About That Night

Fourteen

KYLE CAREFULLY EASED his car into a tight parking spot, trying hard not to laugh at the sight of Dex, who stood on the sidewalk sporting a visor over a brown mess of seriously ridiculous bed hair.

After shutting off the engine, Kyle grabbed the handle of the gull-wing door of his Mercedes and pushed the door open upward toward the sky.

Dex grinned. “Dude, I don’t care how many times I’ve seen you do that. That car is so fucking cool.”

No disagreement there. Kyle pushed the button on his key, locking the car, and pointed to his friend’s head. “Any particular explanation for the hair?”

“A hookup that ran late.”

“I really hope she didn’t see you on the way out. Because I think I see a gaggle of birds nesting in there.” Not that it was the first time Kyle had seen Dex looking less than stellar, seeing how they’d shared an apartment their senior year of college and also during the two years thereafter.

“That’s funny, man.”

“I thought so. How was the hookup?”

“Good enough to last until noon,” Dex said with a grin. Then he turned to the matter at hand, proudly gesturing to the bar they stood in front of. “Ready to check out the place?”

“Absolutely,” Kyle said.

Eight years ago, after managing a campus bar in Champaign, Dex had moved up to Chicago and opened a sports bar on the north side of the city. Having done well for himself with that venture, he was now opening his second bar, an upscale nightclub called Firelight in the heart of the city’s affluent Gold Coast neighborhood.

Once inside, Dex first gave Kyle a tour of the main bar. From the looks of the sable suede lounge chairs and couches, the large curving bar, and the subtle touches of deep red and copper fabric throughout, it appeared that Dex had spared no expense.

Next, Dex led him up some steps that would take them to a VIP lounge. “We open in four weeks. I heard a rumor that the food and dining section of the Trib is going to run an article this weekend, calling it the most anticipated bar opening of the season.” He pointed. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Ten U.S. marshals couldn’t keep me away.” Kyle looked up at the ceiling and admired the glittering sheets of red and burnt orange wavy glass. “Like fire. Nice touch.”

“I worked with the designer for almost a month on that.” Dex lifted the visor up to scratch his forehead, then caught Kyle’s grin. “Come on. The hair’s not that bad.”

“Remember Kid ‘n Play?”

Before Dex could respond, Kyle’s cell phone rang. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked to see who was calling.

Rylann Pierce.

How intriguing.

“I should probably take this in private,” he told Dex. He stepped out of the VIP room and then answered. “Counselor. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Rylann spoke above the sounds of car horns and a jackhammer in the background. “We’re all set. Thursday at two o’clock. Just you, me, a court reporter, and a grand jury of twenty-three of your peers.”

“Where are you?” Kyle asked. Her voice sounded a little breathless.

“Outside the courthouse, trying to catch a cab. I’ve got a meeting at the FBI building in twenty minutes.”

He could picture her in her trench coat and heels, trusty briefcase at her side, all fired up and ready to throw around a few subpoena threats.

The image was strangely hot.

“Thursday, two o’clock,” he confirmed. “Where do I go?”

“Room 511. For confidentiality purposes, there’s nothing but a room number outside the door. You should wait in the witness room closest to the door until I come get you,” she said. “Although you’ve refrained from retaining counsel on this matter, I’m obligated to say that you can still choose to bring a lawyer, but he or she would have to wait out in the hall. No one is allowed inside except for the witnesses, the jurors, the court reporter, and me. Think of it like Vegas—what happens in the grand jury room stays in the grand jury room.”

Unable to resist, Kyle lowered his voice, teasing her. “I didn’t think good-girl prosecutors knew about the types of things that happen in Vegas.”

“There are probably a lot of things bad-boy ex-cons don’t know about good-girl prosecutors.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow. That actually sounded flirtatious.

But then her tone changed, back to all business. “I’ll see you Thursday, then. Two o’clock.”

“It’s a date.”

“No, it’s a grand jury proceeding,” she said firmly.

“You say tomato, I say—”

“Good-bye, Kyle.” She hung up on him before he could finish.

Chuckling, Kyle tucked his cell phone into the pocket of his jeans and walked back into the VIP room.

Dex looked him over. “Whoever that was, she sure put a smile on your face.”

Kyle waved this off. “Just this project I’m working on.”

“Does this ‘project’ have a name?”

Sure. Rylann Pierce, aka Burr Up My Ass. “It’s not what you think. That was someone from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. I’m sort of…helping them in an investigation.”

Understandably, that took Dex by surprise. “Wow. She must be smoking hot to have talked you into that.” Then he cocked his head. “Hold on…is it that assistant U.S. attorney you were in court with the other day? The dark-haired one whose rack you’re checking out in that photograph?”

Kyle stood against the onyx bar, waving this off. “We were in the middle of a courtroom—I wasn’t checking out her rack. My eyes were on hers the entire time.”

“Must be some eyes.”

Kyle opened his mouth to protest, then stopped.

Well, actually, yes.