Rise Page 3

  I arrive at my offices in The Aldwych with a few minutes to spare, so I slow my pace to take in the beautiful surroundings. It’s old and steeped in tradition. The Royal Courts of Justice, the world famous London School of Economics, and several theaters all share the same stretch of the city. It’s right next to the lauded Covent Garden, so the people whose paths I cross everyday are an eclectic mix of students, lawyers, journalists, actors, dancers, and tourists. It’s a wonderful.

  Some of the buildings still have their original Victorian facades, but a lot of them are modern buildings, all chrome, glass, and smooth white surfaces. It feels like a place I never want to leave.

  As I step into the beautifully appointed granite walled lobby of my law firm, LaSalle and Willis, I steel myself for the battle I fight every day to prove I belong.

  I am dressed in what I call my uniform; black pencil skirt, silk black turtleneck, opaque black tights and my black rounded toe, 4 inch red-bottomed Louboutin’s that were my splurge when I got this job.

  I am one of only a handful of women in this office and the only person who cannot claim European heritage. It is only my double degree from Harvard and my stellar academic record that have made me acceptable to many who would rather keep this an all English boy’s club. I walk to my office and am greeted half-heartedly by my secretary. She has made no secret she would rather be working for anybody else.

  “Good morning, Taylor” I say as I breeze past her desk on my way to my office.

  As usual her response is a barely audible, “Good morning.”

  I shake her off and sit at my desk, turn on my computer, and get my day started. I have a very productive morning. I have a status meeting with my Managing Partner which goes very well. I feel in control on days like this. I don’t think about the mess my personal life is in. I don’t worry about the FBI or my father. I don’t worry about my mother or sisters. I don’t even think about that beautiful man who has been plaguing my thoughts since I met him two weeks ago. I am happy in this space. I don’t know if I am following my dreams, but this feels pretty good to me.

  I am so absorbed in my work that it’s 12:30, fifteen minutes later than normal, when I make my way to meet Cara for our Monday lunch date at the Duck and Waffle around the corner.

  She is already waiting when I get there, and seeing her there, smiling at me, inspires a grin in return. I make my way across the crowded, brightly lit restaurant. It’s a popular lunch spot because of the spacious seating and the delicious but cheap food.

  It’s packed with bankers and lawyers. Cara, in her jeans and bright yellow sweater, with her white blonde hair, up in a huge messy bun on top of her head stands out among the sea of black and blue suits.

  “Hey! How’s tricks, Care Bear?”

  I’ve called her this since we were little girls. After we were given our new identities, I’d lost touch with Cara. We didn’t reunite until my freshman year of college.

  She had been visiting from Julliard for the weekend. She was coming up the escalator of Harvard Square’s “T” station. I hadn’t seen her in nine years, but I would recognize those big brown eyes and almost white blonde hair anywhere

  When we were kids, our parents were friends because her Moroccan father and her French mother were the “other” immigrant family in the neighborhood besides mine. We were inseparable. Leaving without saying goodbye to her had been one of the most devastating parts of our move.

  We hugged for so long, standing in front of the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square and promised to never lose touch again. She is the only person from “before” in my life, and it’s such a relief to be with someone who knows me.

  “Bitch, you’re late and I’m hungry.”

  This is typical Cara, her tiny body contains the fiercest personality and foulest mouth. I rush to sit down and after a quick peck on her cheek.

  “Sorry, sorry! I’ve got a lot going on. Work is crazy busy, and I lost track of time.”

  Our waitress arrives with big glasses of water to take our order. As soon as she is gone, we get settled in for our conversation. Cara leans across the table, looks me squarely in the eye, and jumps right in.

  “Have you talked to your mom, Addie?”

  I sigh, loudly. She heard the entire story on the phone last week and even though she didn’t chastise me thoroughly, she has let me know she thinks I’d been out of line and that I need to pick up the phone to apologize. I agree. I just can’t bring myself to face my mother and the conversation that would require.

  “No, Cara, I haven’t. But we’ve talked about me endlessly for the last week. How was Paris? How were the auditions?”

  She has been to Paris twice for auditions for a primary role with the Paris ballet.

  “Crazy, and terrible. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I feel like I am fucking up the biggest opportunity of my life.”

  She twirls the straw and looks up at me with abject despair in her eyes.

  I look back at her and roll mine.

  “Well, Cara if dancing doesn’t work out, you’ll definitely make it as an actress. You are being so dramatic! I am sure you are killing those auditions. Didn’t they ask you back?”

  “Yes, but they must be blind. Or maybe they are thinking because I am American I’ll put out, and they plan on me being the company slut.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You’re ridiculous.” She snorts out a laugh at that and then her eyes narrow at me.

  “Speaking of fucks…when are you going to get to it, Addie? You’ve been here a year!”

  “Leave me alone, Cara, I’m busy and my Handy Dandies do me just fine”

  “Yeah, well if I’d gone a year without any, my pussy would atrophy.”

  “If you go a week without any, your pussy would protest.” Our server arrives with our food just as I finish my sentence, and she gasps in embarrassment. This only make Cara snort again.

  “Shows what your dumb ass knows, Addie. I’m on a hiatus. Remember the sex god, Louis, we saw the other day? I’ve been hot for him forever! He’s never given me the time of day. It’s starting to depress me.”

  “Louis, the set designer?” My pulse quickens and my mind automatically thinks “Simon”.

  “Yes, the one whose friend you had a stroke over?”

  “I did not!” I lie. Even now, my heart is speeding up at the thought of him.

  “Oh, please, Addie, you couldn’t even form a complete sentence. I had to rescue you from looking like a total ass.”

  I flush and Cara only smiles knowingly at me.

  She knows me too well. I grin and concede.

  “Fine. But shit, he was hot. How in the world have you never mentioned him before?”

  “I’ve only met him twice, Addie. And honestly, he is always wearing some stupid T-shirt with a Beyoncé quote on it. I thought he was gay.”

  “Oh, my God. I died at his T-shirt!”

  We dissolve into a fit of giggles as we talk shit about men, life, and nothing while we eat the rest of our lunch.

  After we’ve paid the check and are getting ready to walk out, Cara turns to me, arm around my shoulders.

  “Listen, let’s go out, there is a great new DJ at a club in West London I want to try. It’s a Thursday night, but it will be worth it.”

  She bats her eyelashes at me, and I know this means she really wants me to say yes.

  I start to protest—it’s a work night, I’d rather be home, reading or sleeping.

  Cara begs, “Come on, Addie, it will get your mind off things. You never go out and who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone and get laid.”

  This is actually true. I’ll never admit this to anyone, but I’ve had Simon on the brain since I met him. Meeting someone, taking them home, and fucking them is just what I need to get him off my mind.

  “Fine, but it better be great!”

  “Okay, Princess Adelaide. I promise it will be great, and you’ll get something to replace your arsenal of toys”

  The laugh that es
capes me, loud and soul deep, leaves a smile on my face that lingers for the rest of my walk back to the office.

  August 7, 2014

  “Shit!” I stare at the dark screen of my phone in frustration and force myself to take a deep breath. No need to panic. The streets around Ladbroke Grove are well-lit. It’s also well-past midnight and the streets are basically deserted. I mumble to myself, “Of course they are. What other dummies are roaming the streets of London on a Thursday night with their phones barely charged and their friends nowhere in sight?”

  I can’t believe I didn’t charge my phone before I left the house. I was so busy trying to make sure I look perfect tonight—though now I can’t remember why I even cared—I didn’t realize my phone wasn’t actually attached to my charger.

  Maybe 4.5-inch platform peep toes weren’t the best choice for a night when I was going to be using mainly public transportation. At least my jeans are comfortable and my top, though formfitting, allows me to breathe. The kebab I’d inhaled as I walked to King’s Cross station from my house was starting to roil in my stomach.

  Where the hell was Cara? We had talked right before I left the house. We planned to meet at Ladbroke Grove tube station and walk up Portobello Road to the top of Notting Hill Gate together. But now that I am here, Cara is nowhere to be seen, and now I am furious because my fucking phone is dead.

  The last train is gone, and I haven’t see a single black cab go by. What am I going to do?

  “Get it together, Addie!” I can’t stand here all night. I need to try and walk up the street to see if I can find the club by myself—maybe I misunderstood and we are supposed to meet there. If nothing else, I could beg someone inside to let me use their phone to call an Uber.

  As I turn to walk up the street that serves as the venue for the famous Portobello Road Market on the weekends, I hear rapid footsteps round the corner from the side of the tube station. Just my luck. Now I am going to be robbed and left for dead. God, I am such an idiot.

  I pick up my pace and am about to cross the road when the footsteps are suddenly right behind me. I whirl, ready to battle. My lack of grace doesn’t fail me. My whirl turns into a stumble, and I brace myself for a nasty and humiliating fall. However, two strong hands grab me by the biceps to keep me from face-planting onto the cobble stone street.

  My hands land on a trim, but well-muscled waist. As my eyes travel up a wall of chest, I take in a blue oxford button down that opens to a dark, long, and thick neck with an Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. My eyes travel up to see a smooth, clean shaven chin, which is the foundation for a face too beautiful to be real. His full, wide, lips were tipped up in a smile that stretches across his handsome face. His high, broad cheek bones serve as beautiful anchors for a perfectly symmetrical nose with a strong bridge and nostrils that are slightly flared. But it is his eyes… they arrest me. The color of melted milk chocolate, they are wide set, almond shaped, and slightly turned up at the corners. His lashes aren’t very long, but they are thick. They frame eyes so clear and focused on mine, I almost gasp as our gazes meet. They are also filled with humor—that is quickly replaced with awareness.

  I know these eyes.

  And suddenly, I realize he is still grasping my arms and I’m still grasping his waist, and that since he has rescued me, neither of us has said a word. I take a step back.

  “Simon?”

  The humor quickly returns to his expression, and he flashes a knowing grin at me.

  I straighten myself to pull out of his grasp, dropping my hands from his waist. “I’m sorry I almost fell on you,” I say, stupidly.

  His smiles only broadens and he says, “No worries, Addie, I startled you.”

  I start to come out of my ogling fog and I notice he is carrying a plastic bag in one hand. It’s radiating with heat and the wafts of steam escaping it carry the mouthwatering scent of curry. His gaze follows mine and he says, with a tip of those gorgeous lips and a shrug of his shoulder “Dinner.”

  I look at him dubiously and pull my phone out to glance at the time. I do this to make the point that it is way too late for dinner. But my phone is still dead. I curse under my breath and turn my eyes back to his. That look, the one that says we are sharing a joke—one I’m not privy to—is back. And I know it’s time for me to go.

  I square my shoulders “Well, then I don’t want to keep you and have it grow cold. Thanks again for catching me, Simon.”

  I flash what I hope is a civil, but not overly friendly, smile. “Have a nice night.”

  His hand comes back up to catch my forearm this time, stopping me from turning around. The warmth that floods my arm, makes me gasp. I step out of his grasp, but stay facing him. I keep a mask of indifference on my face and raise my eyebrows in a silent prompt for him to start talking. He complies, his smile knowing and infuriating. It sets a thousand butterflies loose in my stomach.

  “Where are you going this time of night? There isn’t anything open this way. Well, except for that rave Subterranea.” He tips his head in the direction of the road I was about to cross. His eyes, though don’t leave my face.

  But, at the mention of the rave, a light bulb goes off. “Yes! That’s it. That’s where my friend and I are going.”

  He glances around and chuckles. “Your friend?”

  I sigh and tell him that I am meeting Cara. I also explain my phone dilemma.

  Without waiting for me to finish, he reaches into the pocket of his jeans. Dark formfitting jeans which encase his long legs.

  “Here, use mine.” He holds the phone out to me.

  I thank him, but before I can reach for his phone I realize, with a jolt that it’s useless.

  “Shit. I don’t know her number.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat before responding.

  “I’ll call Louis and get it.”

  He dials Louis, but doesn’t get a response. He leaves a message and sends a text. But it’s past midnight on a Thursday and chances are slim Louis will see it before morning.

  He looks at me for a minute, not saying anything, but assessing me from head to toe. His gaze, as it moves over me, is like a wave of heat and I feel a trickle of sweat make its way down my back. It is August, but it’s not an overly warm night. My rising body temperature has nothing to do with the weather.

  He nods his head in the direction of the club and says, “I’ll walk you down, see if Cara is waiting there.”

  I shake my head quickly, declining. “No, thank you, you were very kind to stop, but I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

  “It’s late, the road is poorly lit. I’m not leaving you to walk that way by yourself.” His voice loses all of its humor. His eyes lose their sparkle and I can tell that arguing with him would be futile.

  Without waiting for a response, he grabs my elbow and steers me in the direction on Portobello Road. His touch, firm and yet gentle, feels like the full heat of the sun on my skin. I am too focused on the heat radiating up my arm to think about refusing to comply.

  At night, with all of the market stalls gone, the world famous Portobello Road is unremarkable. Dark, dank, and poorly paved, it’s hard to believe that it is home to a lively, colorful marketplace every Saturday and Sunday.

  The first minute of our walk is silent. My mouth is dry; my mind is completely blank. I can’t think of a single thing to say. Simon, on the other hand, seems completely unfazed by this encounter. He starts to make small talk.

  “So, Addie, what brings you to London?”

  Relieved, for a break in the silence, I start talking.

  “I got a job. With a law firm. I’m a lawyer. Here in London. I’ve been here for almost a year. So, I’m here.” I sound stupid. But this man with his ridiculous face and body has me feeling like my brain is melting.

  If he notices, he doesn’t do anything to indicate he does. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. He just listens. So I continue. “I went to law school in Cambridge. --that’s in Massachusetts, not the Cambridge here—but, I�
��ve always wanted to live here, so I’m happy it worked out with the job… and everything. It’s also great because Cara is here.” I am rambling now, and I don’t know why.

  “Ah, yes. You were with her the day we met. You said I looked familiar.” He says, and I glance up at his profile. I can see he is smiling.

  “Well, yes, I just can’t place you.” I say curtly, determined to maintain my initial story.

  “Addie, I know we have never met before.” He says in a tone that is both amused and sure.

  “You can’t be certain,” I say, even though I am grateful for the dark so he can’t see my furious blush.

  “Oh, I am sure, Addie. If we had met before, I could never have forgotten you.” He doesn’t stop walking, but he turns his head and looks at me and like they are magnets, my eyes are drawn to his. For just a few moments our eyes hold, and it is like this man sees me. Really sees me.

  I am suddenly very uncomfortable. I have spent my entire adult life cultivating a persona. People see what I show them and that’s how I like it. Somehow, Simon makes me feel like he can see through the persona and that he understands something about me that I am not ready to share.

  We both fall silent. But now, our walk is anything but quiet. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and the sound of my heels striking the pavement seems amplified. We walk like this for another two minutes when he stops suddenly and points to a dark door. “We’re here”

  I look at the door. There is no line, no bouncer, I can’t hear a thing. There is a small plaque on the door that simply says Subterranea.

  I glance up at him. “Are they open?”

  He smiles, pulls out his phone, and swipes his thumb across the screen. His hands are elegant and masculine at the same time. As he dials a number he clearly has memorized, he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. And I start to tingle. All over.

  “Garrett, mate. I’m outside with a friend, she is meeting someone. Come let us in?” He hangs up and almost immediately, the door opens. And when it does, it’s like opening a door to a different world. Sound and light come pouring out and a huge man walks toward us. He doesn’t usher us inside, instead he looks at me. “What’s your friend’s name?”