When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss (Aspen Grove)

Chapter 5

I t’s Friday, and I’ve been cooped up in my office for hours reviewing a contract when my phone pings on my desk.

Mickey: One of your customers called and wants to book a tattoo appointment for tomorrow night.

Dawson: That’s fine. I’ll fit them in.

Mickey: You coming into the shop tonight?

Dawson: Yeah. I have a cover-up session.

Mickey: See you then.

Mickey gave me my first tattoo—the compass. I got it the week before I started college. It was a symbol of my journey to forge a new path and a reminder that I’m in control of my own destiny. After that I was hooked, and he’s been responsible for all my ink since. He used to talk about wanting to own his own shop someday, but said he could never afford it.

A few years later, I had a meeting with a client at their office down the street and stumbled on Steel & Ink while walking past. It used to be a dry cleaner that went out of business, and the layout looked like it would be perfect for a tattoo parlor. I brought up my idea of converting the place to Mickey, offering him a stake in the business and the freedom to run it however he wanted. My only condition being that I had my own station. He’s the only one at the shop who knows about my day job, but we rarely talk about it.

When my phone buzzes again I check to see it’s a message from Harrison Stafford.

Harrison: You down for getting a drink at the bar tonight?

Dawson: Sure.

Harrison: Meet at 11?

Dawson: Sounds good. You’re buying.

Harrison: I always pay.

Dawson: Fine by me.

The bar is just down the street from the tattoo parlor, so I should have plenty of time to finish my appointment before we meet up.

Harrison and I met a few years ago when he needed help with a disgruntled client. Despite being handed the keys to his family’s business, he works his ass off. Since taking the reins as CEO of Stafford Holdings, it has become the most lucrative real estate firm in the country. He’s earned a reputation for his no-nonsense attitude and uncompromising approach to business, which I appreciate.

He travels more often than not, but we occasionally meet up at a local dive bar for a drink when we’re both free.

I’m about to put my phone away and check my email when it rings, and a rare smile crosses my lips when I see who it is.

“Hi, Martha.”

“Don’t hi Martha me,” she scolds. “You have some explaining to do. Colby and I haven’t heard from you in over a week, and we’ve been worried sick.”

“Correction. Martha has been anxious. I figured you were just too busy running the firm and playing hardball with opposing counsel to call,” Colby interjects with a chuckle. “If you were a public defender like me, you’d be making a difference instead of raking in millions with no time for yourself.”

“Don’t pay him any mind, honey,” Martha says. “We’re so proud of you, isn’t that right, Colby?” I can only imagine Martha staring him down, silently daring him to disagree with her.

“At least one of you misses me,” I quip.

Colby likes to hassle me about my career choice, but he’s been my biggest supporter since day one. Martha and Colby Tate may not be related to me by blood, but they’re my parents in all the ways it matters.

I was placed in foster care when I was four years old. My birth mom was an addict and couldn’t handle the responsibility of taking care of me. Without any information on my birth dad and no family to speak of, she handed me over to Child Protective Services.

Due to my frequent tantrums and emotional outbursts, I wasn’t adopted. As a result, I was passed from one foster home to the next.

By the time I was fifteen, I’d had several run-ins with the cops and accepted the harsh reality that if nothing changed, my life would be defined by crime and poverty. However, I caught a break when Colby was assigned as my public defender, and in many ways, the Tates saved my life.

He persuaded the judge handling my case to give me one last chance, since the charges weren’t violent or drug related. I remember his advice like it was yesterday. You hold the power to change your future, son. Use this opportunity to make better decisions and do what it takes to become a version of yourself that you can be proud of.

His words of wisdom led me to change my mindset, and I promised myself that I would do everything in my power to make sure that I never went back.

Two decades later, I’ve nearly achieved it all: a luxurious house with a rooftop pool, a successful career, and enough money in the bank to fund a small country. Yet, the irrational fear of returning to poverty and drifting through life unnoticed still haunts me.

“Are you all right, Dawson,” Martha asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You sound exhausted. Do you need me to have anything delivered?”

“I’m fine. It’s just been a busy week at the office.” I get up from my desk to stand at the window that overlooks the bustling city streets below. “What are you both doing at home during the day anyway? Should I be worried?”

On Wednesdays, Colby usually represents his clients in court, while Martha runs her interior design agency out of their home in New Haven, Connecticut. When I was accepted into law school at Yale, Colby accepted a job offer in the area. After I graduated and moved back to New York, they chose to stay in New Haven because they loved their house and the peace and quiet their neighborhood provided compared to the hustle and bustle of the city.

“Today is the anniversary of the day we met, so I’m taking Martha out for a little adventure to revisit some of our favorite memories.”

I rub my hand across my neck. “That’s right. Happy anniversary,” I offer.

After everything they’ve been through, they deserve to celebrate every milestone, regardless of how small.

“Thanks, honey,” Martha says, her voice full of warmth.

Before I came into their lives, they had separated and were considering divorce. They struggled with infertility for years and were eventually told they couldn’t have kids. After reconciling, they applied to become licensed foster parents. They were approved just days before my case was resolved and agreed to take me in. Although it’s unusual for foster kids to stay with their lawyers, CPS made an exception for my case, and Martha and Colby adopted me a year later.

I shake off my wandering thoughts. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your date,” I tell them, not wanting to hold them up any longer. “Thanks for checking in on me.”

“We’re always here for you, son,” Colby says.

“Always,” Martha adds, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Have a great rest of your day, honey.”

“You too, talk later,” I say before hanging up.

Every day, I’m reminded of how grateful I am for the love, sacrifice, and support that Martha and Colby bring into my life. I will never take their generosity for granted.

I slide my hand into my pants pocket and look back down at the street to find it’s even busier than before. Lunch hour is wrapping up, so everyone is rushing back to their offices. I catch a glimpse of red hair among the moving figures below. Even from four stories up, I can make out the emerald-green scarf Reese was wearing when she brought me a file earlier this morning.

When I assigned her to report to both me and Rob, I assumed she’d spend half her time on my floor. Instead, she’s spent this past week at her desk downstairs, and our interactions are mostly through emails and texts.

I don’t normally share my personal number with employees, but for her, I didn’t hesitate.

There’s something about her presence that makes me want to keep her close. It’s an irrational thought, but that doesn’t stop me from contemplating how to remedy the situation.

One way or another, I’m going to find a way to see her more often.

It’s relatively quiet when I arrive at the bar. There are several empty tables and only a couple of patrons playing pool and darts. The bartender gives me a nod as I pass, signaling that he’ll bring my usual two fingers of brandy over shortly.

Harrison is settled at the far end of the bar, his Old Fashioned untouched, while he taps away on his phone. He glances up when I slide into the empty stool next to him.

“Took you long enough.” His muscular arms fill out the sleeves of his short-sleeve polo as he lifts his drink to his mouth.

“Something came up that I had to deal with,” I mutter.

“And they call me a workaholic,” he says.

Harrison assumes I spend my weekends like he does—building my ever-growing empire. He has no idea about Steel & Ink or the sleeves of tattoos concealed beneath my dress shirt.

I’m a product of my past.

Becoming a lawyer was a practical decision. A means to an end to secure a stable financial future. While owning a tattoo parlor is personal, it’s my way to connect with people who use ink to share their stories and express themselves. Tattooing provides me with a necessary escape from both the formal confines of my legal career and the memory of my checkered past.

The bartender brings my drink over. “Thanks,” I say, swirling it before taking a generous sip and savoring the burn. “How’s business?” I ask Harrison.

“Busy. Cash and Everly are back in London, and I’ve been working closely with them and the European division to oversee the Townstead International acquisition. Meanwhile, Stafford Holdings is booming. It’s been a challenge managing it all.” He runs his hands through his black hair that’s styled in a tapered fade. “How are things at the firm?”

“I finally convinced Wes Irving that he should hire me as his lawyer,” I say with a smug smile.

He’s been wrapped in litigation with his ex-business partner for four years. I’m confident that I can resolve this before Christmas with the right leverage.

“Damn, that’s impressive, congrats,” Harrison says, barely glancing up from his phone, his attention focused on whatever is on the screen.

“Thanks.” I throw back the rest of my drink, motioning for the bartender to bring me another. “Are you texting a woman?” I taunt, noting the pointed glare Harrison shoots me. “Oh, that’s right, you don’t have time for anything but work these days,” I say with an amused chuckle.

“Says the guy who treats his office like his second home and only has casual flings.”

He has a point. The only women I sleep with agree to my terms—casual sex with no expectations of a long-term relationship, and I never spend the night. Some encounters have been one-night stands, while others have lasted a few days. Unfortunately for me, only one woman has been on my mind during the past four months, and it’s someone off-limits.

The problem is, I’ve never been this intrigued by a woman before, especially not after one kiss. I can’t seem to control how often Reese crosses my mind and it’s maddening.

“Better watch your attitude, Harrison, or I’ll make sure I cash in one of my favors when it’s the most inconvenient for you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he mumbles sarcastically as he finishes off his drink.

The Stafford brothers ran into some legal trouble when acquiring Townstead International and came to me for advice. After my team did some digging, we discovered that the former owner, Richard, had all but driven his business into the ground with embezzlement, tax evasion, kickbacks—the list goes on.

As a lawyer who doesn’t shy away from controversy or difficult situations, I agreed to help Harrison deal with Richard with the caveat that aside from my exorbitant retainer, he and his brothers owed me a couple of favors. Besides, I’d never miss out on the chance to make a grown man quake in his boots or watch him sign away his livelihood when he’s been a symbol of corruption, putting his family at risk in the process. “Now that your brothers have settled down, does that mean you’re next?”

Harrison shakes his head. “Not a chance. They got lucky finding incredible partners, but my priority is business. There’s no one who could handle a man who spends twenty hours a day running a multibillion-dollar company and is hardly ever home.”

“Never say never.” I smirk and lean back in my chair. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who’d tolerate your grumpy ass and is willing to work around your busy schedule if they cared about you enough.”

He glances across the room like he’s lost in thought. “There’s only one woman who fits that description, and she’s the bane of my existence,” he mutters.

“Damn, Harrison. You’re in a dark mood tonight.”

“And you’re unusually upbeat,” he counters. “You’re normally the one in a foul mood. What gives?”

I run a hand over my mouth and consider what he said. Now that he mentions it, I’m in a notably good mood tonight when normally I’m rather irritable by the end of the week. It could have something to do with finding a way to see Reese more often at work. Even though it might take a few weeks to arrange, it has me feeling oddly optimistic.

“Guess I woke up on the right side of the bed today,” I say to Harrison, shrugging it off. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Before I forget, here are those hockey tickets you asked for.” He slides me an envelope. “Just so you know, it was a pain in the ass to get club seat season passes. They’re as popular as a VIP pass for a sold-out Sovereign Kings concert. You’re lucky I’m a part-owner.” He played a year of professional hockey in his early twenties and still practices with the Mavericks to this day.

“Thanks, man. Send me the invoice for the tickets, and I’ll send over the payment,” I say, tucking the envelope into my suit pocket.

“You can count on it,” Harrison says .

Besides asking about the occasional hookup, Harrison and I don’t talk about personal matters, but I make it my job to know everything about my clients—he’s no exception. While he’s the closest thing I have to a friend, it’s hard for me to let my guard down.

Growing up in foster care taught me that trust is a rare commodity. When I was thirteen, my best friend, Max, stole a pair of high-end sneakers. The police showed up at our foster home the next day and found the shoes hidden under my bed. The asshole framed me, and I was sent to juvie. Trying to explain my innocence would have been futile—foster kids are often unfairly judged because of their less-than-ideal circumstances.

That was my first of a string of run-ins with the police and time spent in juvenile detention. It’s one of the reasons I avoid making friends or committing to serious relationships. Aside from Martha and Colby, I’m the only person I can rely on.

Along with the false robbery accusations, I was repeatedly arrested for vandalism while painting murals on public buildings and construction sites.

After moving in with the Tates, Martha gifted me a set of sketchpads and pencils. However, when she caught me trying to sneak out of the house with a backpack of spray paints, she and Colby turned the garage into a studio fit with several large canvases and paints, offering a creative outlet that wouldn’t get me into more trouble. This sparked my love for storytelling through art, and the day I got my first tattoo, I knew I’d found my true passion.

Relaxing in my chair, I fold my arms. “Just so we’re clear, the tickets don’t count as one of my favors since you agreed to get the tickets before you owed me,” I say with a smug expression.

“Figured you’d say that,” Harrison complains. “What the hell do you need two favors for anyway?”

From my observation, favors are reserved for close friends and family. Since I refuse to ever be in someone’s debt, I prefer collecting favors when people owe me to avoid any misconceptions about obligations. In my opinion, it’s better to keep things clear and straightforward.

I shrug. “Might as well have a couple in the bank for emergencies. Never know when I might need help hiding a dead body,” I deadpan.

“You better not get me or my brothers into any legal trouble,” Harrison warns.

I give him a pat on the back. “Lucky for you, you’ve got a great lawyer.”

His alarmed expression only makes me chuckle. Cashing in these favors might turn out to be entertaining after all.