certain I looked more like the nerdy girl I used to be in high school than one of New York City’s newest, up-and-coming lawyers.

  I prayed like hell my boss wouldn’t be present in court today, and as I finally made it up the steps of the courthouse, I took one last look at my reflection in the windows.

  No, this is ten levels below what a “hot-ass mess” looks like.

  “Ugh...” I smoothed my hair as best I could and made my way to the courtroom at the end of the hall. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and was immediately met with stares.

  “Nice of you to finally join us this morning, Miss Ryan.” The judge rolled her eyes at me. “Now that you’ve graced us with your presence, would you mind approaching the bench with the opposing counsel?”

  “Right away, Your Honor.” I made my way down the aisle and tripped over an intern’s briefcase. I grabbed onto the edge of a seat before I couple complete a face-plant onto the floor.

  The audience in the courtroom gasped.

  My clients—two snobby teenage girls, snickered and I avoided looking at them as I approached the judge.

  “Okay, counselors,” the judge said, looking at me and the prosecutor. “As much as I enjoy my weekly dose of teenage soap-opera cases, I will not be allowing this one to become a circus. Nonetheless, it’s come to my attention that one of the girls is requesting an immediate change of counsel.”

  “Since when?” I asked, looking over my shoulder. “Neither of them ever mentioned this to me. I was just walking them through everything yesterday.”

  “Maybe if you were on time this morning they would have.” The prosecutor smiled. “For the record, I am totally onboard with allowing the girl’s boyfriend to be her new counsel, Your Honor. I find it quite endearing actually.”

  “I don’t recall asking what you thought, Counselor.” The judge chided. “I want this silly-ass case over and done with as soon as possible, and I’m not—” She paused as a guy in jeans and a sweater stepped to the bench. “May I help you with something, young man?”

  “I object to this case, Your Honor,” he said, looking dead-ass serious. “If my girlfriend says she didn’t do this, then she didn’t do this. She’s the most honest person I know.”

  The judge blinked.

  “There’s also evidence,” he said, pulling out his cell phone and holding it up for us to see. “She sent me a text of cry-face emojis last night. She only does that when she’s really upset, which is proof that she’s really sad and didn’t do this.” He put his phone into his pocket. “Since I’m going to be her lawyer now, does that mean I get paid? How does that part work?”

  The three of us gave him a blank stare.

  “Young man, get the hell away from my bench and have a seat,” the judge said. “Now.”

  His cheeks flushed red, and he walked away.

  “Look, Miss Ryan,” she said, directing her attention at me. “I’m going to give you forty-eight hours to knock some sense into your clients. Then, because I’m feeling so very generous today, I’m going to give you another twenty-four hours on top of that for you to transform into the amazing Courtney Ryan that I’ve heard so many great things about.” She looked me up and down, making me feel ten times smaller. “Unless there’s another amazing Courtney Ryan lawyer in this city somewhere.”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Seventy-two-hour recess.” She banged her gavel and stood to her feet, turning away to her chambers.

  I walked toward my clients, ready to ask them why the hell they wanted to replace me, but my boss stepped in front of me—blocking me.

  I smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and I could tell without him uttering a word that he was upset with me.

  “Can I talk to you for a few minutes, Miss Ryan?”

  “Sure, Mr. Walton.” I looked over his shoulder. “Would you mind if I addressed my clients first?”

  “They’re not your clients anymore,” he said, motioning for me to follow him out of the courtroom. “Jenna is going to pick up right where you left off. Given your impeccable notes and defense strategy, I’m sure my firm will be counting this as a win in the coming weeks.”

  I buttoned my pea-coat as we stepped out into the falling snow and toward a small coffee stand. I’d heard rumors about how Mr. Walton started each of his terminations the same way. A complimentary coffee outside the courthouse. A short lecture. An appointment to “See me in my office on Friday.”

  Swallowing my nerves, I forced a smile as he ordered two cinnamon lattes and handed one to me.

  “So,” he said, finally, staring at the stains on my coat. “Is there any particular reason why you were twenty-five minutes late to court today?”

  “I wasn’t twenty-five minutes late ... I was only fifteen minutes late.”

  “What did you just say?”

  I cleared my throat. “I had a long morning. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right, it won’t.” He sipped his coffee. “The best lawyers always beat their clients and the judge to court. They don’t make rookie mistakes, and if they’re lucky enough to work for me, they ensure that my firm always looks like the best firm. I believe I laid out these principles when I first hired you, correct?”

  I could only nod. My voice was locked in my throat.

  Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me...

  “You’ve done good work since you’ve started for me, Miss Ryan.” His eyes were on mine. “But I expect great.” He paused as a group of school kids rushed by us on the sidewalk. “Anyway, I think you need to take the next few days off. Take a few trips around the city to clear your head, and then come see me in my office on Friday. Nine o’clock.”

  “Does it have to be Friday?” I couldn’t believe this. “Like, what about Thursday instead?”

  “I much prefer Fridays for these types of things, Miss Ryan.” He smiled at me, and then he walked to his waiting town car. “I’ll see you then.”

  I watched as the driver held the door open for him, as he slipped into the backseat, and then I stood there frozen in shock as the car drove away.

  The past six months of my life suddenly flashed before my eyes and my heart began to sink at the thought of it coming to an end.

  With the exception of today, I’d never been late, never missed a beat at work. I stayed later than all the other lawyers, always arrived two hours early, and even came into the office on weekends. I lived, breathed, and ate the law all day, every day. Even though I knew I could get a job someplace else in this city, there was no firm like Walton & Associates. No firm that I’d longed to work for since I fell in love with the law at sixteen years old.

&
nbsp; Sighing, I tossed my coffee into the nearest trash can and decided to take the long way home. I cut through the freshly salted paths of Central Park, past the paved ice rink, and into my towering high rise: The Hamilton.

  I took off my boots as soon as I walked through the door and immediately called my best friend, Mila.

  “I’m buying the wine for your courtroom win as we speak!” she answered on the first ring. “Do you want white or red?”

  “Neither,” I said. “I didn’t get a win. I got fired.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me,” I said. “My boss took me off the case because I was late, and then he said he wants to see me Friday. At his firm, that only means one thing.”

  “Oh, come on, Courtney. You don’t know that for sure.” She paused. “Do you?”

  “I do.” I opened my refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine, downing a gulp straight from the bottle. “There’s a secret motto among everyone who works there. Hiring is for Monday and firing is for Friday.”

  “Look, if he were going to fire you, he wouldn’t expect you to come into work for the rest of the week, right? He would tell you not to show up until Friday so he could fire you.”

  “He did.”

  Silence.

  “Oh...I’m so sorry, Court.”

  “It’s okay.” I gulped down more wine. “I’ll just spend the rest of my day calling around other firms and checking my options.”

  “Like hell you are.” She scoffed. “I’m on my way to your place. Meet me in the lobby, and be ready to drink and party for the rest of the day.”

  “Mila, it’s a Monday.”

  “So? You don’t have work for the rest of the week. Be there in thirty.” She hung up before I had a chance to answer.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I sat at a high-table and tossed back my eighth shot of vodka. My feet were swollen from walking up and down Manhattan’s hard streets in six-inch stilettos, and I was two shots away from plotting my escape from this club.

  I was surrounded by Mila and three of her drop-dead gorgeous friends who were only interested in discussing the latest runway collections and designer bags. I’d sat through a two-hour discussion about the best accessories to pair with a cashmere sweater and a three-hour debate about whether MAC’s latest line of mascara was better than Maybelline’s.

  I almost blurted, “Why do you all even care about shit like this?” but the sober part of my brain remembered that they were all professional models. Even Mila. Whenever they weren’t posing for photoshoots, modeling for designer campaigns, or walking down runways, they were talking about photoshoots, campaigns, and runways. They just couldn’t help it.

  Pulling out my phone in the middle of a new lipstick debate, I opened my email and noticed there were three new messages from my coworkers.

  SUBJECT: HEARD ABOUT Your Day in Court...

  Can I have your office when Mr. Walton fires you?

  —Max

  SUBJECT: NEW TURNER Case

  Anyone want to help me with the research on this one? I’ll let you be the first chair during the deposition. (Well, anyone except Courtney. I’m not sure if she’s going to be with us past this Friday. Did you hear about how she looked in court today? BAHAHAHA!)

  —Tyler

  SUBJECT: RE: NEW TURNER Case

  Shit. You weren’t supposed to get that email, Courtney.

  Sorry about that.

  PS—Can I have your office when he fires you?

  —Tyler

  UGH!

  I deleted all the emails and grabbed another shot glass from the center of the table.

  “Did you see the new Yves Saint Laurent campaign?” Mila asked. “I was surprised they chose to go with white instead of soft grey, you know?”

  “Me too!” Her friend to my left nodded. “But the white was still so...So colorful.”

  Okay, that’s it. I stood to my feet, slightly wobbling in my heels. “I think I’m going to head back to my place. It was great seeing you all again.”

  “It’s only nine o’clock, Court.” Mila rolled her eyes. “Want to go to another lounge instead of being lame as hell? It’s not like you have work tomorrow.”

  “I actually have plans to meet someone tonight,” I said, standing up straight. “He’s meeting me back at my place.”

  “For sex?”

  “Yes.” I lied, hoping she would buy it. “For sex, to you know, help me get over this terrible day.”

  “Who is it?”

  “He’s um...” I lowered my voice. “One of my colleagues.”

  “Bullshit, Court.” She laughed. “You haven’t fucked a guy in six months, and you hate every guy at your firm. But you know what? I think you should get laid tonight.” She stood up and grabbed my hand. “Excuse us for a moment. I’ll be right back.” She tugged me through the crowded floor of suits and into the bathroom. Once we were inside, she opened her purse and pulled out two tubes of lipstick.

  “Do you really need to refresh yourself every two hours?” I asked. “You still look as stunning as you did earlier.”

  She laughed. “This is for you. You’ve knocked so much alcohol past your lips that there’s no lipstick left. And my god, look at how you’ve ruined the fabric of your dress! Do you have any idea how to wear—”

  I tuned her out and leaned against the sink—letting her do what she always did on nights when she forced me to go out with her. Step one: Listen to her praise the universe for all the times I allowed her to help me with a wardrobe that spiced up my “boring ass law life.” Step two: Listen to her berate me for finding new ways to mess it up. Step three: Allow her to fix me in ten minutes flat with all the tools that she kept in her oversized bag—everything from a mini flat iron, to an eyelash curler, to a compact array of eye-shadow.

  “Okay, there.” She placed one last layer of gloss on my lips. “Now you’re ready to get fucked tonight.”

  I turned around and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I stood in awe at the glimmering golden eyeshadow on my eyelids and the bright red lips. I smoothed my hands against my short, mid-thigh black dress and smiled “Thank you.”

  “You’re beyond welcome.” She tossed everything back into her bag. “Now, all you have to do is approach the sexiest man you see, and I guarantee he won’t be able to turn you down.”

  “I haven’t had a one night stand since that time I went to France last year. Shouldn’t I sit near the stage and wait until the guy approaches me?”

  “In this era?” She looked at me like I was insane. “Never. But if it makes you feel any more confident, I’ll help you pick out the guy.”

  I nodded, and she grabbed my hand again—pulling me back into the lounge and toward the dimly lit bar area. I could no longer feel the pain in the soles of my feet from wearing the stilettos, and I knew I could only afford to have three more drinks before reaching my limit.

  “How about the guy at your three o’clock?” Mila asked. “Brown suit. White tie.”

  I glanced in that direction. “He’s wearing a wedding ring.”

  “Oh.” She shook her head. “Forget I ever pointed him out. Check out your six o’clock at the end of the bar. The guy with the glass of champagne in his hand.”

  The guy smiled at me and waved, but I wasn’t attracted to him at all.

  “You know what, Mila? I don’t think I need to have random, stranger sex to get over what happened today. I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine if I catch a cab home and watch some Netflix, so—”

  “Goddamn!” She suddenly gripped my arm. “Am I seeing this right?”

  “Huh?” I looked at her. “What’s going on?”

  She didn’t say anything for several seconds. She stared straight ahead—looking as if she was in a trance.

  I tried to follow her gaze, but I couldn’t see anything.

  “Okay.” She finally faced me, her cheeks blush red.

  “I just saw the man you need to talk to, and I don’t want to hear any excuse about how he’s not your t
ype because this man is every woman’s type.”

  “I’m sure he is.” I knew she was exaggerating. “Where is he?”

  “First, promise me you’ll talk to him, no matter what.”

  “Fine. I promise.”

  “The guy in the blue walking to the bar right now. Over there!” She nearly squealed as she pointed.

  I turned my head and looked to where she was pointing. All I could see was the side profile of a sexy man in a navy-blue coat. He was running his hands through his chocolate colored hair and taking a seat at the bar.

  The women on his side blushed and smiled at him, moving their chairs a little closer. The bartender quickly set down her pen and approached him with flushed cheeks. Then he slowly looked up and smiled, revealing two deep dimples and a perfect, cocky smile that I would know anywhere.

  What the hell?

  I blinked a few times, refusing to believe that the man I was staring at—this perfect, sexy as hell man, was the same guy I still hated with a passion from Blue Harbor High.

  Jace Kennedy? Why the hell are you in New York?

  I took a step back, hating that I was still turned on by the sight of him all these years later. That he was still capable of making me remember all the times he’d owned my body in the backseat of his truck.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Mila raised her eyebrow. “You promised you’d at least try. The guy is hot, right?”

  He’s always been hot. More than just “hot.”

  I turned away from her before she could insist that I approach him and re-open old wounds that had yet to completely heal. I made my way through the suits, hoping like hell that Jace hadn’t spotted me. I grabbed my coat from the table and bolted through the side door.

  The second I was on the street, I peered through the windows to get another look at the bar, but Jace was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was another man, in another blue coat, waving his hand at the bartender.