Sasha McCandless 03 - Irretrievably Broken by Melissa F. Miller Page A
Authors: Melissa F. Miller
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dollars, and had ended the night at the Mardi Gras, a refuge for drinkers who’d been banned from other establishments and underage kids trying to pass off bad fake IDs. Its signature drink was a hellish version of a screwdriver, wherein the bartender squeezed the juice of half an orange into a glass of vodka.
The Mardi Gras. No wonder her head pounded.
She took three slow breaths and forced herself out of bed. She made her way to the kitchen, taking the stairs from the loft slowly, and steadied herself against the wall when she reached the bottom.
She poured herself a cup of strong coffee, thankful she’d apparently remembered to set up the coffepot and turn on the timer the night before, and considered her options.
It was almost six o’clock. She looked out the window. The sun had not yet risen, but early light, gray and soft, streamed in. No rain. She could follow her routine: put on her running shoes and jog to Krav Maga class, then try to ward off punishing blows while her hangover attacked her from within. It didn’t sound appealing. Or she could sip some more coffee, nibble a piece of dry toast, and try to get her legs back underneath her.
The shower turned off.She pictured Connelly wrapping a towel around his waist and combing through his black hair with his fingers. Next, he’d run the hot water in the sink and start his daily shaving ritual. A ritual that would be moving to D.C.
She put down the coffee mug and found her running shoes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She returned from her class feeling almost human and found Connelly’s used coffee mug holding down a note on her recycled glass kitchen island.
Hope you’re feeling better than I am. I was thinking I’d make pho tonight? Love you, LC
Despite their respective Irish surnames, Sasha was half Russian and Connelly was half Vietnamese. Although she hadn’t been able to sell him on borscht, he had gotten her hooked on the Vietnamese beef noodle soup.
Having spent eight years eating at her desk at the office, Sasha was not in the habit of buying groceries or preparing meals. Connelly had tackled that role with enthusiasm. Now he was leaving. Maybe she’d finally have to learn how to cook.
She poured a glass of ice water and drank it greedily. She knew rehydrating would help clear the remnants of her headache. But she wasn’t sure what to do about the lump that rose in her throat every time she thought about Connelly leaving.
Her cell phone vibrated on the countertop. She checked the display, curious about who would call so early. Volmer.
“Hi, Will,” she said, putting her glass in the dishwasher.
“Sasha, I’m sorry to bother you so early.” Will’s voice was grave.
“It’s no problem, but I’m afraid I haven’t come to a decision about taking on Greg’s case yet.”
She’d planned to bounce the idea off Connelly over dinner the night before, but, in light of his news, she hadn’t gotten around to it. Although he wasn’t an attorney, he was one of the most deliberate, analytical people she knew, and she valued his opinion.
Will cleared his throat. “I really hate to pressure you, Sasha—”
“Then don’t.”
He hesitated but picked up where he’d left off, “I must. Mr. Lang’s constitutional rights are at issue here. The longer he goes without counsel, the less time he will have to prepare a robust defense.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” she said. She felt irritation clawing at her.
“I know. I’m sorry, Sasha. I’ve been instructed to get an answer now.”
Will sounded genuinely apologetic. She was sure someone higher up in the Prescott food chain was making him press her for an answer, but it didn’t matter. She bristled.
She opened her mouth, intending to tell Will that Prescott & Talbott could find someone else to do its biding.
Instead, she heard herself say, “ If I am going to represent Mr. Lang, we need to get straight what role the firm will have in that defense. Here’s a hint:
The Mardi Gras. No wonder her head pounded.
She took three slow breaths and forced herself out of bed. She made her way to the kitchen, taking the stairs from the loft slowly, and steadied herself against the wall when she reached the bottom.
She poured herself a cup of strong coffee, thankful she’d apparently remembered to set up the coffepot and turn on the timer the night before, and considered her options.
It was almost six o’clock. She looked out the window. The sun had not yet risen, but early light, gray and soft, streamed in. No rain. She could follow her routine: put on her running shoes and jog to Krav Maga class, then try to ward off punishing blows while her hangover attacked her from within. It didn’t sound appealing. Or she could sip some more coffee, nibble a piece of dry toast, and try to get her legs back underneath her.
The shower turned off.She pictured Connelly wrapping a towel around his waist and combing through his black hair with his fingers. Next, he’d run the hot water in the sink and start his daily shaving ritual. A ritual that would be moving to D.C.
She put down the coffee mug and found her running shoes.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She returned from her class feeling almost human and found Connelly’s used coffee mug holding down a note on her recycled glass kitchen island.
Hope you’re feeling better than I am. I was thinking I’d make pho tonight? Love you, LC
Despite their respective Irish surnames, Sasha was half Russian and Connelly was half Vietnamese. Although she hadn’t been able to sell him on borscht, he had gotten her hooked on the Vietnamese beef noodle soup.
Having spent eight years eating at her desk at the office, Sasha was not in the habit of buying groceries or preparing meals. Connelly had tackled that role with enthusiasm. Now he was leaving. Maybe she’d finally have to learn how to cook.
She poured a glass of ice water and drank it greedily. She knew rehydrating would help clear the remnants of her headache. But she wasn’t sure what to do about the lump that rose in her throat every time she thought about Connelly leaving.
Her cell phone vibrated on the countertop. She checked the display, curious about who would call so early. Volmer.
“Hi, Will,” she said, putting her glass in the dishwasher.
“Sasha, I’m sorry to bother you so early.” Will’s voice was grave.
“It’s no problem, but I’m afraid I haven’t come to a decision about taking on Greg’s case yet.”
She’d planned to bounce the idea off Connelly over dinner the night before, but, in light of his news, she hadn’t gotten around to it. Although he wasn’t an attorney, he was one of the most deliberate, analytical people she knew, and she valued his opinion.
Will cleared his throat. “I really hate to pressure you, Sasha—”
“Then don’t.”
He hesitated but picked up where he’d left off, “I must. Mr. Lang’s constitutional rights are at issue here. The longer he goes without counsel, the less time he will have to prepare a robust defense.”
“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” she said. She felt irritation clawing at her.
“I know. I’m sorry, Sasha. I’ve been instructed to get an answer now.”
Will sounded genuinely apologetic. She was sure someone higher up in the Prescott food chain was making him press her for an answer, but it didn’t matter. She bristled.
She opened her mouth, intending to tell Will that Prescott & Talbott could find someone else to do its biding.
Instead, she heard herself say, “ If I am going to represent Mr. Lang, we need to get straight what role the firm will have in that defense. Here’s a hint:
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