Page 8 of Steel's Secret
The red light on the phone blinks like it’s judging me. One message. I press play before I can think twice.
Draft’s voice fills the room, low and familiar, the kind of tone that used to drift through late-night poker games and planning sessions back at the clubhouse.
“Hey, counselor. We’ve got some paperwork piling up for Saint Motors. Deed transfers, zoning, the usual bureaucratic bullshit. Steel’s been dragging his feet. Could use your magic touch.”
Magic touch. God, they never learn how to pick their words.
For a second, I just sit there, hand frozen over the phone, listening to the quiet ring out after his message. The city noise fades behind the glass, replaced by the pounding in my chest.
I should delete it. I should pass it off to another attorney. I should let Steel do this since these things were his specialty, but something stubborn, stupid, and loyal inside me refuses to let go of that world. Maybe this is penance, helping him clean up the mess I walked away from.
Before I can talk myself down, I hit redial.
“Draft,” I say when he answers, voice rougher than I meant it to be.
He chuckles, but there’s guilt in it. “Didn’t think you’d call back.”
“You left a message.”
“Yeah. Guess I was hoping someone else would pick it up first.” He clears his throat. “It’s not urgent, but we need help with the deed transfer. City’s hounding us about permits, and Steel…”
“Avoids paperwork now like it’s a federal offense?” I cut in.
He laughs softly. “You know it. Ever since he took the gavel, he hasn’t been practicing law.”
“Unfortunately,” I say, though my mouth betrays me with the ghost of a smile. “I can bring the documents by tomorrow.”
“That’s not… hell, Aria, we can have a courier handle it. You don’t need to drive up here in this weather.”
“I’ll bring them myself. It’s only fifteen minutes on the back roads,” I state, too quickly. No highway, no distance. Just a few miles of frozen space between the life I built and the one I left behind. The words hang there, louder than they should be.
Thick, heavy silence hums between us, full of things we both know better than to say.
Finally, Draft exhales. “He doesn’t know I called.”
“Then don’t tell him.”
Another pause. “Still business, huh?”
“Strictly.” I hang up before the wordstrictlycan sound like a lie.
The hum of the office creeps back in. The printer, the heating vent, the muffled buzz of other lawyers chasing their next win. I stare at the phone for a long minute, half expecting it to ring again.
It doesn’t.
I stand, smooth my skirt, and catch my reflection in the glass. The bright, busy city glares back, indifferent.
Six months of distance, and one voicemail just tore it open again.
I text my best friend, Leah, telling her I need her asap, and she responds immediately. Putting my phone in my briefcase, I shut and lock my office door and head to our favorite coffee shop.
The elevator ride feels longer than it should. I watch the floor numbers light up and fade, each one a heartbeat counting down to the part where I have to explain myself.
By the time the doors slide open, I’ve built a dozen excuses, and none of them sound convincing.
The lobby smells like coffee and copy toner, everyday chaos humming under fluorescent light. Outside, the wind whipsthrough the streets, tugging at my coat as I walk the two blocks to the café. The city is alive with a new day. Horns blare, boots on slush, someone cursing into a phone.
I pass the corner where Steel used to wait on his bike, engine purring, grin sharp enough to ruin good judgment. My chest tightens, and I keep walking.
