Loyal Lawyer by Lauren Runow

Chapter One

“That rat bastard!”

It was a good day. A great day actually.

It’d started with me waking up to a hot shower without having to wait the required fifteen minutes for it to warm up.

Then, I got back to my room without running into any of the sweaty gym rats.

There was no line at the coffee shop, and the customer in front of me paid for my latte, so I was kind and paid it forward to the person after me.

I found a penny, heads up, on the ground.

A woman offered me her blessings for no reason as I walked through Chinatown.

And the sky was a perfect, cloudless day, unseasonably warm for the first week of March.

Yes, it was a good day in Philadelphia.

Then, I got the phone call.

“Damage? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yell at my former landlord, Gerry, on the other end of the line.

“Amy, you signed the lease. That makes you liable.”

I growl in frustration. “I haven’t lived there in three months. Hardin and I broke up, so I moved out. You have to call him for the damage.”

“Hardin moved out last weekend and stiffed me on last month’s rent. Your lease still has one month left, which means you’ll owe for that too.”

That good-for-nothing jerk.Hardin, not Gerry.

A year ago, I thought Hardin and I were going to get engaged. We moved into a sweet one-bedroom apartment in the Fairmount area of the city. We bought new pots and a blue duvet for the bed. And then he went and screwed the dog walker on it.

“I’m sorry he did that to you, but you have to get the money from him,” I state firmly.

“Your name is the only one on the lease,” he responds even firmer. “And you moved out without telling me. I’ve been working on getting him to sign a new lease since I found out you left. I couldn’t even evict him, so don’t remind me of the situation you put me in.”

Damn my philandering ex-boyfriend. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants but knew how to keep his wallet secure. When it came time to sign the lease, he insisted just my name be on it since the leasing agent needed to print our credit reports. I have an 800 credit score—something I’m very proud of—where Hardin’s was so poor that he didn’t even want it to be run. I didn’t mind since, at the time, I was blinded by love and not seeing just how stupid I was being.

“We gave you the last month’s rent when we signed the lease. What about the security deposit for the rest of the money owed?”

“You wanna come down here and see what this place looks like?” he argues over the phone. “The hardwood floor is all scratched up; the sink in the bathroom is completely removed from the wall, like it was sat on or something; there’s a crater-sized hole behind the bed; and I’m gonna have to get the entire place painted. It smells like my grandmother died in there.”

Incense. The dog walker had a love of yoga and incense. You could smell it on her clothes every time you saw her. It’s how I knew something was amiss. My boyfriend had started to stink of woody florals and balsam. Now, he’s living with Miss Spices and Herbs and making holes in walls. Holes I do not want to imagine how they got there.

“You have two weeks to get me the money, or I’m gonna have to take this to court.”

“Court?” I practically jump. Actually, I do. I’m standing on the corner of Third Street, yelling into my phone and swaying my arm so fast that my latte spills on my coat. “Oh, no, no, no, no! You can’t do that. I have a business and am waiting on a loan application approval from the bank. This can’t be on my record, or I’ll lose everything.”

“Forty-five hundred dollars, or I’m at the courthouse.”

“Gerry, I—”

He hangs up.

Of all the terrible, horrible things that could happen, this is the very worst! So much for my perfect day. I should have known Hardin was going to destroy my life yet again. That’s what I get for falling for the fun guy. The one who is always buying the next round, is up for the next adventure, and tells the best damn stories. I used to love listening to him talk about his day. Too bad they were all tall tales. Jerk probably never helped that old woman move into her apartment. I bet he was banging her too!

I pick up my phone to text the son of a bitch, but his number is no longer in my contacts. I erased it when I moved out in some sort of metaphoric cleaning of the slate.

Now, I can’t quickly message him like I want.

Instead, I have to open a new message and enter his number before my thumbs start moving, typing out a message with the same fury that’s racing through me.

I hope you had fun, putting holes in the wall with the bed!

The text bubbles instantly appear, and I stand, absolutely fuming, as I wait for his response.

I feel like this is a euphemism for something.

Although I have been known to be a bit of a wallbanger.

This is a joke to you? Typical.

First, you screwed around behind my back.

Then, you damaged and skipped out on paying rent on the place that was in my name!

I believe you have some misplaced anger here.

Don’t be so coy. I want Lady Featherington too!

She has delicate feet, and I know you’re not tending to her hair needs.

She definitely sounds like she belongs in your care.

I have a great doctor and stylist recommendations.

And I want my Loui Jover back.

You have excellent taste in art.

What is wrong with you?

Let me explain …

Explain?I haven’t heard from the man in a hundred and eighty days, and now, he wants to talk it out?

My phone rings, and Hardin’s number appears. I pick it up immediately.

“Oh, you have some explaining to do all right. And by explaining, I mean, forty-five hundred dollars, a piece of contemporary art, and a Pomeranian!”

A deep, sultry chuckle sounds from the other end of the line. “Ah, Lady Featherington is a dog. That makes more sense now.”

I freeze, confused by who the person I’m speaking with could be because that deep baritone voice is most definitely not my ex-boyfriend.

“You’re not Hardin.”

“Thankfully, I’m not. You seem pretty pissed at him.”

I look around like I’m being pranked or something but then realize I’m the one who texted him. “Listen, I don’t know what kind of joke you’re playing, but just put my ex on the phone.”

“I can’t,” he says so nonchalantly that I want to reach in the phone and smack him.

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not here.”

“Where the hell is he?” I yell, holding up my arm to the side and leaning into the call like he can see how mad I am through the line. I must look like a madwoman, standing on this city street, acting a fool, waving my coffee around, but I’m so angry that I don’t even care right now.

“You have the wrong number,” he states matter-of-factly.

I pause, pulling my phone away from my face to check the number and then bringing it back to my ear. “Excuse me. No, I don’t.”

“The number you texted was not your ex-boyfriend. Believe me, I’ve never had a dog named Lady Featherington, but I have had this exact number for over ten years.”

“Of course this is the right number. I dialed it myself.”

“Are you positive?” I can hear the condescending tone in his voice, albeit with a little teasing added.

I hold the phone away from my face again, staring at the numbers. They seem perfectly correct at first. And then I go one by one again and realize in my haste to text, I inverted the last two digits. I bring the phone back to my ear.

“Oh my God. This is so embarrassing.” I drop my hand to my side and tilt my head up to the sky in frustration.

That smooth laugh sounds again. “Happens to the best of us. I’m sorry to hear you’re having trouble. You said this is with an ex-boyfriend?”

I sigh. “Yes. I’m sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”

“Wait, please. I’m dying to know how you came across the name Lady Featherington for a dog.”

I let out a breath and laugh about the entire situation. I mean, right now, that’s all I can do. “It’s from a book I read, and then Netflix made it into a series called Bridgerton. She’s this quick-witted and outspoken anonymous gossip columnist. I felt the name fit our tiny Pomeranian, who was quick to bark at anyone who walked by.”

“So, I take it, he kept the dog in the breakup?”

“Yes, that asshole,” I say without thinking twice. I mean, I am talking to a complete stranger. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so foul-mouthed. And I surely don’t need to bore you with my drama-filled life.”

“Quite the contrary actually. Your text was the only exciting thing to happen all day. So, now that we’ve cleared the name issue, please, tell me about the hole in the wall you referred to.”

I glance around to see a bench and sit down, needing to take a break from life for the moment. Leaning forward, I put my head on my hand while I hold the phone up to my ear.

“I’ll give you the Reader’s Digest version. I was with a guy who said and did all of the perfect things. That was, until he slept with the dog walker.”

“No. Not the dog walker!” he says breathlessly but obviously kidding.

A slight chuckle escapes my lips, and I inhale a deep breath, thankful for the action to help calm me down.

“I moved out because the jerk was moving her in—with me still living there.”

“Wait. What?” Now, he’s not kidding around, and his tone is all serious.

“Yep. He said he wanted to move on and couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. So, as he stated, I was ‘just going to have to get used to it.’ Oh, because did I tell you that he had shit for credit and the entire apartment was in my name?”

“Damn. That’s one shady dude. What did you do?”

“I did the only thing any sane person would do. I moved out. There was no way I could stay there with the two of them. Plus, I couldn’t kick him out and swing the rent myself. I already pay an astronomical fee for the lease on my business space. So, I packed up and took off.”

“But you left without the dog?”

“Don’t even get me started on the dog. He took her when he knew I was moving out. I tried to get her back, but the sneaky bastard changed the locks, so I couldn’t even break in to take what was rightfully mine.”

“Now, you’re homeless, dog-less, and calling him because he’s leaving holes in walls?”

“Yes. Our landlord just called, saying he skipped on the last month’s rent and left an insane amount of damage in the place that I’m on the hook for.” I let out a frustrated groan. “And I’m not totally homeless. I’m staying at my—” I pause and sit up straight. “Wait, why am I even telling you this? I’m sorry. You don’t need to hear all of my woes. Plus, you’re a stranger.” I stand up, heading in the direction I was going in the first place before my day took a complete dump.

“Listen, I’m not trying to be some creeper and get all up in your business, but I am an attorney, and you seem like you have some legal issues you need to work through. I can help.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the offer—I truly do—but I have, like, zero money to hire an attorney.”

He laughs into the phone. “Please don’t think I’m some ambulance chaser who tries at any chance he gets to land cases. That’s not what I’m doing here.”

“Then, what are you doing?” I ask skeptically.

“Well, for one, I’m responding to a text that you sent me. And two, I’m intrigued now, and I feel like the universe is telling me I should help you with your dilemma.”

I tap my foot on the pavement and contemplate his offer. What are the odds that the total stranger I dialed is an attorney who happens to be able to help me with my current predicament? A bazillion to one, I’d guess.

No. There is no way I can work with this guy. He’s probably a serial killer or a rapist. Or has some weird Pomeranian fetish. Those guys do exist.

“Thanks, but I can handle it.” I try to be polite in my refusal.

“If the determination in your voice is like the rest of you, I have no doubt you will.”

I smile, though I know he can’t see me. “Thanks. It was … actually nice, talking to you. Thank you for brightening my day, if only for a little bit.”

“You’re welcome. Can I at least get your name?”

I open the door to the bank, where I was heading, to work on the loan that I’ll probably never get now. “I’m Amy.”

“Well, Amy, my name’s Sebastian Blake. If you do decide you want to take this guy to court, you have my number.”

I laugh out loud. “Yes, that I do. Thank you.”

We both hang up on what was possibly the strangest phone call I’d ever had. There’s still a slight grin on my face as I take a seat across from the banker who is helping me with my small-business loan.

* * *

Correction: the banker who was helping me.

An hour after my meeting, I’m sitting in my office, which has become my bedroom since I left Hardin, staring at the screen of my laptop and the funds in my account. I have a decent savings, but if I want to grow Amy Morgana Chocolatier, I’m gonna need money to invest in a multitude of things.

In order to get all that, I need more capital.

The banker said the loan process would take a few weeks. When I asked what would happen if a judgment was placed against me by a former landlord, she informed me that my application was already on the verge of being denied due to a lack of assets. Having anything against my credit would put the entire thing in jeopardy.

I extra-hate my ex-boyfriend right now.

When I left the bank, I called Hardin on his correct number and gave him a piece of my mind. It was no use. He’s moved on, and the fact that he’s held our dog hostage for three months gives me little faith that he’ll do the right thing and fork over the money to Gerry, like I demanded.

This is a matter I’ll have to fix on my own.

Needing some Zen, I put my Spotify on to a contemporary jazz playlist and make myself a cup of tea. I wrap myself in my favorite afghan, blow on the hot mug, and listen to Cécile McLorin Salvant. Sometimes, when I get stressed, smooth jazz, my grandma’s blanket, and Earl Grey help calm me.

Sadly, it’s helping only a little. I need to come up with forty-five hundred dollars—fast. I can’t make any large withdrawals from my account because the bank wants every dollar accounted for while my application is in review, so dipping into my savings isn’t an option.

I could ask my friends, but they don’t have that kind of cash lying around.

My parents would help me. Of course, that would come with my perfect siblings chiming in about the lack of proper direction I have in my life, how I’m not running my business correctly, or how they all told me Hardin was trouble. I didn’t listen to them then, and I certainly won’t go running to my parents for help unless it’s my absolute last resort. Nothing in my family is ever secret, and I’d never, ever … ever hear the end of it.

No, I have to get myself out of this pickle on my own.

I would seek a lawyer’s opinion, but that means money.

Unless …

I put my cup down and start typing on my phone.

Sebastian Blake. Lawyer. Philadelphia.

The first search entry shows me Blake, Fields, and Moore—a leading Philadelphia law firm with nine attorneys promoted as super lawyers. Over two hundred million dollars recovered for clients. Counsel who cares. Research that matters.

I click on the link and am brought to a sophisticated website for personal injury and civil rights attorneys.

Virtual badges of the multimillion-dollar verdicts that were won are on display. They represent people in everything from personal injury to car wrecks, workplace accidents, and discrimination. The site is certainly impressive, as are the cases they’ve taken on and won.

There’s a link to meet the members of the firm. I scroll over, and the first face I see is one Sebastian Blake.

Well, he certainly is handsome.

A charismatic smile, strong jaw, and kind-looking eyes. His hair is combed back, and he looks very polished in the black-and-white photo.

If I were in the market for a man, I might even deem him attractive.

But I’m not. I’m in need of an attorney’s opinion and one who offered his services—for free.

“What do I have to lose?” I ask myself.

Famous last words.

I open the text exchange I had earlier with Sebastian and hope this isn’t a colossal mistake.

You still interested in helping me out?

Lady Featherington would appreciative it.

Absolutely. Name the place.

Pick somewhere busy with lots of people around.

A man has to protect himself from strange women who cold-call him. ;-)

I roll my eyes as I find that smile I had on earlier back on my face.

And so it begins …