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taehyungsbabyygirl · 3 years

Text

Socialità

Chapter 1

Genres: Light fluff, tinge of romance and wholesome(?)

Warning(s): The littlest bit of sexual tension if you squint

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Fortune, fame, beauty.

Those are the things that people had associated you with.

Who does not know Y/F/N Y/L/N? You're basically in every magazine cover, every Youtube thumbnail and news headline. Surpassing Kylie Jenner as quote unquote The World's Richest Young Businesswoman and even beating Ariana Grande as the most followed female influencer on Instagram.

Who really are you? Well, to explain it simply to people who are unaware of you, your businesses and socialite status, you are the owner of a multi-billion dollar brand.

What started with a small online business at 16 which sells nightwear for women with affordable, cheap prices had bloomed into a luxury brand known for their elegant, classy clothing line, ranging from lingerie to formal clothing such as glamorous dresses to charming suits and tuxedos for both men and women.

The brand name? After years of rebranding, it's finally official that the name is, Socialità. Fitting with your brand's target market which were rich socialites from across the globe. Of course there was a reason for that, considering that the materials were high quality, imported ones such as satin and silk from Japan, Egyptian cotton, and French lace, also the designing and productions team who were amongst the best in the art of fashion and exclusivity of everything that was made under the brand, without a doubt would result in a higher cost of production and simultaneously a higher price for the merchandise itself.

And all this success did not come easy, there were countless times when you wanted to hideaway and give up on everything you had invested on. At the age of 28, you finally got to where you are now, thriving with the business that you had built with your own bare hands from the confines of your own bedroom.

But, there was one thing that you were lacking in, the love department. Although you were pretty much well-known by youngsters to elders alike, luck does not seem to be on your side when it comes to romantic relationships. It's not that you weren't romantic or sweet enough, gosh you are a hopeless romantic actually, but you just somehow fall for the wrong person, time and time again.

All the people you had dated once you established a name in the fashion world were either self-centered jerks or gold-digging leeches who were only there for the fame and riches. It's as if you had dated way more men than Taylor Swift ever had, except, you don't call these people out in songs.

Aside from owning a lavish clothing brand and billions to your name, having to work with socialite circles, had granted you the socialite status too. You'd be lying if you say that no rich bachelor had tried to flirt around with you but, your previous horrible experiences with dating as a successful businesswoman made you put your guard up and in the end turning you into the most sought after bachelorette of the 21st century.

-----

"What??? The Bachelorette?? Gosh guys, that would be a horrible idea." You shook your head, swirling the red wine in your glass before sipping on it.

It was a normal weekend evening for you and your peers aka your personal management team which consisted of Selma, Carrie, Lulu, Trey and Giovanni. Sitting in the dining room of your enormous mansion in Calabasas while drinking cheap wine and munching on Cheeto Puffs.

You just finished ranting about how you are so unlucky in love and that you're almost turning 30, without being cuffed to someone. In your opinion, people in their late 20s had already met that person and having good balance in their work, social and love lives but you're here having a nonexistent love life instead.

Tired of constantly listening to the same rants over and over again, Giovanni proposed that you put yourself in a controversial yet exciting TV show, The Bachelorette.

"Girllll you should give The Bachelorette a try, I mean I know that the show is basically scripted but it seems exciting, no?" Giovanni chirped.

"Oh my god yasssss! I'd have the time of my life if I'm surrounded by a dozen of good-looking hunks!" Carrie joined in and daydreamed.

You snorted and put your glass down on the marble surface of the table.

"Yeah but the men on there are usually insincere and only in it for their 60 seconds of fame and the winner of the show is probably just motivated by money. What difference does it make with me going to a private party or nightclub and getting to know dudes there?" You retorted; brow raising to your two friends.

"Sis, the difference is, these men would have to submit a form regarding their background and audition for the show! If you want, we could even be your reps during the audition. We know who are the best people for you!" Selma answered your rhetorical question while pouring herself another glass of wine. She's your PA and bestie so she knew how to reply with the same energy as yours.

Sighing deeply with your fingers pinching your nose bridge, you thought once, twice, thrice and made your decision. Well, what's the worst that could happen right?

"Fine, fine! I'm in with the idea. But if this thing goes south, I.Am.Out." The dominant businesswoman persona in you presented herself whilst the others, especially Giovanni, cheered upon your agreement with their idea.

-----

After months of preparations for your big reality TV debut, it was finally the day for the first week of The Bachelorette. Although you're the one being the prize and the one being chased, you felt uneasy and nervous to meet the men who had passed the auditions to become contestants.

"Don't worry! Me and Giovanni made sure that we only let the best ones pass the audition. And when I say the best ones, I meant, socialites, doctors, businessmen and even kinsmen of royalty!"

"Only the best for our QUEEN!"

Those were the words that came out of Selma and Gio's mouths. Thankfully you have these reliable people to help filter through the applicants of the program. If you gave the show's producers 100% control over who comes in and comes out of the show, it'll be a hot mess and they'd probably choose the men based on their looks and bulkiness but not necessarily the brains and skills.

Throughout the audition process, all of the men's background and names were kept a secret from you by Selma and Gio, it'll be a surprise, they said and you trusted them with it.

Sitting at the back of a limousine alone, you started to fidget with the dangling diamond of your earring subconsciously; a habit that you developed whenever you had cold feet.

The vehicle was heading towards the villa where the first meeting would happen between you, the bachelorette and your suitors.

You and the production team had discussed about how the first meeting would be. You thought that the idea of having to stand in front of the villa's front door while the men arrive in limos were quite cringy and not to mention time-consuming and unnatural so you proposed the idea of having the men arrive in a first come first serve basis and sit in numbered rooms in the villa while awaiting you. In that way, you could see who was punctual and who was late. But the catch is, the contestants only have 5 minutes to chat up with you and leave a good first impression.

-----

Alas, you finally reached the villa and stepped out of the automobile. Your dress was a satin, rosé coloured one with a modified A-line, basque waist and halter neckline; glamorous yet not over the top, suitable for a socialite like you.

Not wasting any time, once the cameras started rolling, you entered the ginormous villa and headed upstairs to the rooms, knocking the door gently before entering the space.

The first man you met was Kim Namjoon, he introduced himself as an engineer, a sound engineer. He was confident from the get go and eloquent too.

"Hmm an engineer ay?" You propped your head with the palm of your hand; leaning against the couch's back pillows.

"Yeah.. My family insisted I do that. I wanted to be a musician at first, and that's why I took up sound engineering now." He gave out a dimple smile which you couldn't help but grin at. They're adorable.

You liked his presence and how outspoken he was but sadly the 5 minutes were before you knew it.

Next, you met up with a gentleman named Im Jaebum. A winery owner. He gave you a warm hug from the first time you entered the room.

"I heard that you're a wine conoisseur yourself Y/N? I'd love to take you to Napa Valley where my winery is. I'm sure we'll have a blast there." He smiled and acted a bit smug.

"That sounds like a plan.. I'm not a person who would say no to wine." You replied with a light wink, returning the smugness to him.

Continuing on, after Jaebum, you entered a room which looked bigger than the previous two you'd been in.

By the big window, there was a man with broad shoulders who introduced himself as Kim Seokjin, as he turned around, he greeted you and pecked your hand.

"Nice to meet you I'm Kim Seokjin, just call me Jin." He smiled softly, inviting you to sit down next to him.

"Nice to meet you too Jin.. So what do you do?" You asked carefully; quite intrigued by how good-looking he is with the slicked back hairstyle he has.

"Well I'm a professor of English and Korean Literature. Probably one of the most uninteresting jobs among the other guys." He timidly admitted; being quite humble.

You immediately disagreed with his statement, telling him that literature components are fascinating and that educating people about it is a magnificent job.

Afterwards you conversed with a man named Park Jinyoung. He was also extremely dashing and he's a car dealer. But not just any car, the ones he sells are top brands such a Lamborghini, Maserati, Tesla and Ferrari.

"My job is amazing. Good money, good image, but there was something missing and I think we both could relate to that, we both are looking for love." He half-bragged which didn't really impress you but you agreed nonetheless.

As you politely excused yourself to move on to the next room, where the man was leaning back and scrolling through his phone. Fair skin and contrasting ebony coloured hair.

This guy gave off a cold vibe to you but that made you even more intrigued to get to know him.

"Hi..." You sat on the couch with him and he gave a small smile as he put his phone the side.

"Min Yoongi.. Nice to meet you." He extended his hand out to shake yours. A pretty formal greeting despite the consequences you two were in at the moment.

You two kept the conversation going by talking about your jobs and background. Everything you asked, he answered in all honestly and you liked that. The push-and-pull game was a fun one to play but with Yoongi, the small talk you had was chill and relaxed, the most natural one you had the whole night.

Up next was a kind looking male, taller than Yoongi who seem to be nervous about meeting you for the first time.

"Hello!" You greeted him with a bright smile to ease his anxiousness.

"Hi, hi.. I'm Mark Tuan. I'm an artist.." He abruptly greeted you back.

"Ooh! Like musically or..?" You tilted your head.

"Visually.. I draw and paint."

You led the conversation with the man since he looked very hesitant and awkward the whole time.

The next room had a bubbly and energetic man who was basically radiating good vibes as you entered the room. His name was Jung Hoseok. As you peeked into the room, he immediately walked towards you and gave you tight bear hug with a huge smile plastered on his face.

"Well besides my job as a paediatric specialist, I also enjoy dancing. Do you like to dance?" He jumped off the seat and proceeded to pull you up with him to playfully salsa. His actions made you laugh happily.

"You're so spontaneous!" You hit his chest lightly, still laughing at you guys' actions.

After the exciting interaction between you and Hoseok, you had to calm down and lower your expectations again after it skyrocketed because of the doctor earlier.

That's when you met a muscular man, if Hoseok earlier had radiated good boy vibes, this one radiated bad boy vibes.

He was Jackson Wang, a well-known socialite who is the heir of Wang Co. Ltd. A company which sells electronics such as smartphones, tablets and computers.

"Hello.." You said softly, slightly intimidated by the man's comparably bigger size to you.

"Hello, pretty lady." He took your hand in his and kissed it just like Jin had but his way of executing it was different. The male kissed each of your knuckle and it got you culture shocked.

"Oh wow.. Okay.." You laughed awkwardly as you looked at the man kiss your hand.

The conversation went well with him despite you noticing that he was practically staring at your with those deep brown eyes while you spoke about yourself to him.

The sexual tension was there and you were hoping, praying that the next man would tone down a bit and let you relax, thankfully custom jeweler, Park Jimin did.

"I'm a jeweler.. And can I just say, I adore these diamonds. You have remarkable taste." He proceeded to run his hand gently through the diamond earring you were wearing.

"Thank you! And I absolutely adore this choker you have on.." You reciprocated his action which made him smile softly.

Next up was the room of a private jet pilot named Choi Youngjae.

"Nice to meet you Y/N! I hope we could create good memories here. I'd love to bring you on a helicopter and show you the aerial view of California." He mused but you're not entirely impressed but acted as if you were in order to not hurt his feelings.

"Aww I'd like that. The view must be amazing!" You cringed at your own words but smart enough to mask it.

Hmm, you foresee someone who's potentially going to go home first in this show. His words lacked personality and character and not well thought.

Come on, you obviously had rode a helicopter and saw the aerial view of California. You ride it to work whenever the traffic is congested. He could at least thought of another country or state but instead he settled with Cali, the state where you are based in.

Disappointed, you moved on to the next room, surprisingly, the atmosphere was different, the area was dimly lit and the man sitting on the chair had his legs spread.

"Hi.." He spoke with a deep, low voice that caused you to bite your lip.

"Hello.." You smiled amidst the tense situation, making your way towards him.

"Kim Taehyung.. Fashion designer and owner of TH Couture." He answered without you asking.

The male was quite blunt but his demeanor was alluring. There was a mysterious aura circling him, totally someone to keep an eye on. The conversation was as intense as Jackson's but the two of you had the same interest which was fashion so you didn't feel as awkward as when you were with Jackson.

After Taehyung, it is down to three more people, you were already losing momentum and excitement as you already had spoken to 11 men that night. Before entering the next room, you took a deep breathe and loosen up your shoulders.

In the room was a man, he looked the most different, he had a lengthy name, a Thai one.

"Kunpimook Bhuwakul, but just call me Bam Bam.. I know my name's quite long and I'm also more comfy with Bam Bam.." He bowed to you like a gentleman and smiled handsomely at you.

"That's an adorable name! Bam Bam huh?" You sat down and grinned at the latter.

"You think so? You're adorable-er" He winked at you and caught you off-guard.

As the five minutes of jokes and flirty pickup lines ended, you bid farewell to the Thai man, little did you know that the person you just talked to was related to the Thai royal family.

Entering the 2nd last room, there was a tall man, looking around the well-furnished room but as soon as you came in, his attention diverted to you.

He greeted you with enthusiasm, introducing himself as Kim Yugyeom, an app developer and gaming streamer.

"Gosh you're pretty." He said straight-forwardly while smiling brightly and hugging you snugly.

"And GOSH you're tall!" You replied with those words and the same smile as what he had on his face. At this rate, reciprocation is really your best friend when you don't know how to react or reply to a certain remark from the suitors.

You talked about the apps Yugyeom had developed and the variations amazed you. He had created tons of apps such as games, workout apps, e-commerce platforms, online stores and sorts. But when he started talking about games, you began to lose interest in the chatter. Games weren't your strongest suit but you were happy that he is passionate about them and sharing it with you.

Finally! The last room! Which meant that this person is the last person to arrive to the villa. You wonder who this latecomer is and when you got into the area, your eyes widened.

Jeon Jungkook? He was somebody you had worked with and still actively working with. He is the person in charge of the photography and videography for Socialità and seeing him on The Bachelorette is a huge surprise.

"Wait.. JK?" You didn't know how to react.

"Hey! There's my girl!" He walked towards you with his bunny smile and gave you a hug. You couldn't believe that this was happening, Selma and Gio must've put him in to pull a prank on you.

"One question. Why?" You laughed in disbelief.

"Can't a man try?" He questioned back cheekily.

You two continued the conversation casually without any awkwardness as the two of you had known each other already. That was when you got to know that he had taken a liking on you ever since you two started working together. Everything he told you had sounded sincere so far.

-----

After the first meetings were over, all the men were put in the lounge to get to know each other's competition while you were interviewed by the crew regarding your first impressions of all of your suitors.

"Well everyone was pleasant. But there were a few who didn't pass my vibe check. I guess we just gotta see how it goes." You gave an ambiguous answer to the camera.

"Who do you think caught your eyes the most?" Henry, the producer asked.

"Hmm.. I don't want to seem bias, I mean this is the 1st episode after all but... Hoseok was fun to be around.. Jackson came off very strong. And well Jungkook too of course!"

"You seem to know him.." The producer stated.

"Yes yes.. We actually work together.. I didn't know that he'd want to participate in this show too." You shrugged and flashed a pearly white smile.

"Do you see anyone who might be going home soon?"

"Oof.. That's a dangerous question. That'd probably be ..."

To be continued (3 March, 12 AM, KST)

Author's note: Sorry for the delay guys! I underestimated the length of this chapter but I hope you guys like it! Don't forget to like and reblog this to show support! Also follow so you don't miss out on updates! This chapter is more of an introductory chapter so we'll be seeing more action and interaction between Y/N and de boyzzz.

Who do you think would be eliminated first?

Tagging @aretha170

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twisted-in-wonderland-jay · 3 years

Note

Hi, can I request dorm leaders getting jealous of their s/o (like maybe someone flirted with the reader idk), other adjustments are up to you run wild with your imagination!

So I write everything down on notecards... I misplaced it for a time (a day) Oh my god I seriously had a panic attack that I lost it.😅 Any who LET’S GET INTO IT!

Jealous

The dorm leader walks away for a second to grab food or a drink and tell you to stay put as they do. A person comes up to you and flirt a bit. The dorm leader sees this from a distance...

Location: Market/mall

Malleus-

Calmly approach’s as he curses them under his breath with a sleep charm once they sleep tonight.

He’s still flirting with you when Malleus gets there.

“Their my friend and I don’t think you should be talking to them” Malleus doesn’t want to have an open relationship at least until he is crowned

They persist in flirting

He stands up and towers over them. They start shaking “Do you know who I am child? I am Malleus Draconia Son of Thorns and heir to the Valley of Thorns. I suggest you mind your manners around me and me friend.”

Malleus starts walking away and tells you to follow

“What was that?”

“He was flirting with me”

“Don’t let men do that Darling. You know I can’t do much about our relationship as of now, but that doesn’t mean you can be open to others.”

Leona-

Glair at them

Hand on hip from behind puffs out chest

Kiss and says “Exuse did you say something to my kitten, you neutered house cat?” While still close to your lips and smirks

“Get lost house cat” and growls

Azul-

He stops in his tracks while about to order food with the Twins

They HAD to tag along

Azul doesn’t quite know what to do

Then in single thought Azul walks with confidence over to you

He didn’t put much thought into what to say he just went

he holds out his arm for you to take and wrap your arm around his

Floyd and Jade to stand behind you two

“Hey Shrimp, is this guy bothering you?”

Azul waves them off. He wouldn’t be much of a man if he couldn’t handle this

He thinks to show off by telling you that you can have anything you want

There’s better places to shop then were the common people shop

Good thing he’s wearing fine clothes (He couldn’t sell it otherwise)

As you walk away the guy who was flirting with you couldn’t help but realize Azul looked like a mafia boos with his suit, hat, and cane. The twins looked like bodyguards, he was glad he didn’t push his luck.

Vil-

Hugs you from the side and holds onto you with one arm on your upper back and the other holding your hand (Holding your hand is the side facing the flirt)

He sets his chin on your head and kisses you on the head

“Please don’t get lost again, my beloved” He sees the guy “Oh? Was he helping you with directions love?”

“Well it doesn’t matter we have to get to our photo shoot. We have a lot to do.” You start walking away to the car. He turns back to the guy

He throws a couple insults out nothing that would ruin his image but insults none the less. Degrading them.

Take you away while giving them a dirty look

“your not good enough for them” Vil mouths

Idia-

He comes back after getting drinks, he sees them talking to you as you back away a bit.

He comes up from behind as his hair lights up and kinda turned a slight shade of red

Takes your hand after the guy insults him saying he’s lame

Starts walking away

Dumps drink on guy before walking off

“Where’s your drink” “I drank it all. It was Mt. Dew after all.”

Hugs you

He may be bad with people but he’s not afraid to put them in there place

“You wouldn’t leave me for another right?”

Kalim-

He comes up from behind and slithers his hand up your stomach and kisses your jaw

It makes him giggle when he sees your reaction.

He’s mad at them showing a small soundless snarl and narrowed eyes

Once you see his face he has a big smile on coming out from behind you

He acts all happy and tells you he has something to show you

The person flirting with you tries to grab your hand to get your attention

Slap! You turn back to see a bright red mark on the persons arm.

As the person tried to grab you Kalim slapped it away

Kalim’s hand is an expression you’ve never seen before, it’s a furious look

“I let you off the hook because y/n is cute, and it’s normal for people to flirt with them, but NONE will ever touch them!”

Kalim growls at them, something you’ve never heard before

Though furious he take you back home/to the dorm with the upmost kindness

Riddle-

Asks who this is

Putting arm on waist after he answers

Walks away with you

Whispers “off with your head”

Seems not too jealous on the outside

After you walk away and get back to the dorm he releases the guy and hugs you putting his head on your shoulder and telling you he loves you more then he shows and please down leave him. Your all he can trust other then Che’nya and Trey. You were the one who saved him after all.

I hope you all enjoyed! Remember I have prompts but you can also request ones not found. Also later today I will be updating my requests requirements (in a couple hours)

#twisted wonderland #diasmonia #heartslabyul #ignihyde #octavinelle #pomefiore #savanaclaw #malleus draconia #leona kingscholar #idia shroud #kalim al asim #azul ashengrotto #vil shoenheit #riddle rosehearts

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thorne93 · 3 years

Text

History Repeats (Part 12)

Prompt: Life’s hard, right? Well throw in a not so great job, a broken heart, and chasing a pipe dream in LA. But could someone come along to make all the bad shit disappear? Or is he just another heartbreak waiting around the bend?

Warnings: language, drug addiction, alcohol addiction, angst/heartbreak, adult themes (??)

Word Count: 3612

Note: Aesthetic made by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo because she’s absolutely amazing Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo . Brainstorming from @carryonmyswansong

**Song Inspiration: Death By A Thousand Cuts by Taylor Swift

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Dating Hayden was so easy, surprisingly easy. Talking to him during dates was the most comfortable thing you’d ever done. And oddly, it just felt right to go home together but go to separate rooms. You could take things slow and simple, and yet still be around each other all the time. And Hayden was great to you. He treated you nicely, complimented you all the time, encouraged you on your newfound work. In fact, one night, you were siting on the couch, writing a new song.

“What’s that?” Hayden asked over your shoulder.

“A new song,” you said as you hid the notebook, shielding it with your body.

“Ah, I see. Will I get to hear it?”

“With any luck,” you hoped. “I’m hoping Trey will work with me to record this one for the EP, I think it’s really good.”

“I’m sure it’s fantastic,” he assured as he sat beside you on the couch.

“Actually, it’s almost done… Would you want to… read it?” you offered timidly. It was a very personal song, but it also had a lot to do with him.

“Are you sure?” he inquired, his brows knitting together.

You nodded. “Yeah, you actually inspired it.”

“Oh, then I definitely want to look,” he said happily as he reached towards you. He grabbed the notebook and looked at your frantic handwriting.

Is it cool that I said all that?

Is it chill that you're in my head?

'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate)

Is it cool that I said all that

Is it too soon to do this yet?

'Cause I know that it's delicate

Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it?

Delicate

He looked up at you and gave you the warmest smile. “I love it. You’re going to be the next top star, I swear by it.”

You blushed and thanked him before leaning forward to kiss him deeply.

----------------------------------

By now, the two of you had had a date a week now, and things couldn't be better for you.

Your producer, Trey, invited you to meet some members he thought should join your band. You had a good sound on the demos you’d given him, but he said he wanted to boost your vocals with the best instruments and sounds he could. That’s where another producer, a drummer, and a guitarist came in. All were looking for their next project and wanted to meet you.

He asked you to meet at a restaurant in the city. You said you’d have to wait until after your shift, but he said he didn’t mind waiting. So you finished your shift at 11 and headed to the exclusive lounge and bar. When you got there, there was only one party in the whole place. It seemed as if the place had closed. You frowned and greeted the hostess. She showed you to the table where Trey, a woman, and a man were sitting. You sat next to the man you didn’t know on the edge.

“Ah, Y/N, you made it,” Trey greeted as he leaned forward.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it. Thank you so much for waiting for me.”

“Sure thing. So this is Stacia, she’s the other producer I work with from time to time. She heard your voice and really liked it. She’s worked with some great names before and I think she has a good shot at making you the next big thing.”

“Oh, wow, such a pleasure to meet you,” you said, reaching over the table and shaking her hand.

“And this misfit beside you is Darren,” he said with a smirk.

You shook his hand. He was lean as all get out, wearing a white wife beater, black jeans, and a black blazer with white pin stripes. He had a purple scarf wrapped around his neck and his hair was disheveled.

“He’s a drummer. He’s damned good and I think he’d work well with your sound. Or the sound I think we should try to go for,” Trey explained.

“That’s great! I’d love to start right away. We can start in the morning or --”

“Woah, slow down,” Trey said with a bit of a chuckle. The rest of the table laughed too. You felt a bit embarrassed and he could tell. “No, you’re fine. You’re excited. You should be. You’ve got a great voice and I can tell you’re willing to work with us on sound and marketing and advertising, the works, right?”

“Absolutely,” you said.

“Great, good, then we’re in good shape. We can talk business tomorrow. I want to get you in a booth, maybe polish up a few of those demos you gave me. I want to see what my team can do with you, and for you. But tonight, I think we should all just chat. Get to know you, your story, what your goals are regarding music…” He waved over one of the waiters standing by. He gestured to you. “What’ll you have?”

“Oh, uh, water?” you said, unsure what you were ordering. You didn’t know if this was a dinner, or cocktails or finger foods or what.

Trey gave you a funny look. “You don’t want a cocktail? Do you not drink? You sensitive to substances?”

You shook your head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. I just wasn’t sure if I should be drinking walk talking business…? Thought it might be a bad mix.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Don’t think of this as a business meeting. I’m your friend, Y/N. Business? Yes, both you and I should always be professional and business-like, but I think we should build this out of friendship, right? So get a drink. We all will.”

“O--Oh, okay, uh, I’ll have a screwdriver,” you said quickly.

“There ya go. Whiskey sour,” he ordered. Stacia ordered a cosmo and Darren ordered a tequila and tonic.

They began asking you about your dreams, aspirations, goals, where you write, how you do it, what your inspiration came from, your current job. They talked a little bit about their plans for you.

When it was all done, you called Hayden to pick you up. You weren’t sober enough to drive on your own. He asked you how it went but after a few answers, he realized it might be better to interrogate you later.

-------------------------------------

You continued to meet with Trey and his team almost every day or night. He discussed the future, plans, and contracts. In just a few days, you’d cut a contract to turn your demos into a real EP. He wanted to re-record the tracks on your demo, and add two more.

It turned out he was more than a producer, he owned that lounge you were at and a few bars. It was pretty customary for people he produced to be at them. He didn’t care one way or the other if his musicians partied, as long as they showed up to the booth on time and did their work.

You’d been to one party at a club and met several others that were in Trey’s circle and Darren’s. Some musicians, some singers, some other music executives. It was good to meet these people, to network, but after that first night, you learned to say no to the alcohol. You thought it was better to be on your best behavior when you met all these people.

Hayden wasn’t thrilled about you going to these events or parties, but you stressed that you needed to do it for your career. You explained you were only meeting other people that would help and once you reminded him wouldn’t be drinking, he didn’t see much wrong with it and seemed to accept it.

You were having the time of your life. You had a new, great boyfriend who treated you well. You were on your way to your dream career. Everything was more perfect than it’d ever been in your life.

One night though, you were talking with Darren, in a booth at one of the clubs.

“I’m so nervous. I go in to re-record my first track tomorrow,” you said, giddy with fear and excitement.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll do stellar,” he assured. “But… if you want.” He glanced around for a moment before pulling something out in a small bag. “I do have something to take the edge off.”

“Holy shit. Is that coke?” you demanded, your heart already racing.

He nodded his head subtly. “You want a bump or not?”

“Uh, no, I’m good. I don’t… I don’t do that. I’ll be fine,” you assured, holding your hand up.

“Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug. He tapped a little on his fist, and snorted. You bobbed your head before saying you were gonna go get another drink at the bar. You avoided Darren the rest of the evening.

---------------------------

“You ready for this?” you asked as you plopped beside him on the couch with popcorn and cokes.

“No, absolutely not,” he informed with a laugh.

You put in the first movie -- Star Wars: Attack of the Clones -- and pressed play. “I’m ready. I am beyond excited.”

“Ugh, this movie… I got so much grief over this,” he confided, cringing as he stared at the screen.”

“So? Fuck ‘em,” you said easily.

“Y/N, you’ll understand better when you’re in the music business, but it does matter what some people think about you. Having a lot of critics isn’t a good thing, I hate to break it to you.”

“No, I know that,” you assured. “But I also know that you were unjustly criticized for this. I think you portrayed Anakin exactly how he needed to be.”

“Really?” he asked incredulously as he shot a glance your way.

“Uh, yeah, absolutely,” you said defiantly. “I don’t think anyone else could’ve played him any better, I swear.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly, shooting you a half smile that made butterflies erupt inside you. He could still do that to you despite dating for a while now and living together.

The two of you watched more of his filmography all the way to the Vanishing. During a particularly jumpy scene, you ended up nearly jumping in Hayden’s lap. Your legs were on top of his, and most of your butt had scooted over onto his lap.

Embarrassed a little bit by your needlessly scared actions, you turned around to apologize, blushing.

“Oh, uh sorry,” you said as you eased yourself off his lap.

He chuckled a low, sweet laugh. “It’s fine,” he assured.

Just as you scooted off of his lap, the two of you were face to face, your legs still on his thighs. His mouth was just a few inches from yours. You stared at him, then stared down at his lips. You slowly planted a kiss on his lips that he reciprocated by curing his hand up to your hair. Gently, he began lowering you back onto the couch before continuing to kiss your lips, your cheek, down your collarbone.

You were breathing quickly. You wondered if you were moving too fast with him, too fast since Jason. But nothing had ever felt more right. You and Hayden had so much in common, he shared the same humor, you lit up when you saw him, you still felt both incredibly comfortable around him but still got butterflies when you saw him. He lived in the country and he adored children. He understood the music business and he supported you. He believed in your dreams. No one else had ever done that for you.

He and you saw everything the same way. He was everything you ever wanted and more. He was kind to you and sweet to you. If you’d built him yourself on paper, you couldn’t have done a better job.

The more his mouth moved over your body, the more you wanted him closer to you. You laid down with him hovering on top of you, and before you even really realized what was happening, you two were a sweaty heap on top of each other.

You spent the night chasing releases and exploring each other physically. You gave yourself entirely to him and you didn’t look back.

----------------------

You didn’t tell Hayden about the drugs or the offer of them during the first meet up. It was the first of a few, actually. You had already started the re-recording, on your second track now. You typically went in before your shift at the hotel. On your days off, you and Hayden would set up a date, if he wasn’t beat from filming.

By now, you’d been to three parties where you’d been offered drugs, and the last two times it wasn’t Darren. Everyone was cool about it though when you said no. Didn’t make you any more comfortable around them, but that was a hazard of the job.

Tonight was your tenth official date with Hayden. The two of you agreed to keep it simple since you were tired from working two jobs and he was filming for 10 hour days. Tonight’s location was a simple italian restaurant in the heart of the city.

“So how’s the recording? I haven't heard much. Is it going well or better than you expected?”

“It’s good,” you said, nodding. “Better than I imagined actually. I was so nervous the first day. I thought they’d rethink signing the contract. I worried they'd think I sounded like the worst thing they’d ever heard.”

He laughed slightly and said, “Oh my god. No, why would they think that?”

You shrugged. “I guess because this is too good to be true. Like, this kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me, or people like me. I’m just, I’m a nobody, and I’m being discovered by a guy who produces artists that top the charts weekly.”

“But you’re great. This guy heard you sing in the lobby and then heard your demos and he wanted more.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I know but still, it’s so hard to believe it’s real.”

“I know the feeling. Believe me, it doesn't really get easier,” he informed with a smile.

“Oh, that’s so good to know,” you said, laughing. “How about you? How is filming going?”

“Really great. I really like this new project. I wish you could come on set,” he said, gesturing to you. “I think you’d have fun.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Just as you went to ask him something, a brunette woman walked up to the table. She wasn’t your waitress, so you had no idea who she was. She came up behind Hayden at first, then stopped just next to him at the table.

He saw a figure out of his peripheral vision. He glanced over to her, then did a double-take.

“Rachel?” he greeted, completely flabbergasted. “What--What are you doing here?”

“I saw you, from the window, thought I’d come in and say hi,” she said before glancing at you. “And this is...?”

“Oh, sorry, uh, Y/N this is Rachel, Rachel this is Y/N.”

You held out your hand before the name Rachel registered with you. Just as she went to shake your hand, you remembered who she was.

His ex.

The mother of his child.

She shook your hand, smiling warm and friendly before she turned back to Hayden. “Could I talk to you for one second?” she requested.

“Uh, sure.” He glanced back to you before scooting away. “I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna borrow him for one quick second,” she said. “So good to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too,” you said, trying to hide your confusion and slight offense.

You watched the two walk outside and they talked for a few minutes before Hayden rejoined you at the table.

“Hey, everything okay?” you asked sweetly, putting your hand on his.

“Yeah, fine.” He pulled his hand back and sat it in his lap.

“Are you sure? You seem a bit rattled--”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. “Let’s just finish our dinner, okay?”

Pulling away from him, you stared at him, concerned. “Oh, okay, yeah, sure.”

The two of you finished your dinner in silence. You had tried to question him a few times, but nothing happened. When you two got home, the atmosphere had shifted. It was no longer this lovely, warm, sweet air. It felt cold, distant, tense.

“I had a good time,” you tried as you stood between the two doorways to the bedrooms. “If you want, we could watch--

“Yeah, listen I'm gonna hit the hay. I’m beat. Thanks though. Goodnight.” He barely looked at you as he shook his head while talking. He gave you a quick glance and then went inside his bedroom.

You frowned, having no idea what you did wrong.

------------------------

The next day, you saw Hayden in the morning as the two of you headed into work. You were on your way to the studio and he was on his way to film.

“Oh, hey,” you greeted him happily. “So weird about seeing Rachel last night. Are you okay?”

“Huh, yeah, I’m fine,” he said as he poured a cup of coffee in his to-go cup.

“Oh, good. If you want to talk about it, we can.”

He nodded. “Not now. I’m running late. I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”

“Sure thing. See you later.” You went to kiss him but he just picked up his cup, smiled slightly at you, and swept around him. You frowned after him.

When you got home that night, it wasn’t much better. He said he was tired and went into his room, barely even looking at you.

This stayed this way for the next few days. You spoke to him, he would excuse himself and leave. You sat next to him on the couch, he’d get up to shower or go for a run. You’d offer to have a late dinner, he’d say he had already eaten. Everything you did, he found a way to avoid you.

Until finally, on your day off, you stopped him as he came in the door.

“Hey, can we talk? You’ve been kind of off lately, and I just want to check in with you.” You got close to him. “You’ve barely looked at me or talked to me.”

He began chewing his lip as his gaze cast to the floor. “I don’t think we should date any more,” he said.

The air left the room.

“I--I-- What did you say?” you stammered, frowning.

“Look, I’ve thought about it and I think it’s best if we just remain friends. I really like you but…”

“But… what? You decided to get in my pants and just leave?” you wondered, anger building up inside you. “I mean, was the sex that bad?” you asked, trying to lighten the mood, but also trying to sincerely understand what happened between you two.

He shook his head and ran a hand down his face. “No, that’s not it at all. I swear. I really do like you, I just…”

“Just what, Hayden? I deserve an explanation. We were fine. We were more than fine, or happy, so I thought. I mean, what the hell?” you demanded, completely confused.

“I just think… Look, you and I met under some shaky circumstances. I just don’t want just to be…”

“To be what?” you pressed.

He finally looked up and looked into your eyes. “To be each other’s rebounds,” he informed.

You shook your head. “You’re not my rebound. You’re… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and now you just want to throw that all away?”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea for us to keep dating. Rebounds often feel like they’re the best thing in the world, because it masks the pain--”

“I’m not masking shit! I thought I loved Jason, I really did. But after we broke up, I realized I just loved the idea of being with him. I got comfortable with him. I told you this. But you and I… I thought we were real, I thought we had a future.”

“I thought we did too, but I’ve re-evaluated our situation, and I don’t think our heads are in this.”

Shaking your head, you were spinning. “I don’t understand. We were fine! Weren't we? We were having fun. I thought things were really good between us. Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” he assured. “It’s nothing like that.”

“So, this is it then? You just think of me as a rebound and after you get in my pants to forget about your ex, you just want to throw me aside?” you shouted.

“No!” He stepped forward and squeezed your shoulders. “I care a lot about you,” he started.

You wrenched out of his grasp. “Just not enough to stay with me? Hmm? It’s fine. I get it. All guys have ever done to me is use me. Get me to like them, I treat them well, just when I think it’s going great, I get dumped. Rinse, repeat. Whatever. I’m over this.”

You stormed into your bedroom and slammed the door, turning your stereo nearly all the way up. You got ready for bed and curled up, letting the tears flow. Your chest hurt so bad from feeling this way, from feeling so… used, so betrayed.

You were far from over this. You were far from fine. Out of everyone you’d ever been with, Hayden made the most sense. He seemed to fit you so perfectly. He fit your life so well.

And now, he wanted out, like everyone else you ever got close to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Forever Tag:

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Hayden Christensen:

@coldlilheart

@haydens-moles

History Repeats:

@multifandomblog315

#history repeats #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen fic #hayden christensen

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katladreemurr · 5 years

Text

Limes

Masterlist

( By sharksofwrath on Reddit)

When I was sixteen I had a summer job delivering groceries for the local Mom and Pop market. It was 1994, and the AC in my old mustard yellow station wagon was not keeping up with the blistering July heat. After my fifth delivery of the day, I sat in the break room of the store putting my hair up and laying some wet paper towels on my neck. As much I begged my manager not to, he insisted I wear the polyester brown pants and orange polo shirt that was the standard uniform. I tried to tell him that the inevitable pit stains I would suffer at the hands of my sauna of a car would be off-putting to customers, but he wouldn't hear it.

I was just starting to cool off when the boss man barreled in the swinging door.

"Hey Steph, we got another delivery for you," he waved a receipt in front of my face.

I groaned and put my head on the table.

"C'mon kiddo, you could be out chasing carts all day like Robbie. Plus, it's only one item, and it isn't too far."

"Too far" ended up being about 15 miles out of town. The drive only took about twenty minutes, but that's a road trip in small-town time. Sticky beads of sweat were running down both sides of my face, and my throat was burning from the smell of my engine protesting the heat.

I glared at the box of limes in my back seat through my rearview mirror. That was all the customer ordered. A single, goddamn, twenty-pound box of limes. What could possibly prompt someone to order an entire box of limes on the hottest day of the year? They weren't on sale, so that ruled out obsessive "couponers", those housewives who spent their lives trying to save a penny on a gallon of hand soap. And, considering we were a dry county, I doubted it was some sort of last-minute margarita emergency.

After passing mile after mile of cornfields and turnip patches, I turned my car onto a dirt road leading up to what looked like an old ranch that had been out of commission for a long time. It was lined with broken wooden fences, overgrown weeds baked by the sun, and bails of rusting chicken wire were scattered to either side. My car was creating a massive dust cloud, but through the haze, I made out a two-story farmhouse about a hundred yards away. That was when I realized it wasn't just dust I was trying to see through, steam and smoke billowed out of the hood. My engine had finally had it. I turned off my car, glaring at the house.

I hoped the owners could spare a cup of coolant when I got to the door, or at least their phone so I could call my dad. Peeling myself off the vinyl seats and into the dusty heat, I grabbed my citrusy cargo and headed off.

The distance hadn't seemed so bad when I was driving, but now it just looked further with every step. The box just kept getting heavier. The heat was bringing out the oil in the lime's skin, their perfume-like smell hit me in the face, stinging my eyes like they were mocking me. Doesn't everything feel so personal when you're a teenager?

When I finally got to the porch of the old house, sweat was running into my eyes, I dramatically dropped the box and banged on the screen door. A scraggly man, who looked to be in his late 20s opened the interior door. He stared at me with a confused look on his face.

"Y-you're not Robbie," he wrung his hands together.

"Um, no, I'm Stephanie. I brought your box of limes, and I was hoping I could--"

"I thought they would send Robbie," he was agitated.

"No, Robbie backed his car into Mrs. Adjimi's mailbox last week, so they took him off deliveries. Also, I was really wondering if I could use your phone."

"My what?" he looked at me wildly.

Looking back, it was definitely stupid to insist that the irate and unkempt man, who clearly did not want me to be there, let me inside his house.

"Your phone, it's just, my car died and I need to call my dad to pick me up," I pleaded.

"You see," he said through clenched teeth, "I ordered this heavy box thinking they would send him for sure. What are they thinking sending a girl out to the middle of nowhere with a twenty-pound box?" His eyes darted around the yard behind me.

"I mean, he gets off work at six, if you wanted to hang with him. Are you a friend his older brother or something?"

That seemed to make him chill out. He held the screen door open, "come on in, you can use the phone."

The house felt too still and unlived in. It was hotter inside than out, and it didn't have that "house" smell. You know, the smell of cooking and cleaning supplies or the general smell people leave when they occupy a space. It was just the dry smell of the dirt and dust that coated every surface in the house.

The man led me to the kitchen and gestured for me to sit at a table that was nestled between the counter and the back door. He picked up the lemon yellow phone off the base on the wall and listened, like he wasn't sure if it was going to have a dial tone or not, then handed the receiver to me.

"What's the number?" he turned his back, his finger poised to dial for me.

"Oh, I can just do it myself," I had known since kindergarten not to give my phone number to strangers.

He didn't move, just stood there, silent. After 30 seconds or so of this awkward standoff, I practically screamed out the number. I was so annoyed. My teenage brain was more embarrassed and irritated than scared. I was obviously bothering this guy. Plus, he was letting me call my dad. The killers on 20/20 never let their victims just call for help.

"I-it's ringing," I looked up and said sheepishly to him.

"Roberts' Manufacturing, this is Joyce, how may I help you," an overly cheerful voice answered.

"Mrs. Bergman, it's Steph, is my Dad there? It's really important," the man was now seating himself across the table from me, watching me.

"Oh sure, honey. Let me get him for you," her voice was muffled as she covered the receiver, "Trey, your daughter is on the phone, she says it's important."

I heard my dad's deep voice, though I couldn't make out what he was saying, just knowing he was there made me feel much better. I realized I was a lot more nervous than I thought I had been. "Hold on honeybunch, he's on a call, it'll be just a minute," Mrs. Bergman's chirpy tone annoyed me; and, before I could argue that my call was more important, she had put me on hold.

The man started to drum his fingers on the filthy table.

"I'm sorry, my dad is on a call, his secretary put me on hold," I tried to smile at him. He just stared at me with his pale blue eyes. They seemed to bore a hole in me. I felt like he was watching me make sure I didn't reveal something to my dad, what that was I didn't know. I couldn't help but feeling like I needed to lie though, I just didn't know what to lie about.

A minute turned to two, or at least it felt that way. I could tell the man felt the same way. He got up suddenly and began pacing the small kitchen. I focused my attention on the table in front of me. Just pick up, Dad, come on, please...

After five minutes had passed I knew my dad had forgotten that I had called, he was probably in the shop and didn't see the little red light blinking on the phone. Mrs. Bergman had to leave early every Thursday and had most likely taken off right after she put me on hold. I was frozen through, I couldn't bring myself to put the phone down. It was like I could see through that little red light blinking in my dad's office. I could see all that was safe. Did that mean that I wasn't safe?

Just as that thought crossed my mind I was suddenly ripped from my chair. The man's bony fingers dug into my arm. I yelled and tried to pull away, but his grasp was too strong. I tried desperately to grab onto anything in the kitchen. I finally turned my head and bit him on the hand as hard as I could. He let go and I fell to the floor. I crawled toward the back door, on the way I grabbed for the cord of the telephone. I maniacally started screaming for my dad, hoping to God that he would pick up and hear me. The man grabbed me by the ankle and pulled, I was on all fours so that caused me to come crashing straight down on my chin. He dragged me across the floor, I was dazed and couldn't even think to kick to free myself.

He stood me up and shoved me in a closet. My forehead banged hard into the coat rack, my ears rang and I slunk down to the ground as he slammed the door shut. I was in complete darkness. I heard the sound of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor, then being forced up against the door. I was trapped. After a few minutes, I heard a truck start up and drive away. I tried with all my might to make that door budge, I thrust my shoulder into the door as hard as I could, over and over again until I heard a loud pop followed by the worst pain I had ever felt. Despite the pain, somehow I fell asleep. I awoke to sirens and men's voices.

I screamed as loud as I could, which wasn't very. My throat was coated with dust, and I was incredibly dehydrated. Thankfully though, an officer heard me.

"Over here!" was followed by the furniture in front of the door being moved.

My parents were waiting outside by the ambulance. When they saw me, my mother broke down in tears and my father began yelling about finding whoever did this. After all, that time had passed, my face had turned into a horror show. I was bleeding from my chin and forehead, and everything was swollen and bruised.

I was laying in my hospital bed when Robbie's mom came rushing in. She had red hair like Robbie did. In my morphine haze, I could only make out every other thing she said to me. She grabbed my hand and begged me to tell her where Robbie was. He had disappeared without a trace. Well, both of us had. We were both off at six, neither of us had come home. When both our parents contacted the store, my manager told them I had gone out to the country to make a delivery. He suggested that Robbie must have met up with me and we were probably off "being teenagers" out on a ditch bank somewhere.

When they saw my car at the end of the dirt road, they thought they would find us both. When they saw no trace of either of us, they came back to town and called the police so they could search the house.

I told them everything I could about the man, about how he had asked about Robbie and was expecting him when I arrived. Everyone was confused. His parents had no idea who this man could be, or why he would have wanted Robbie.

I didn't know why the man hadn't killed me, or maybe he thought he had. Maybe he thought I would die out there, in that hot and dusty house, alone in the dark.

A week later I received my first lime. It was sitting on the front porch when I got home after a much needed day of watching bad movies and eating junk food at a friend's house. I tossed it into the yard, not thinking much of it.

The next one came only a few days after that. It was on the desk in my room. I ran downstairs and told my parents. They contacted the police. The police had already searched the old house, but they searched again. I told them that the man had to have gone back for the box. I knew there was no way he would have risked going into our one and only grocery store just to buy limes to mess with me.

They searched the house and again found nothing. Less than nothing, because I was right, the box of limes was gone.

For months after that, I was tormented. There never seemed to be any rhyme or reason for why he was doing this. I would find them on the hood of my car, in our mailbox, once in a coat pocket. They began showing up rotted and soft. I was able to smell them before I saw them, that overly sweet smell of decaying fruit. Every time I told my parents, they told the police, and nothing was found. Not even a shoe print outside my window.

I tried going to Robbie's parents, but my ramblings about finding fruit everywhere just upset his mother, and his father asked me to leave.

After senior year I attended college in Alaska. I wanted to get as far away as I possibly could from my stalker. One day, during my first Alaskan winter, I received a package from home. Well, from my home address anyway. It wasn't from home. It was from him. Inside, nestled in a bed of fake cotton snow was a black and shriveled lime.

Did you know that there are approximately one hundred limes in a twenty pound box? During the previous year and a half I had probably received about ninety-something. I finally understood his message.

I walked down the hallway of my dorm to the shared phone. My stomach turned sour and I felt bile burn the back of my throat. Luckily, it was late on a Friday and most of my floor was out partying, so I didn't have to wait my turn. I dialed my parent's number.

"Hello," my mother answered, nothing in her voice indicated anything was amiss, but she has a great phone voice.

"Mom, did they find Robbie," my voice was shaky. I knew the answer.

"Oh--oh God, Stephanie, how did you hear about that so fast? Your father just got off the phone with one of his friends down at the precinct. They thought we should know. You're so far away though, honey, you have nothing to--" "It was the limes, Mom. They were counting down. He was letting me know that Robbie was still alive. I could have done something, I could have helped him somehow!"

"No, honey, this is in no way your fault," her soothing voice was just too far away to work.

"I told him when Robbie was off work. I made him let me inside. I could have just left, I could have hitchhiked back to the store and told him some creep was asking about him. I should have called the police instead of Dad--" I was hyperventilating. All I wanted was my mom to hold me, but I had selfishly run away. I ran away instead of trying to find him.

I hung up the phone and ran down the hallway to my room. I curled up in bed and stayed there for days.

It took me twenty-three years to look up what had happened to Robbie. I couldn't bring myself to know what sort of state his body had been found in. What the man had done to him.

Robbie Jensen was found propped up against the door of the grocery store we had worked at. He was wrapped in plastic sheeting. Our old manager found him around 4am when he arrived to work the opening shift. He was missing several teeth. Some had been removed, some were broken. The tips of both his index fingers were gone, one of them was almost healed, the other was fresh. He had been sexually assaulted with foreign objects, likely one of them was a broken bottle. Robbie had also been castrated postmortem. He died from a gunshot to the head.

I never wanted to know all that. Even without all that knowledge rattling around in my brain, I've had to attend years of therapy. They say I have an extreme case of survivor's guilt, as well as the paranoia the stalking left behind.

I never wanted to know. I have to know. Today, my son came home from school and handed me a letter. He said it was in his locker, but it had been addressed to me; probably something from his counselor about his English grade.

Before it reached my hand, I could smell it, that citrusy perfume. The envelope was doused in it. Inside was a receipt for a twenty-pound box of limes. At the top in slanted handwriting was my son's name.

#wattpad #horror #the tales of horror #scary #limes #nosleep #r/nosleep #masterlist

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takeachanceff · 6 years

Text

Chapter 27: Searching for Answers

Trey

"Okay, just save face until we get this shit under control" I said. She shook her head and folded her arms looking at me. "Trey I can't do this" She said shaking her head.

"Yes you can I know you can" I started "If you don't show up the media will get suspicious and start snooping they business in places it don't need to be. This is gon be hard but I need you to forget about the situation with Mia until the interview is over. Can you do that for me?" I asked looking her in the eyes before she sighed.

"Okay" she said

"Come back and wait here until I come back then I can fill you in everything " I said reassuring her. She nodded adjusting her bandanna on her head. She then stood up from the bed. I kissed her forehead then her lips which she didn't mind returning— before she exited with two body guards.

Flashback

January 16th 2 years ago, Whistler, Canada.

It's Aaliyah birthday and I really wanna make it special for her. We flew out to Canada since she missed seeing snow. I decided to take her to a cabin out here with snow and shit. I'm not to fond of the cold weather but whatever she wants. I came back inside with some fire wood. I then placed it next to the fire place.

"Baby where you at?!" I yelled taking my coat off. I hung my coat up on the rack.The things I do for this woman it's fuckin cold out here. I heard her foot steps coming behind me before she jumped on my back. I caught her making us both laugh— I felt her kiss my cheek. She ran her hands down my chest as I wrapped her legs around me.

"Where was you hiding at?" I asked walking us towards the kitchen.

"Upstairs I needed my charger" she said before I placed her on the kitchen counter before turning to face her. I pulled her closer by her legs making her giggle causing a smile to come on my face. "Happy birthday beautiful" I said looking her in the eyes.

"Thank you" she said before kissing my lips. I wanted to throw Aaliyah this big ass party but she wasn't into it. She told me she wanted me all to herself since she shares me with the world. Her friends were doing something with her when we come back. I broke the kiss before I spoke again.

"Aight baby you got me out here in the middle of nowhere and it's cold as fuck why do you miss this shit?" I asked making her laugh.

"You don't like it?" She asked.

"You like it I love it baby, I'm just cold we couldn't go to a beach or something? Damn" I said.

"We live next to the beach technically so I wanted something different" she said with a grin.

"You lucky I love you anybody else I would've said fuck this and dipped" I said shaking my head as she laughed.

"Awww you love me baby?" She said sweetly wrapping her arms around my neck.

"Yeah I do a little too much but I got something for you " I said.

"Oh really,How much?" She asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Yup" I said popping the p.

"How much though?" She asked again.

"I love you a lot" I said to her looking at her and she gave me a look.

"Mhmm" she said.

"Come on" I said taking her off the counter guiding her to the living room. Aaliyah followed as a wide smile came across her face seeing a bunch of presents on the floor. "Baaabbe" She said with a grin making me smile. "When did you get all this up here?!" She screeched.

"I know people there's something I wanna give you first" I said giving her a small box.

"What is it?" She said smiling.

"Open it baby" I said as she opened it before a gasp released from her lips. She revealed the 40 karat diamond necklace I bought her.

"Trey you didn't" she said looking at me.

"I did" I said with a smile before speaking again. "You like it?"

"I love it thank you!" She said giving me a hug.

"You're welcome beautiful" I said before kissing her cheek. Liyah looked over at the other presents. "Baby, you didn't have to buy me all this just being with you this weekend was enough for me" she said looking at me.

"You been wit me for two years you know it's go big or go home. It's your birthday whatever you want you got it and then some. Just wanna give you the best birthday you ever had, but you should never ask me how much I love you. You know how much I do love is infinite" I said making her blush. She pulled me closer to her before I rubbed my hands against her sides.

"I ask because I love messing with you but sometimes I just wanna hear you say it. Can I make a request ? " she asked before biting her lip.

"Anything" I said.

"Make love to me" she said looking me in the eyes. I looked down seeing the sweat pants she was wearing, I smirked knowing they were easy to pull off.

"I can do that" I said tugging on in the brim as she helped me to take her pants and panties off. Once I threw them on the floor, I gently put her close on the couch, going down on her to get a taste of her cake.

End of Flashback.

"Where we meeting this nigga at ?" I asked DC.

"On 25 and Washington it's a warehouse there" he replied. I nodded and stood up adjusting my chain. I then made sure I had everything I needed. I waited a few minutes before heading downstairs to the lobby. A group of paparazzi was waiting for me as soon as I stepped out of the elevator. They threw every dumb question they could think of at me and I chose to ignore them. I'm really not in the mood to be bothered with these vultures. I got in my car and drove off. I looked in my rear view mirror checking to see if DC and the rest of the crew weren't too far behind me.

I swear this nigga better know some something. We drove for about 20 minutes before we arrived I turned my headlights off so I wouldn't be detected by an outsider. I pulled up to a good spot before turning off my car. I got out and heading towards the entrance I gave the nigga the code word before walking in. I saw him and the moment he saw me he froze.

"Trigga..." He said clearing his throat.

"Cut the bullshit tell me what you know about where my daughter is and who has her" I demanded.

"I get it man but it's a little complicated than you think because there's two possibilities as to where she is they could put her on the black market to sell her overseas or they abandoning her somewhere to die. But the guy running the whole thing his name is Ace he meets up wit his crew in a couple hours at a restaurant a few blocks from here" he said

"Ace huh?" I said looking at him. "And you know this because?" I asked.

"I-I just make deliveries I ain't have to do wit that I swear" he said causing me to look deep in his eyes to make sure he wasn't lying.

"Aight I believe you what's the name of the restaurant?" I asked.

"Julio's on Fifth and Calvert" he said and I nodded before walking off.

I guess I'm gettin dinner.

..........

I watched Aaliyah's interview on my phone as I waited outside restaurant waiting for this nigga to pull up. Aaliyah looked beautiful but her eyes told a whole different story. Someone tapped my shoulders as a man entered the building with an entourage. "You think that's him?" DC asked. I looked at the man and locked my phone.

"We gon find out" I said getting out the car. "You Ace?" I yelled catching the mans attention. He turned to face me and smirked once he recognized who I was. "The last person I'd thought I see is Trey Songz what can I do for you?" He asked.

"Word on the street is you know who got my daughter and where they taking her thought I'd come to the source" I said before clenching my jaw.

"I'm the source to a lot of things," he said pissing me off. I pulled my gun out and his boys came from behind putting guns at me. He laughed and looked me in the eyes "If I knew where your daughter was why would I tell you?"

"You must wanna die don't you?" I asked cocking the gun back.

"Aight I see how it is look I don't pick up no fuckin kids but I know a lot of niggas that's after yo ass. You might wanna check the state lines we pay niggas to smuggle some things so check the that" he said before walking away. I put my gun down and put the safety back on my gun. "What you want us to do man? It's your call" Mijo said to me.

"I want everybody spread out to drive to the state lines from here to Atlanta ask questions about what they know. We ain't got much time" I said slightly frustrated. I got back in the car and put my head back and sighed. I heard the passenger door open. "We heading back to the hotel or you wanna drive around for a bit" he asked. I stayed quiet trying to think who the fuck wants my bloodline. That's a lot of people that want me dead or whoever's affiliated with me want me dead.

I didn't answer right away my phone vibrated seeing Aaliyah's interview was done. "Head back to the hotel y'all get started in what I just told y'all " I said before he closed the door. I pulled off heading back to the hotel to get Liyah up to speed on everything. I'm staving and I'm pretty she hasn't eaten either. It didn't take me long to get to the hotel I parked the car nearly in the garage and headed back up to our room. Once she came into view, she looked at me with hope in her eyes.

"Anything?" She asked.

"She could be anywhere from here to Atlanta so we checking state lines where they smuggle things. Hopefully, she's somewhere where we can find her and fast then I'm about to get people to search every abandoned building they can in California and up and down the east coast" I said and she nodded.

"So she can be anywhere is what you're telling me?" She asked.

"Yeah basically" I said sitting on the bed as she sighed.

"Trey I think we need to get the police involved. This is getting out of hand we can't handle this on our own" she said making give her a look.

"No" I simply stated.

"Trey-" she started.

"No Aaliyah I mean it" I said sternly. "I got this Imma find our daughter!" I yelled.

"Trey I didn't say that you're not capable of doing this-" she said before I cut off.

"Then what the fuck are you saying Liyah?!" I said standing up as my chest was heaving. She looked like she was going to argue back but she took a deep breath.

"I don't know Trey I don't know anything apparently," she said moving past me to lie on the bed. I clenched my jaw before sitting on the end of the bed. We sat in silence for a bit. Getting the police involved will cause an investigation and publicity that neither of us need. I know Aaliyah just wants Mia home but I can handle this. We both just gotta be patient even though it's killing me...

I looked over at her before going over to her to hold her. She embraced me "I don't want the police involved because I don't want to put you through more than I already have" I started. She didn't say anything but she intertwined her hand in mine. "If they investigate they'll start investigating me and I'll go to jail. They'll put me away you won't have me or Mia if we don't find her. Or Mia will grow up without me and neither one of us want that" I said moving pieces of her hair.

"I didn't even think about that..." Aaliyah admitted. "I just want this nightmare to be over" she said.

"I know and it will be soon just bare with me" I said .........................

I order Aaliyah and I food while the boys did their search. Aaliyah and i took the time to catch up on each other. I missed having these conversations with her— I feel like everyone we talk I learn something new about her. She was telling me about her make up line and her plans to shoot in the Bahamas for her video. Also on of her goals to open Rec centers for kids in central LA. I smiled listening to her.

"I think I talked a lot about myself I wanna know about you" she said looking at me.

"What about me?" I asked before taking a sip of my soda.

"I can ask anything?" She asked.

"Anything you want baby" I responded as she shifted on the bed to sit Indian style.

"You've never talked to me about your dad what was he like?" She asked and I cleared my throat. I never realized I never told Liyah about my childhood that much.

"I wish I knew I never met him he left my mom before I got here. I guess the coward didn't have the balls to stick around. I uh always wondered what he was like, where he was. I always told myself when I had kids that they would never have to question where they came from. They were gonna know who I am even if me and the mom didn't get along" I admitted.

"You might be lucky at least your dad isn't a psycho" she said making us both laugh. "But that's a beautiful way to think, even though you and Jasmine's mom didn't get along you were always there for her most men can't separate relationships and co-parenting"

"Yeah that's true" I chuckled. "What else you wanna know about me?"

"Who introduced you to this drug thing?" She asked.

"I met Bishop when I was 15 or 16 and my mom was in between jobs Forrest was little. I hated seeing my mom struggle so he was on the corner wit his boys and I just asked him how can make some money. He made me do some little stuff like being a runner then I was selling it then he saw something more in me and helped me turn into what I am now" I said. I didn't get into too much detail because that's just too much and I don't wanna scare her. (Plus that'll be in the other book so I don't wanna spoil anything but let me continue sis)

She was about to say something and my phone rings.

"Hello?" I answered.

"We got a hit we gotta head there now I'll text the information to you" DC said.

"Aight bet lets go we got a hit" I said grabbing out stuff before heading out.

Unknown

Norfolk, VA

"So we're dropping the kid off here?" He asked.

"Yeah" I said getting out the car to get the baby out the back. She squirmed a little as I picked her up. She began to cry as the cold air hit her face. I ignored her as I knocked on the door and rang the doorbell once I saw the light come on I put her on the doorstep before getting back in the car and pulled off.

Luna Jarvis

I heard a knock on the door I got off the couch to see who it was. When I looked out the window I saw no one. I opened the door and heard small cries I looked down to see a baby wrapped in blankets. I picked the child up and hurriedly got her inside so she wouldn't get sick. "David!" I yelled out to my husband. "Hi sweetheart," I said softly to her. I heard his footsteps come up behind me.

"What's wrong?" He asked but his eyes became wide when he saw the baby in my arms.

"We've been blessed honey somebody just left her on our doorstep. Why would somebody just leave this baby here" I said holding back tears. We have been trying to conceive for two years now and this is a blessing in disguise.

"A baby just popped up on our doorstep?" He asked looking confused.

"Yes David," I said smiling.

#aaliyah #trey songz #urban fanfiction #fanfiction #trey songz fanfiction #aaliyah fanfiction #fanfic #aaliyah fanfic

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yvghv · 3 years

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breakingmllc · 3 years

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authority of a government official at all there are two lawfully excusable conditions for seizing property or people 1 a warrant of the law 2 first hand observation of a crime being committed this is not just the law this is constitutionally mandated the cop needs the drivers license and regis tration as prima facie evidence to support the claim of trafficking instead of traveling if indeed one is not transporting people or property for hire or profit 2 cops are only authorized to enforce statute and ordinance not law statutes are passed by state of corpora fictas ordinances are passed by city county of corpora fictas law is only the natural law common law dmv is only a corporate dept in state of oregon ohio ca corpora ficta license and regis tration are commercial agreements and not contracts iff one of us is not involved in commercial activity then there is no exercise of a privilege that must be licensed and regis tered licenses and regis trations are only required for commercial activity that means business only in law people have the right to travel as a part of one s right to liberty and the pursuit of happiness 3 iff the cop perceives that one of us may have broken the law or actually infracted a statute and writes a ticket with a summons the cop is now impersonating an officer of the court which the cop is clearly not the cop is thereby impersonating a judicial officer who in all of america can write a summons to a court unless they are actually authorized to serve in a judicial capacity answer no one else may 18 u s code section 31 the term motor vehicle means every description of carriage or other contrivance propelled or drawn by mechanical power and used for commercial purposes on the highways in the transportation of passengers passengers and property or property or cargo that means unless you are in commerce making money to transport people or cargo most of us are not commercial or in commerce most of us just go from point a to point b most of us who are not corporate government employees or on federal jurisdiction no cop can drag u into jurisdictrion no officer can acquire jurisdiction by deciding he has it the officer whether judicial or ministerial decides at his own peril middleton v low 1866 30 c 596 citing prosser v secor 1849 5 barb n y 607 608 the innocent individual who is harmed by an abuse of governmental authority is assured that he will be compensated for his injury owens v city of independence 100 s ct 1398 1980 if one individual does not possess such a right over the conduct of another good and lawful christian man no number of individuals in a deliberative body can possess such a right all combinations therefore to effect such an object are injurious not only to the individuals particularly oppressed but to the public at large people v fisher 14wend n y 9 28 am dec 501 when you been kidnap and held for ransom aka arrested did they take you immediately before a magistrate like the law says no they took you to book you well guess what that’s not proper and you were falsely imprisoned check this out go immediately to a magistrate no photographs no fingerprinting the one arresting has a duty to immediately seek a magistrate and failure to do so makes a case of false imprisonment heath v boyd 175 s w 2d 217 1943 brock v stimson 108 mass 520 1871 to detain the person arrested in custody for any purpose other than that of taking him before a magistrate is illegal kominsky v durand 12 atl 2d 654 1940 any undue delay is unlawful and wrongful and renders the officer himself and all persons aiding and abetting therein wrongdoers from the beginning ulvestad v dolphin 278 pac 684 1929 the taking of the plaintiff s picture before conviction was an illegal act hawkins v kuhne 137 ny supp 1090 153 app div 216 1912 the power to arrest does not confer upon the arresting officer the power to detain a prisoner for other purposes geldon v finnegan 252 n w 372 1934 compulsory fingerprinting before conviction is an unlawful encroachment and involves prohibited compulsory self incrimination people v helvern 215 n y supp 417 1926 summary attorney bruce l mccrum and ed johnston lawful bloodline american as filed further harassment from city of toledo chief of police david enyeart ed’s unlawful kidnapping by ruark’s camera part 1 state senator arnie roblan on the rights to travel and uninsured motorist fund 05 13 2013 if money is wanted by rulers who have in any manner oppressed the people they may retain it until their grievances are redressed and thus peaceably procure relief without trusting to despised petitions or disturbing the public tranquility journals of the continental congress 26 october 1774â 1789 journals 1 105â 13 notice all rights reserved permission to distribute for non commercial purposes is hereby granted in whole or part provided attribution and a link to this article is included commercial distribution without the written permission of the author is prohibited this public email 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any and or all intellectual property rights or reserved rights u c c 1 207 1 308 notice to agents is notice to principals notice to principals is notice to agents home edward m johnston has filed in state of oregon secretary office including this filed with the senate and house as you can see not one of the elected and public servants have disagree with the facts this public notice published for three weeks in new oregontrackers com. You will never shine trying to sit on somebody else s sun I ve written no coat tails to get here had some bumps along the way but I m so much better than I ever was preemmyparty let your light shine. Meadow walker and the paul walker foundation are excited to honor adrian grenier for his work to advance education and empathy for ocean health through the lonely whale foundation team pw See Other related products: father day and shirt

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Eat Up: The Best Restaurants in Nashville, According to Me

Many of you are probably coming to Nashville soon for the NFL draft, or maybe CMA Fest or a bachelorette weekend or another excuse for a long-weekend getaway. No matter how you’re experiencing Music City, you must make time to eat your way through it—the food scene is absolutely on fire, and some of the best restaurants in Nashville are also the best in the country.

The restaurant scene is so dynamic, in fact, that many have closed already before I even had a chance to write them up (R.I.P. Kuchnia & Keller, I hardly knew thee, though I loved what little I saw—and tasted). It’s harder than ever to be a restaurant in Nashville and make it long-term, so kudos to those chefs who are killing it.

Looking for where to eat? Nashville has so many good restaurants, it can be hard to decide which one is your best bet. So I broke it down by occasion in hopes of solving all your Music City dining woes.

For a one-of-a-kind experience: Tailor Nashville

For years, Vivek Surti was Nashville’s most famous chef without a restaurant. He worked for the wine auction, he ran VEA Supper Club on the side, and he cooked for just about everyone around town who would ask him. He’s a phenomenal chef who fuses his Indian heritage with other South Asian cuisine for a mashup of tasty dishes unlike any other. All of Nashville rejoiced when he finally bit the bullet and opened up Tailor Nashville, a dining club-type experience in Germantown, with partner Heather Southerland at the end of last year. The eight- to 10-course menu rotates seasonally and features a snack, vegetable, fish or meat, rice dish and a dessert for $60, which does not include sales tax and gratuity. Drink pairings are an additional charge, which I highly recommend. There are only 35 seats available at 6pm and 8:30pm on Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, so if you’re coming from out of town, make sure you make a reservation well in advance.

For any occasion: The Farm House

I’ve professed my love for Chef Trey Cioccia’s winning combination of atmosphere and contemporary Southern fare on the blog before, but every time I go back, his ever-changing menu impresses me even more. Pork belly pop-tarts? Pimento cheese beignets? Gnudi of the day? Forget about it! Just give me one of everything, please. On top of dinner six nights a week, TFH serves lunch from Tuesday through Friday and brunch on Sunday.

For your new neighborhood hang: Hathorne

I was a huge fan of John Stephenson’s all the years he was at the helm at Fido, then I followed his food to the Family Wash (R.I.P.), so I was really excited when he debuted Hathorne on Charlotte Avenue last winter. There’s so much to love about Hathorne, from the design that incorporates pews recovered from the church next door to the plates of shaved Brussels, pork pierogis, roasted heirloom carrots and grilled acorn squash that are meant to be shared. Hathorne has a daily happy hour from 5 to 6:30pm, then a “joyful hour” from 10 to 11:30pm, staying true to its mission to bring in the neighborhood locals.

To impress an out-of-towner: Pinewood Social

If you haven’t heard of this restaurant-meets-bar-meets-swimming pool-meets karaoke joint-meets bowling alley-meets cafe, you’ve been living under a rock (or else not reading C&C … or Vogue … or Esquire … or any of the hundreds of publications that have featured it in the handful of years since Pinewood’s inception). The drinks are stellar, the food is great, and the atmosphere is on point—what more could you ask for out of a dining experience?

When you’re feeling indulgent: Biscuit Love Brunch

There’s no nicer couple in town than Karl and Sarah Worley, and it doesn’t hurt that they also have the game-changing recipe for the best biscuits in Nashville. After two years of dominating the food truck market, this dynamic duo launched their own brick-and-mortar in 2015, open seven days a week from 7am to 3pm. There’s never not a line, so you’re better off going on a weekday if you can. Just know: It’s worth every second you wait. Also know: You should order the Lily while your friend has the East Nasty, which was named as one of Bon Appetit’s favorite sandwiches in the country a couple years back. Or have your savory but order a plate of bonuts for the table. If you’re not feeling biscuits, there are plenty of other options on the menu, like the Lindstrom, a seriously decadent shaved Brussels sprouts salad. Want to feel cool? Order the “Nasty Princess” (a mash-up of the Princess and East Nasty) off-menu. Pro tip: Biscuit Love has another location in Hillsboro Village that is often less packed during peak meal times. There’s also a third outpost down in Franklin.

For Sunday Supper: City House

City House is a must-eat any night of the week but it’s especially good each Sunday night when the menu rotates to include even more creative pizza and pasta dishes (I still remember an apple, onion and chili pie I had years ago). You’ll need a reservation to get into Sunday Supper, though you can always nab a seat at the bar if you forgot to call a couple weeks in advance. Note: City House is great for small groups, but can be really loud and not ideal for a first (or second or third…) date. The belly ham pie with a cracked egg on top never goes out of style.

When you’re downtown for lunch: Liberty Common

The fist thing that will catch your eye is just how downright dreamy the interior of Liberty Common is. On my inaugural visit here, I was dining alone and working from the bar, but I couldn’t stop creeping around taking photos of the design. It’s just so damn pleasant. And it boasts murals from one of our favorite artists Tara Aversa, the visionary behind the Manchester Magnolia, too. The food itself is very Parisian bistro style, and the drinks follow form. Traditionally, Nashville didn’t have a lot of great downtown restaurants, particularly ones that cater to the business crowd, so I’m pleased as punch that Liberty Common has joined the fray.

For a stylish diner vibe: The Mockingbird

The tagline says it all: “modern dinner, global fare.” The menu at the Mockingbird is all over the place, which is precisely why I like going there. It’s the kind of restaurant you can dine at with friends who all have very different culinary preferences, whether you want a corned seitan veggie reuben and your bestie is dying for a chicken pot pie. It’s comfort food at its finest, in a very stylish space (and I love that all the food is served on mismatched plates procured from antiques stores). If you have a chance to chat with owners Brian Riggenbach and Mikey Corona, take it—they’re both a riot. And don’t leave without ordering a platter of cookies served in a birdcage.

When you’re in the mood for Italian: Nicky’s Coal Fired

I first met Tony and Caroline Galzin when they were at Fifty-First Kitchen and were instant fans. Not only are the Chicago transplants great people, but they bring a different kind of culinary pizzazz to the Nashville restaurant scene. When they opened up Nicky’s Coal Fired in the Nations a couple years back, they were one of the only restaurants in the area; now, the neighborhood is positively booming, and their seats are packed with those flocking to taste the artisan pizzas fired up in their four-ton, coal-fired oven named “Enrico.” Nicky’s also has a selection of antipasti and seafood dishes, though I usually order one of the seasonal pasta dishes to start and share a thin-crust pie or two with friends as my main. The cocktail menu is on point, and there are always a selection of spritzes from which to choose.

For a classy business affair: Etch

This downtown spot is the brainchild of culinary master Deb Paquette, who whips up inventive fare, such as an octopus and shrimp bruschetta or a cauliflower steak. Deb has led the charge on Nashville’s food evolution and now has Char and Etc. in Green Hills, as well. It’s also one of my very favorites in town—and I’m not just saying it because my college roommate is the ace pastry chef (proud friend alert)! Just ask Zagat or a number of any other ratings guides: Etch is la creme de la creme, whether for lunch or dinner. The cauliflower appetizer is a must-do anytime of day, and my regular lunch order is the creamy, oh-so-tasty Thai Chicken & Quinoa. And tasting your way through the dessert menu, created by my former roommate Megan Williams, is a must-do, so be sure and save room in your stomach!

For the best Indian street food: Chaatable

Maneet Chauhan is a ball of sassy energy, and that energy could not be more apparent than in her latest concept Chaatable, which channels an Indian street market in all its colorful glory and dreamy Indian bites with punny names like the O.M.Ghee, This Spuds For You, Puff Puff Pass and the Go Shorty. She also collected thousands of Indian bangles to build a bangle wall, which serves as the perfect greeting (and so very Maneet, too) when diners walk in. Pro tip: Don’t leave without ordering one (or three) Pani ‘Rita, the tamarind margarita that is currently one of my favorite drinks in Nashville.

To satiate your sweet tooth: Jeni’s Splendid Ice Creams

Have I gotten the point across yet? I LOVE JENI’S ICE CREAM. And now that there are multiple locations in Nashville, my waistline is in immediate danger. I finally met Jeni Britton Bauer at the opening of her Hillsboro Village store—dangerously close to where I live—and had a major fangirl moment. I’ve tried about every flavor she makes, and while you can’t go wrong, the combo of salty caramel and brown butter almond brittle is always my favorite.

For breakfast/lunch/dinner any day of the week: Fido

The sweet potato waffle can’t be beat, but neither can the burger, or the coffee for that matter. Basically, all you need to know is that Fido is as good as they come, and if you find yourself hungry in Hillsboro Village no matter the time of day, you can pop in and fulfill your craving, no matter what that may be. Then head across the street to Jeni’s for dessert or next door to Hot & Cold for a Las Paletas pop, and all will be right with the world!

For the best $200 you’ve ever spent: Catbird Seat

Before I ate there, I wondered just how any meal could be worth $200 (note: that price does include pairings). Well, let’s just say, I would have paid double that for the feast we had at our inaugural Catbird experience last spring! The restaurant itself is very no-frills, which means the focus is entirely on the food and whatever the chef and his team are whipping up that night. Reservations open up exactly 30 days in advance, and as there are only two seatings of 20 people Wednesday through Sunday, you better get on that if you want to indulge in this sinful experience.

For your green juice fix: Juice Bar

Like every other city in America, Nashville has experienced a boom in juice spots. I do several juice cleanses a year and have yet to find one I like as much as the Juice Bar, which now has multiple locations in Nashville and Williamson County. My go-to location is the Germantown one, as street parking is easy during the day. I also frequent the Juice Bar in Berry Hill, but often there’s nowhere to park (#NashvilleProblems).

For a menu you’ll have to Google: Rolf & Daughters

You won’t understand half the ingredients on the menu, but that’s half the fun. People bemoan the service (or lack thereof) at Rolf—it’s a hipster hangout first and foremost—so know before you go. But that’s never deterred me from heading to RAD when the urge strikes. And if it’s a nice evening, arrive early and claim a spot on the patio, which is first-come, first-served.

For a community experience: Josephine

This 12South hotspot debuted at the tail end of 2013 to much excitement, but its new 10-course X|X: Josephine experience really helped keep it relevant. Each Friday and Saturday night at 8pm, 10 lucky diners take the table as they are served a steady stream of 10 dishes on a long 2-by-10 wooden board, each presented by theme (e.g., snacks, asparagus, spring, pretzel, morel mushroom, scallop, pork belly). Better yet, the meal is just $90 with an optional $55 for six beverage pairings, an absolute steal for as much food and drink as that gets you. Just be sure and make reservations, as with just 10 spots at the table, they go quickly!

For bad-ass BBQ and bushwhackers: Edley’s

BBQ purists may call it too trendy, but I don’t care. I LOVE this BBQ joint that now boasts three locations locally, one in Chattanooga and one in Kentucky. The Tuck forever gets my order, and even though I nearly died from bushwhacker consumption a few years ago (don’t ask), I can’t stay away. Love nachos? Can’t go wrong with BBQ nachos, topped with a heaping pile of pulled pork.

When you’re looking to eat on Braodway: Acme Feed & Seed

The walk-up counter on Acme’s ground floor is always a safe option if you’re out on Broadway midday or into the evening and looking to grab a quick bite among a sea of trashy country music star-backed options (though I do like the food at Whiskey Row if we’re being honest).

For a drink on the go: Bajo Sexto

A cocktail I can carry around downtown with me? Don’t mind if I do! Jonathan Waxman’s first Nashville endeavor has authentic Mexican food and delicious drinks, like the bourbon horchata, and it’s conveniently located between the Omni, the Music City Center and the Country Music Hall of Fame, so perfect for those of you staying downtown.

For all. the. meat: Martin’s BBQ

Pat Martin has become legendary in Nashville with his huge of the whole hog and his ever-expanding empire. He’s now got three locations in the Nashville area, as well as has expanded to neighboring states, too. My favorite of his many spots is the downtown outpost with its 13,000 square feet of space for dining, lounging, drinking beer and playing games with your buds.

For beer with a side of tacos: Butchertown Hall

Butchertown Hall is dangerously close to my Nashville yoga studio, and it’s open all afternoon long, something I struggle with in Nashville with weird hours and so many places closed from 2 to 5pm. So it’s become my go-to spot post-yoga when I’m getting a late lunch or drinks with friends. The street tacos are bomb, and the beer selection is mighty. The clean design and so much natural light only makes you want to camp out here for hoursi. On warmer nights, Butchertown’s lovely side patio is perfect for sipping saison after saison.

For the celebrity chef experience: Chauhan House

Every time I’m feeling indulgent and wanting all the curry, I head straight for Chauhan Ale & Masala House, Maneet Chauhan’s first of four concepts to open in Nashville. I particularly love it for lunch, a time of day when I feel like Nashville dining options aren’t abundant. The lunch items may be heavy, but man is that meat-and-three worth it (though I often oscillate between the thali and the chicken tikka masala—both are oh so good). Weekend brunch is also the prime occasion to make a ressie for Chauhan. I crave that Stop Monkeying Around always, and the What Came First, the Chicken or the Egg? is divine.

For a meal in a coffee shop: Frothy Monkey

Frothy Monkey is the coffee shop empire in Nashville, and yet people often overlook them as an option for meals, which is insane as their food is oh-so-good and runs the gamut of sandwiches, salads, soups and heartier entrees. The Nations location has become one of my lunchtime go-tos when I’m meeting a friend for coffee with a side of food. Looking to start your evening somewhere? Consider going to Frothy for Wine Down Wednesday with three pours of wine (or six beer tasters) and snacks for the bargain deal of $15.

For brunch without a wait: Saint Anejo

There’s hot chocolate French toast, there’s chicken and waffles with jalapeno syrup, and there’s a horchata French toast. I say order them all. Also a winning factor? Two-for-one cocktails every single weekend day. Done.

For old Hollywood glam: Sinema

Sinema debuted in the summer of 2014 to become one of the pricier joints in town. It’s definitely a special occasion type of place, but even if you aren’t in the mood to spend $35 in a plate, it’s worth grabbing drinks in the upstairs lounge and popping into the bathroom for a #SinemaSelfie.

For the best chocolate in town: Goo Goo Cluster

I’ve often sung the praises of Nashville’s own century-old candy company but the new chef series, in which they roll out a different Premium Goo Goo every week or two, has me stopping by the downtown shop more often than not to see what these culinary masterminds have whipped up on any given week.

For a true taste of Nashville: The Farmers’ Market

The Nashville Farmers’ Market is open every day of the week and boasts dozens of purveyors of local food and products, from Music City Crepes to Batch. It’s always bustling, and it’s always good. If you need a lunch spot that’s guaranteed to fill you up and leave you satisfy, this one’s for you, and you’ll be surrounded by actual Nashvillians who break from the office to eat here daily.

For a bit of everything rolled into one: Walk Eat Nashville

In Nashville for a short time and don’t have the chance to try it all? Book a spot with Karen-Lee Ryan’s Walk Eat Nashville, and I guarantee you will get the highlights reel in your informative and tasty, three-hour walking tour of East Nashville, SoBro or Midtown.

For pizza, pizza: Five Points Pizza

Nashville used to have hardly any pizza options, and now it’s got several. Five Points Pizza, with a location in East Nashville and one off of Charlotte is by far my favorite. You can order whole pies or from a select menu of pizza by the slice. I often get carryout from the right side of the restaurant, though if it’s not packed and you feel like a brew, settle in at a booth on the left side and enjoy the craft beer selection.

For dinner with a side of champagne: Geist

Germantown is the neighborhood in which I spend the most time, and I was happy when Geist joined the fray back in 2018. One of my favorite mixologists Freddie Schwenk heads up the bar which is set in an old 1900 blacksmith shop, and I often just order “whatever Freddie is feeling today.” I don’t drink a lot of bubbles, but even I can’t deny the attraction of the Champagne Garden, with its champs served outside in a full outdoor garden and courtyard; there’s even the option to saber a bottle if you’re feeling frisky. On the food front, Geist has a small selection of sharable veggie plates, starters (may I recommend the bacon jam and baked brie?), and entrees like salmon, scallops and cavatelli. If the key lime pie is on the menu, you must order it—it poses as a real lime, but is actually pie inside when you crack it open. A true work of art!

For dinner with a dose of history: Woolworth on 5th

The most interesting thing to be about Woolworth is not the food—though, don’t get me wrong, it’s great, too—but the fact that this historic building was the site of many sit-ins during the Civil Rights Movement, and that the owners decided to keep all of those scuff marks intact as a reminder of the turmoil this city (and the South as a whole) went through not that long ago. The Art Deco-y Woolworth on 5th is a great spot for a work lunch as it’s right downtown in Nashville’s version of a financial district, but it’s also a good spot for a pre-show dinner with TPAC right around the corner. Expect Southern fare like fried green tomatoes, fried chicken, and shrimp and grits.

For the best damn rabbit rolls in town: Black Rabbit

Rabbit rolls may seem like a weird thing to be obsessed with, but that’s likely because you haven’t been to Black Rabbit, a chic, 1920s-inspired lounge on the cusp of Printers Alley that will offer small plates, creative craft cocktails and live piano music on any night of the week. With Kathy Anderson behind the design, Black Rabbit’s ambiance is built around the old wood floors and exposed brick walls leftover from the late 1800s and utilizes velvet sofa, leather lounge chairs and plush booths for seating. The wooded chef’s island provides prime seating for those keen on studying the talents of this passionate team of chefs, who will be cooking up various canapes like butterfolds, squab rillettes, rabbit spam sliders, twice-baked patatas bravas, roasted oysters and pickled shrimp. This swanky cocktail lounge off of 2nd Avenue is a much elevated breath of fresh air for downtown with an expansive whiskey collection and a cocktail menu that reads like a tome. Don’t overlook it as a dinner spot, though; you’d be remiss to pass on Chefs Trey and Chad’s elevated fare.

For sushi and other Asian fusion: Sunda

Chef-owner Billy Dec brought his popular new Asian concept from Chicago and opened a Nashville location, as well, last summer. There aren’t a lot of places that will get me to the Gulch anymore—it’s way too hip and far too crowded for this simpleton—but Sunda will do just that. Not only is the interior large, roomy and chic, but the menu boasts dim sum, sushi, nigiri, noodle dishes, curry, ramen and so much more. It’s basically a one-stop lunch, brunch or dinner spot for all kinds of Asian fusion (and a really great sake selection to boot).

For an excuse to dine in a restaurant: Henley

From a style standpoint, Kimpton’s lobby-level restaurant Henley is one of the most polished places in town, weaving in bold art and tile patterns with an equally creative menu to follow suit. Whether you’re staying at the hotel or just looking for somewhere to eat in Midtown any meal of the day, Henley is one of your top contenders.

For the hardest weekend brunch table to land: Tavern

Call it a college bar if you will, but M Street’s Tavern has been a mainstay of mine in the seven years since we’ve been back. It’s consistently delicious, and one of the only places in Midtown open in the middle of the day, so my gal Beth and I have had many a mid-afternoon cocktail with snacks (the buffalo cauliflower has never let me down). It’s also a slam dunk for weekend brunch—if you can get a table. Avoid at all costs on a Vandy home weekend, but any other time, get there minutes before they open and grab a table (or put your name down). If you’re there promptly at 10 (or maybe just before), you should get in just fine. And the hash and the red velvet waffles with cream cheese drizzle are totally worth the wait, too.

When you’re feeling Japanese: The Green Pheasant

If you haven’t been to Two Ten Jack, start there—but I’d venture to say I like the food at the Green Pheasant even more than I do the original izakaya and ramen joint in East Nashville. Even better that it’s based downtown and the perfect dinner spot before a night at the Symphony or a show at the amphitheater. The menu is small, but plates are very sharable. On my first visit, I went with five girlfriends, and we ordered pretty much every dish on the menu and shared them. I immediately went back the following week with SVV, because no one appreciates Japanese food more than he does. A few standouts: the spicy crab noodles, chicken wing gyoza and the broccolini. Park in the adjoining parking garage, and you can get your parking validated to make it just $5 for 2.5 hours.

For seafood in a land-locked state: Henrietta Red

Ben and Max Goldberg teamed up with their childhood friend, Chef Julia Sullivan, and her business partner, Allie Poindexter, at the helm a couple years back to open this bright spot in Germantown, an Instagrammer’s dream with its striking tile and abundance of natural light. Sullivan brings her culinary panache, honed at such notable restaurants as Blue Hill at Stone Barns and Per Se, to the kitchen, and the raw bar is laid out to be communal with an additional 70 seats in banquette- and table-style seating in the adjoining dining room. In addition to a dozen or so types of oysters, other seafood dishes like smoked mussel toast, wild striped bass and wood-roasted mackerel round out the menu. My favorite excuse to go to Henrietta Red, though, is the weekend brunch, which I’ll put up against any other in town.

For the best tacos you’ll eat, ever: Mas Tacos Por Favor

Ask an East Nashvillian old or new what their favorite restaurant is, and nine out of 10 of them will tell you: MAS TACOS. You order at a window, then your name is called out, and they move very quickly, so don’t be deterred by the line. Since these are street tacos, I recommend three to make up a full meal—and you can’t pass up on the fried avocado one—as well as a side of street corn and agua fresca. Mas Tacos totally upped its game when it added a bar, and margaritas became part of the mix, though you’ll order those at the back bar. On warm evenings, the patio is the perfect place to dine.

For brats and baseball: Von Elrod’s

One of my qualms with Nashville dining has always been that the patios aren’t big enough. Enter: Von Elrod’s with its massive outdoor space. This beer hall with a focus on German cuisine debuted a couple years ago right across from First Tennessee Park where the Nashville Sounds play, and it’s a great spot to get a brat and a pint or two before you head into the stadium for the evening. Von Elrod’s boasts 36 beers on tap with even more available by the bottle. They’ve also got weekend brunch and offer specialty classes like pretzel-making.

For vegetarians: Butcher & Bee

Let’s state this upfront: Butcher & Bee is not strictly vegetarian, and yet, I feel like it has one of the best menus for veggie-loving diners in town. It’s the kind of place you go for healthy shared plates and a mean cocktail, and you must take my word for it that ordering the whipped feta is a non-negotiable; ditto to the fire-roasted carrots. Another, more under-the-radar veg spot is Sunflower Cafe in Berry Hill.

For all things Greek: Greko Street Food

Nashville restaurant vets and first cousins Bill Darsinos (Southside Grille) and Tony Darsinos (Gondola House Pizzeria in Hermitage) joined forces to bring Greek food to East Nashville. Designed to offer an authentic Athens street food vibe, Greko will serve an array of dishes like fresh-baked pitas; lamb, chicken and pork cooked on a rotisserie over a live fire; souvlaki; and Greek fries with oregano and Myzithra cheese. All of the meats will be cooked over a live vire, and the bulk of the ingredients, such as olive oil and wines from their home region of Nemea, will be imported directly from Greece.

For a happy hour kind of dinner: Lockeland Table

Anytime I’m in East Nashville between 4 and 6pm, you can bet I’m likely kicking it at Lockeland Table with my friend Matt for the daily Community Hour, which features a selection of $5 cocktails and some snacks to share like Korean beef tacos and deviled eggs with chow chow at discounted prices.

For when you need a brunch ressie: Le Sel

French brasseries are not a dime a dozen in Nashville, so Le Sel filled a void in the market when it came to town with a European-influenced menu heavy on the oysters and plenty of wine selections to match. Le Sel offers dinner, though I’m not overly wild about French cuisine, so I prefer it for weekend brunch (if you love ratatouille, though, this is your place). Savory crepes, croque Madams and Bayonne ham Benedicts? I’ll take one of each!

For breakfast any day of the week: Marché Artisan Foods

Margot McCormack is one of Nashville’s food pioneers, and her pair of restaurants—Marché and Margot—in Five Points are always packed, no matter how buzzy their newer neighboring restaurants are. I love this European-style cafe for weekday breakfast, as it’s not too crowded (weekends are another story), and it’s really hard to find places in town that serve a full brunch menu Monday through Friday.

For that international flavor: Thai Esane

I could eat Thai food every day for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it. Unfortunately, while Nashville dining is many things, diverse it is not. Which is why Thai Esane’s 2014 opening was greeted with a collective cheer from those of us who crave Asian food at every meal.

For a swanky night out in the Gulch: Tànsuǒ

Tànsuǒ, another Maneet concept, is sandwiched between Chauhan House and Mockingbird. The darkly-lit, bi-level space is meant to reflect a Chinese night market (albeit, a very cosmopolitan one), and the menu is an exploration of contemporary Cantonese cuisine like Toishan Pork Sui Mai, Peking Duck and a spin on classic Chinese fare such as General Tso’s Chicken.

*****

The above is an exhaustive, though not completely comprehensive list of some of favorite places to eat over the years, but just know, that these are definitely not the only options. And many oldies but goodies like Cafe Coco or Miel that often fly under the radar didn’t make the list simply because I haven’t been there in eons to even know what the food is like anymore (and others like Firefly Grille and Tin Angel have recently closed, R.I.P. to them, too).

Here are a few more Nashville restaurants to check out, depending on what you’re in the mood for:

Hot chicken: Hattie B’s, Pepperfire, Bolton’s Spicy Chicken & Fish, Party Fowl, Prince’s Hot Chicken

BBQ: Jack’s Bar-B-Que, Peg Leg Porker

Burgers: Hopdoddy, Burger Up, The Pharmacy, Gabby’s, Farm Burger, Hugh Baby’s, M.L. Rose, Jack Brown’s

Pizza: Folk, Emmy Squared, DeSano, Slim & Husky’s

Steaks: Kayne Prime, Oak Steakhouse, Bourbon Steak

International: Lyra, Epice, Plaza Mariachi, King Market, Azadi International Food Market

This post was last updated April 2019.

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biofunmy · 5 years

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Turning a Condo Into an Experience

Trey and Kelsey Garza have been looking to buy a two- to three-bedroom condo in Brooklyn since last fall. Currently renting in TriBeCa, they are taking their time, monitoring new listings, visiting different neighborhoods, comparing amenities from building to building.

And, in one instance, sitting down to a six-course meal in a pricey new condo’s dining space.

On a March evening, the Garzas ate their way through a relaxed dinner in the first finished unit of a Morris Adjmi-designed building in Williamsburg. There was no sales pitch at this table for 12. Instead, guests heard descriptions of each course from the professional chef, Matt Cruz, who whirled around the open kitchen’s quartzite-topped island.

Attending a private supper club in a new luxury property was a first for the Garzas. “It made sense in all aspects,” said Mr. Garza, 34, who works in finance. He and his wife, 29, a textile importer and wholesaler, were able to get an early peek at the North 10th Street building (which goes on the market in May) immerse themselves in the space, and enjoy a gourmet meal on the developer’s dime.

“We both loved the event,” Ms. Garza said. “Particularly the intimacy of having the chef personally serve each course, explaining the nuances and inspiration behind each dish. It felt like a dinner party with close friends.”

Welcome to the new era of luxury real estate marketing. With the high-end housing market in and around New York tilting decidedly in buyers’ favor, real estate brokerages and developers are experimenting with all sorts of experiential events to draw attention to their listings. Marketing teams are trying to build brands for new buildings by aligning them with cool start-ups, fashion legends, and arts and cultural groups carefully selected for the demographic they might attract.

It’s all about buzz.

“We are in Manhattan’s most challenging market in the last decade,” said Nikki Field, a senior global real estate adviser at Sotheby’s International who has worked on several co-branded events in a $58 million penthouse for sale at the top of 212 Fifth Avenue. “People are looking at everything and everywhere. They are no longer focused on certain neighborhoods — a complete pivot from the old Manhattan-centric buyer — because the city has grown in luxury options in all directions. They have a lot of choices.”

It’s not new for brokerages to host party-style events in their high-end listings, often as a cross promotion for a new jewelry line, art gallery or wellness guru. But with so many events now cluttering the market, some firms are getting more creative, offering more than a free glass of wine and proximity to celebrity.

“There’s too much inventory — everyone gets lost in the shuffle,” said Vickey Barron, an associate broker with Compass who last year brought in world-renowned ballroom dancers to wow a wealthy audience in the penthouse at 100 Barclay Street, in TriBeCa. “Everyone is fighting for that buyer.”

In their rollout of the North 10th Street project, Halstead Property Development Marketing persuaded the building’s developer, Industrie Capital Partners, to team up with Resident, a supper club start-up. Brian Mommsen, a hedge-fund manager who started the club, said his goal was to provide a platform for young “overworked and underpaid” chefs to “experiment, expand their repertoire and grow their networks. And we want to create an awesome experience for guests through that prism.”

The relationship is symbiotic, of course. Halstead gets an interesting event that will bring in foot traffic, Mr. Mommsen gets the space, and together they hope to generate a stir on social media.

Attendees may be invited by brokers, or they can book a reservation with Resident privately (for $150 a person). The developer pays for the Halstead-sponsored dinners, which on the night the Garzas attended included such fare as scallops with Meyer lemon, turnip and chive, and Wagyu beef with sunchoke and black truffle, each with its own wine pairing. Guests were free to roam around the apartment, which was also hung with works by local street artists. But there was no hard sell. In fact, the only pitch that night was Mr. Mommsen’s introduction of the chef.

“Because it’s a very intimate building, with just nine units, we felt that the marketing approach should be as such,” said Jacob Hamway, a partner in Industrie. “Let people get together with good food in a social setting to really get a firsthand experience of the product. It’s a really strategic approach — it’s new, it’s edgy and I love it.”

Just a few weeks before, a different type of experience unfolded in a new townhouse for sale on Degraw Street, in Carroll Gardens. For two days, the townhouse’s four floors played host to a “fleeting retail” event put together by Big Lives, a company that stages shopping events featuring rising designers. An invitation-only Friday night event drew a packed house, while the Saturday open house was sparsely attended.

Guests could try on jumpsuits created by Brooklyn-based Combine De Filles and “size-free” jackets by House Dress. The spacious master bath was given over to Loli organic beauty products. Several designers were there to chat with visitors, while Big Lives founder Sam Alston played hostess.

Paige Goodings, 23, was among the Saturday shoppers, sporting a white, button-up shirt created by Grammar, another designer brand in attendance. A special-events coordinator at Karla Otto, Ms. Goodings said that while she wasn’t currently in the market for a seven-figure townhouse, she was a fan of Big Lives, and had been to several events in other locations.

“It’s somewhere new every time,” she said. “I like being able to explore a new neighborhood in the city, and step out of what I’m used to.”

The listing agent, Rotem Lindenberg, with Compass, said it was the first time she’d linked a property with fashion. This townhouse, with its minimalist design vibe, a finished basement area suitable for use as a studio, and “a great backyard for inspiration,” seemed particularly well suited to an event aimed at a creative-minded audience, she said.

“Even if those visitors weren’t buyers, they have friends, families, parents — it puts the word out there,” Ms. Lindenberg said. “Two years ago, you just put a property on the website and it would sell by itself. Today, you have to be more creative about cooperating with other industries to make things happen.”

Ms. Field, with Sotheby’s, has aligned 212 Fifth Avenue with a number of luxury-brand partners for events targeting a select group of potential buyers for the building’s 10,000-square-foot penthouse. (The building, which has 47 units in all, is 90 percent sold, she said.) Among the events they’ve hosted since the penthouse went on the market in January 2018 (then for more than $70 million) are a chamber orchestra performance to raise money for music education and an exclusive preview of Fendi’s upcoming fur collection.

“I know that my penthouse buyer is going to come from the exposure through one of these events,” Ms. Field said. “In a challenging market, you need to send the right message to the right people through the right events.”

Outside the city, the same trend is beginning to play out in suburban markets, though to a less ambitious degree. In Stamford, Conn., for example, Trinity Financial has used a series of experiential events to help build a brand around its 209-unit luxury rental complex, Vela on the Park, which is now almost fully leased at rents from $1,900 to $6,800 a month, said Abby Goldenfarb, a vice president in the Boston office of the developer. In February, they invited Sh*t That I Knit, a Boston company that sells merino wool knitwear (mainly hats) handmade by women in Lima, Peru.

“This is a creative, sophisticated company that is getting a lot of attention, and it helped us create a buzz on social media,” Ms. Goldenfarb said. “The two-hour event brought in people who may not lease, but now they know who we are. And it helps get the word out.”

In Wilton, Conn., Michele Ferguson Nichols, an agent with Douglas Elliman, recently attempted to draw attention to her listing on Pipers Hill Road by hosting an art-show open house and organic cooking demonstration there. The five-bedroom colonial, currently listed for $1.099 million, has been on and off the market for the past two years, and local agents “weren’t paying a lot of attention to it anymore,” Ms. Nichols said.

The owner, Cabell Molina, is a multimedia artist and gallery owner, so she hung various works throughout the house. Ms. Nichols also spruced up the décor with creations by other local female entrepreneurs, including decorative sofa pillows and floral arrangements. She promoted a Thursday evening event for agents and a public open house.

Only three agents showed up for the broker night — initially a disappointment, but one later returned to show the house to a client. Turnout for the open house, where Chef Via Melissa prepared and served her versions of stuffed mushrooms and asparagus quesadillas, was a little more encouraging, with around 40 people. “I was hoping for more, but I’ll take it!” Ms. Nichols said.

If the event didn’t yield any offers, it did result in five showings. “It was a good learning experience for me,” Ms. Nichols said, “which will help me make the next event more successful.”

Because, in this housing market, there’s always another event.

For weekly email updates on residential real estate news, sign up here. Follow us on Twitter: @nytrealestate.

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funnythingshere0-blog · 6 years

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Trump doubles down on his preference for Putin over the 'witch-hunt'

New Post has been published on http://funnythingshere.xyz/trump-doubles-down-on-his-preference-for-putin-over-the-witch-hunt/

Trump doubles down on his preference for Putin over the 'witch-hunt'

At an earlier press conference, Trump had dismissed his own intelligence reports on Russian meddling in the 2016 US presidential election, saying he preferred to believe Russian President Vladimir Putin’s “extremely strong and powerful” denial.

Trump declined to say whether he believed the US intelligence community or Putin.

Photo: AP

In a surprise twist to the pair’s much-anticipated meeting, the US President said, after hearing Putin’s side of the story, that he didn’t see any reason to believe Russia had interfered – despite his own spy chief, Director of National Intelligence Dan Coats, telling him the opposite.

The comments sparked a storm of condemnation at home, some of it from erstwhile allies.

Republican Senator John McCain called it “one of the most disgraceful performances by an American president in memory”.

Republican House Speaker Paul Ryan, a cautious Trump supporter, said: “The President must appreciate that Russia is not our ally.”

And Republican Trey Gowdy, a critic of the Russia probe, said “Russia is not our friend” and expressed hope that Trump’s national security aides could convince him that “it is possible to conclude Russia interfered with our election in 2016 without delegitimising his electoral success.”

At the joint press conference after the meeting, Putin denied Russian interference, but told journalists they should “trust no one” and said he had wanted Trump to win the election because he had been the more pro-Russian candidate.

Putin insisted that Russia and the US did not trust each other.

Photo: AP

Asked if he had “kompromat” – compromising material – on Trump, as alleged in an infamous dossier prepared before the election, Putin avoided answering directly though said it would be “utter nonsense” to imagine Russia collected kompromat on every American businessman who visited his country.

Putin said reporters should “just disregard those issues and don’t think about this any more”. Both he and Trump insisted there had been no collusion between them over the election.

All US intelligence agencies have concluded the Kremlin was behind an effort to influence the US election through cyber attacks and social media campaigns targeted at disadvantaging Hillary Clinton.

US Special Counsel Robert Mueller last week indicted 12 Russian military intelligence agents, whom he alleged had conspired to hack the Democratic Party’s email system.

But Trump said on Monday he “ran a brilliant campaign and that’s why I’m president”.

In a pointed question, an Associated Press reporter asked Trump who he believed: the US intelligence community or Putin?

Trump said his “people”, including Dan Coats, had told him they thought Russia was attempting to interfere in the election. But he had put it to Putin, who “just said it’s not Russia”.

“I don’t see any reason why it would be [Russia],” Trump told reporters, though “I have confidence in both parties… I have great confidence in my intelligence people, but I will tell you that President Putin was extremely strong and powerful in his denial today.”

Putin had offered to send Russian officials to help work on the investigation and “I think that’s an incredible offer”, Trump said.

Coats released a statement shortly after the press conference, saying: “We have been clear in our assessments of Russian meddling in the 2016 election and their ongoing, pervasive efforts to undermine our democracy, and we will continue to provide unvarnished and objective intelligence in support of our national security.”

Trump’s comments on the issue of Russian meddling sparked widespread shock and dismay in the political establishment in the US.

Some even dubbed the Helsinki meeting the “surrender summit”; Trump had gone into the meeting claiming he would confront Putin over the issue of Russian meddling.

Former CIA director John Brennan tweeted that Trump’s performance in Helsinki “rises to and exceeds the threshold of high crimes and misdemeanours”.

He wrote: “It was nothing short of treasonous. Not only were Trump’s comments imbecilic, he is wholly in the pocket of Putin. Republican Patriots: Where are you?”

Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov reportedly said the talks between the two presidents had been “magnificent” and “better than super”.

Trump and Putin spent more than two hours in private talks in Helsinki’s grand presidential palace on Monday without aides present, then just over an hour in a working lunch alongside their most senior aides. But emerged with little detail to announce other than declaring their desire to continue dialogue.

The US and Russia will work on a joint humanitarian project to help Syrians displaced by the war, Trump said, and Putin added that the two countries would create a new working group to bring together the captains of Russian and American business.

They will also continue talks on nuclear disarmament and anti-proliferation.

Trump said the US-Russia relationship had “never been worse than it is now, however that changed as of about four hours ago”.

“We have taken the first steps toward a brighter future, and one with a strong dialogue, and a lot of thought,” he said.

But the biggest fireworks were over allegations that Russia interfered in the election that brought Trump to power. Putin said the Russian state “has never interfered and is not going to interfere into internal American affairs, including election processes”.

The idea of collusion between the Kremlin and the Trump campaign was “utter nonsense”, he said.

Putin presented a soccer ball to Trump during the press conference.

Photo: AP

But he also told the press conference: “As to who is to be believed and who is not to be believed, you can trust no one”.

“Where did you get this idea that President Trump trusts me, or I trust him? He defends the interests of the United States of America, and I do defend the interests of the Russian Federation.”

He said he had wanted Trump to win the election against Clinton “because he talked about bringing the US-Russia relationship back to normal”.

Trump said he would give the ball to his son, Baron.

Photo: AP

He said he would look into a request to extradite the 12 Russian intelligence officers, possibly including their interrogation on Russian soil, but in return he would demand the extradition of Kremlin critics such as Bill Browder, who is behind the anti-Kremlin corruption Magnitsky laws.

Trump, asked who was responsible for the deterioration in relations with Russia, said he held “both countries responsible – the US has been foolish … we have both made some mistakes”.

Trump, who whispered “thank you very much” to Putin as they shook hands and also accepted the gift of a soccer ball for his son from Putin, rowed back on his previous loud criticism of the Nordstream 2 pipeline that will soon bring new Russian gas supplies to Germany.

At the NATO summit last week in Brussels, Trump repeatedly attacked German Chancellor Angela Merkel for agreeing to the pipeline, which he said was a security risk for the defence alliance.

However, on Monday, he said only that he was “not sure necessarily that it’s in the best interests of Germany or not”.

And he said that, in the gas market, Putin was “a good competitor and the word is a compliment”.

Putin suggested the two countries could work together to put a floor on the international price of oil and gas.

A reporter from The Nation, a progressive US news magazine, was removed from the room by security shortly before the press conference began, after he refused to let go of a handwritten sign saying “nuclear weapon ban treaty”.

A journalist is removed from the room for trying to stage a protest.

Photo: AP

According to some reports he had planned to use the sign to attract attention to ask a question. The few reporters allowed to ask a question had been organised before the event. He was heard to complain loudly about free speech.

In a tweet, The Nation’s editor Katrina van den Heuvel said she was “deeply troubled” by reports that their accredited journalist was removed.

with AP

Nick Miller is Europe correspondent for The Sydney Morning Herald and The Age

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Source: https://www.smh.com.au/world/europe/i-don-t-see-any-reason-why-russia-would-meddle-trump-says-after-putin-meeting-20180717-p4zruk.html

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how2to18 · 6 years

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THIS IS PART VIII of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

Chapter Eighteen

On West 139th Street between Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard to the east and Frederick Douglass Boulevard to the west lay Striver’s Row. A landmark block in Harlem, for more than a hundred years it has been a home to African-American notables like Eubie Blake, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, W.C. Handy, and, more recently, the sports agent Jamal Jones who stood at the second story window in the hallway of the newly renovated brownstone that served as his home and office gazing down at his former client, D’Angelo Maxwell, waiting at the front door below. Across the street, Jamal spotted Trey Maxwell leaning against the McLaren smoking a cigarette.

Dag had called and texted but Jamal, still smarting from being fired, had not responded. News had reached him of Dag’s Los Angeles fracas. He thought perhaps his erstwhile friend and client might benefit from experiencing a little of life without Jamal Jones running interference. There were other matters to occupy him and having Dag on his list was no longer essential to the success of his business. Jamal’s business was already successful. That morning he had met with a television production company in Midtown to pitch an idea for a show. In half an hour, he was having lunch with a projected NBA lottery pick at Sylvia’s Restaurant and expected to sign the kid before the peach cobbler arrived at the table. After that, there were drinks with an agent in town from Atlanta with whom he was thinking of partnering. If the encounter bore fruit the Jones Group (he named it “Group” when he learned the Gladstones used the same word) would have a second front. Jamal could hear the two junior agents he employed working the phones down the hall. Business was thriving.

“You want me to let him in or not?” The speaker was Donna, Jamal’s assistant. An African-American woman in her forties, she wore a patterned knee-length dress and flats. Her head wrapped in a cloth scarf from which several braids snaked. Donna was Jamal’s majordomo, taking care of his scheduling, travel, and the day-to-day operations of the Jones Group.

He quickly reviewed any grievances Dag might be nurturing. In light of what the man had inflicted on Moochie Collins, Jamal did not want to forget something he might have done (or that Dag might think he had done) that could be the cause of another violent outburst. Donna narrowed her eyes.

“You’re gonna keep Dag standing on the stoop?”

The man hug with which Dag greeted his former agent caught Jamal by surprise. Given how they had parted, he was expecting something a little more formal. They were in Jamal’s office, overlooking the street. One of the walls was a gallery of framed photographs, several of which were of Jamal and Dag: at the Super Bowl, on vacation in Mexico, on the court at Sanitary Solutions Arena, all suffused with a bonhomie that reflected their years of friendship. Now Jamal stood in front of his desk and, pointedly, did not offer Dag a seat.

“All right if I sit down?”

“Dag, I got a busy day.”

Knowing it was the price he had to pay, Dag remained standing. Jamal wanted to ask about California, about the hand injury, but he was still indignant over being fired. So, he said nothing.

“How are you coming with Chevy?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chevy trucks, man. You were working on endorsements.”

“You forgetting something, Dag?”

“It wasn’t Ford, was it? It was Chevy, right?” Dag grinned and waited for Jamal to reciprocate. This would signal that there were no hard feelings. The echo was not forthcoming.

“You fired me.”

“Forget that, Jamal. We boys. You got lunch plans?”

“Yeah.”

“Cancel ’em. I’m taking you out, my treat.”

“Dag—”

“I owe you an apology, man. I’m apologizing to everyone. Already said I was sorry to Church, Gladstone, and the team. Now it’s your turn.”

“Just checking all the boxes.”

If Dag heard the judgment in Jamal’s words, he barreled ahead in spite of it.

“I was mad that day at my house, I said some shit I regret, I’m sorry and now let’s you and me get back to business.”

“Did you apologize to Moochie?”

“Why you worried about Moochie?”

Jamal pondered how it was that guys like Dag rarely understood the ramifications of their actions, how because of their ability to put a ball through a hoop, the ordinary laws of human interaction did not apply.

“Forget Moochie, man. I’m worried about you.”

“I appreciate that. I’m gonna write Moochie a check. How much you think I should send him?”

“You’re not hearing me, Dag.”

“What am I not hearing?”

“You fired my ass.”

“I told you, forget that shit.”

“You meet with Gladstone to try to negotiate for yourself, you beat up Moochie, injure your hand.”

“Ain’t gonna miss a single game!”

“That’s great, Dag.”

Dag seemed surprised at the pushback he was getting from Jamal. He pointed to a picture on the wall. It had been taken the previous summer at the D’Angelo Maxwell Summer Charity Basketball Tournament and showed Dag and Jamal posing with the winning team, a group of gangly teenagers, everyone happy.

“Them kids had a helluva squad. Remember?”

“Yeah, I remember, Dag. I put that tournament together with Trey.” Jamal felt he had to namecheck Dag’s brother even though he had done most of the work himself. Placating stars was reflexive.

Dag continued to examine the display of framed photographs: Jamal’s high school and college teams, Jamal with various sports and entertainment celebrities, Jamal with his wife and two young daughters. All of it spoke to a life independent of D’Angelo Maxwell.

“How do you know I met with Gladstone?”

“The man called because he was worried.”

“About what?”

“He was worried you weren’t thinking clearly.”

However true it might have been, the implication did not please Dag, who was getting more worked up. Jamal kept a Louisville Slugger baseball bat near his desk. It was meant to be decorative but would serve as protection if Dag came at him. “So, he called you?”

“The guy likes you, D’Angelo.”

“He’d kick me to the curb like a ten-dollar ho.”

Jamal ignored this. They both knew professional sports was transactional and that was the level on which 99% of all decisions were made. When it appeared that Dag was not going to become violent, Jamal relaxed.

“If you want a max contract from a major market team, maybe you shouldn’t have beat up Moochie. That ain’t franchise player behavior.”

In the course of their friendship, Jamal had never once castigated Dag. For the player, this represented an unwelcome new day in their relationship. Jamal cracked his knuckles and regarded Dag. He enjoyed the shift in their power dynamic although he took pains not to show it.

“Moochie needed to get schooled,” Dag said.

“So now you want me to clean up the big mess you made?”

And like it was the most natural thing in the world, Dag said: “Yeah.”

Jamal put his hands in his pockets. Dag waited.

“You told me I was bush league, Dag. You remember that? Rinky-dink.”

“I did?”

“You don’t remember? Maybe you remember this: The last contract I negotiated for you paid a hundred and twenty million. A hundred. And twenty. Million. That sound rinky-dink to you?”

“Jamal, from my heart,” Dag said, and pounded his chest with his fist, “I apologize.” He looked out the window as if to draw on the African-American collective capacity for endurance that had manifested on the sidewalks of this venerable neighborhood. When he turned back to his former agent, there was an imploring look in his eyes that Jamal had not seen before. “I need you, man.”

Jamal reached up and placed a hand on Dag’s shoulder. Dag smiled ruefully. He genuinely seemed to feel remorse over his recent actions. For all Dag’s superstar affectations, Jamal believed somewhere inside lived the humble kid he first encountered at the McDonald’s All-Star Camp when they were in high school.

“I’m gonna think on it, Dag.”

Dag stepped back and looked at Jamal as if he were some bizarre animal species of whose existence he was previously unaware. Agents did not refuse opportunities like this. Jamal’s commission on Dag’s next contract would be several million dollars. He was going to “think on it”?

“What’s there to think on?”

“You disrespected me, man.”

People did not say no to men like D’Angelo Maxwell, especially anyone in the position to financially benefit from their talents. It contravened the laws of nature and Dag was unsure how to respond. He had apologized already. There was no point in doing that again. This was when they were supposed to clasp hands, embrace, and then go out to the lunch Dag had offered to pay for. Why had Jamal departed from the routine? First Gladstone, then Brittany, now Jamal all were undermining the foundations of his existence. The frustration this engendered and the general sense that something he could not entirely understand had shifted disoriented him.

“That’s what you got for me? All the money I made for you?”

“Ain’t about the money, Dag. Ain’t about the money for you, either.”

Dag gestured toward the room, its high ceilings and ornate moldings, all exquisitely restored. “I put you in this townhouse, man. I ain’t gonna apologize again.”

“You wouldn’t let anyone diss you the way you dissed me.”

The degree of resolution Jamal exhibited left Dag unmoored. He had a disturbing vision of life without Jamal. How he would manage was not entirely clear.

“What happens if we’re not in business together?”

“The lawyers and accountants sort it out.”

“That’s how you gonna be?”

“I told you I’d think about it.”

The ongoing ambiguity was more than Dag could take. He had prostrated himself, begged. The superstar posture had been dropped, but to no positive end. The existential aloneness his longtime agent’s abandonment revealed was terrifying.

“That’s fucked up, Jamal.”

Jamal watched, unsurprised, as Dag rolled his shoulders and strode out of the office. He had wanted to provoke him, to provide the shock that would convey the new reality. He knew Dag was going to return eventually.

As he passed through the front door and stood on the stoop, Dag considered going back to Jamal’s office and apologizing once more. All that history, their years together held deep resonance. But he quickly banished the thought. He had done enough apologizing. If Jamal wanted to throw away what they had built together, let him. He doubted that would happen. He hoped it wouldn’t happen. Still, he remained on top of the brownstone steps. With each passing second, the degree to which Dag depended on his former advocate came into sharper focus. He glanced at the windows of Jamal’s office. Should he go back up? No, he told himself; don’t do that. Jamal would realize his error and come crawling back. That was their essential dynamic. Dag believed he only had to survive the current impasse, and all would be well. He squinted into the sun.

“Dag Maxwell! What up, G?”

Dag peered down the steps. Rooted there was a trio of black teenagers. The boys wore identical low-slung baggy jeans, oversized flannel shirts, and white Jordans accented in ‑multihued palettes. The one in the middle was average sized, but his sidekicks were at least six five. The tall kids were twins. Sideways baseball caps, two Knicks and a Laker. Ballers. It was the kid in the middle who had spoken.

“What are you doing up here, man?” one of the twins asked, his voice pitched high with excitement.

“This and that,” Dag said, and regally descended the steps. The boys had abandoned their studied indifference in the presence of this hardwood god.

“We saw you play the Celtics,” the non-twin said.

“Should’ve won that night,” Dag replied.

“Can we get a picture with you?” the other twin asked.

Dag had interacted with the public for so long it was part of the fabric of being Dag Maxwell, and he did it like punching a clock. But there was something about these boys, their unbridled joy at spotting him, the pure approbation, no, it was more than that, the worship they radiated as if this were some holy rite and Dag the idol to which they prayed. It was a welcome balm to his spirit on a stressful day. He beckoned Trey over from across the street and told him to take their picture.

The shorter kid produced a phone and handed it over. As the boys gathered around Dag to immortalize the experience, other passersby stopped. An older man dressed in a natty suit, two young mothers pushing strollers, a deliveryman from a laundry service watched and when Dag finished taking pictures with the boys all of them wanted pictures, too. Word filtered down the block in both directions, and a flock of students from Medgar Evers Learning Academy came running over from a nearby playground. They carried cardboard boxes and were accompanied by their Latina science teacher. Dag observed the boxes and wondered what they were for.

Two minutes later there were several dozen people on the sidewalk, young, old, different races, and Dag was autographing pieces of paper, and T-shirts and his smile broadened when he signed a Dag Maxwell jersey with a Sharpie someone handed him. The flock called encouragement, wished him luck in the playoffs (they assumed the team would get there), assured him no one cared about what had happened in California.

Dag was signing an autograph for an older woman who had asked him to make it out to her nephew when he noticed a shadow rolling across the street, covering the cars, the asphalt, the facades of the buildings as if a supernatural being was slowly pulling a shade over the sun. The temperature dipped. The windows of buildings dulled. Without warning the school-kids placed the cardboard boxes over their heads. Several of the adult bystanders looked toward the sky, but the science teacher warned everyone not to. They waited. Several people whooped. Dag heard someone crying. The street, in half-light for a brief period, was now entirely shrouded.

The moon had slid in front of the sun, and an eerily radiating circular penumbra was the otherworldly result. A solar eclipse. Harlem, Manhattan, New York City: All dark. The crowd, so festive, had quieted. The adults observed the school-kids, impressed with their seriousness of purpose. Several people shaded their eyes with their hands and glanced fleetingly at the sky. Dag was not sure how to behave in the face of this natural phenomenon. The science teacher suggested he not look directly at the sun. She handed him a pair of goggles. Dag thanked her, slipped them on, and faced the sky.

Almost as impressed with the celestial event she was standing next to as she was with the one occurring in the heavens, Gloria Alvarez took several pictures of Dag with her phone. Haunted by having witnessed the killing of John Eagle, the beauty of this cosmic wonder, in the presence of D’Angelo Maxwell, was a cherished consolation.

Dag shared the goggles with Trey, who held them to his eyes and was instantly transported by what he saw. Trey stared at the sun until his brother asked for them back.

This breathtaking contravention of habitual expectations that held everyone’s attention transfixed and unsettled Dag. He believed in signs and warnings. A bird winging into a room brought bad luck. If you accidentally put your clothes on backward, there was money coming. But what was the meaning of a solar eclipse? He had no idea.

Chapter Nineteen

Religion was not a significant factor in Nicole Gladstone’s suburban Virginia childhood. Her parents were vaguely Protestant but neither attended church, so other than Christmas, which in the Pflueger home was more about Santa Claus, gifts, and candy canes than anything having to do with the birth of Jesus, there were no markers of the season aside from a liberally tinseled tree. Back in Washington after having pulled the plug on her modeling career, the overt religiosity of many of the politicians she encountered (and her belief that this fervor often seemed motivated more by political expediency than authentic religious feeling) was not appealing, and further rendered any thought she entertained of exploring her nominally Christian roots a nonstarter. When Jay suggested, after they decided to get married, she might want to explore Judaism, or at least take the dreidel out for a test spin, Nicole, always game for new adventures, was willing to investigate the possibility. Following some research, she enrolled in a conversion class taught by a young female rabbi with a halo of curls and a welcoming manner at a Conservative synagogue on the Upper West Side and dutifully attended for several months.

Nicole took pleasure in learning about Jewish history and rituals, but when it became apparent how much actual work was involved—familiarity with not only the Torah, but all of the holidays (What was Shemini Atzeret again?), the Mishnah, the Talmud, the Shulchan Aruch, Maimonides’s Guide for the Perplexed, and other texts so numerous her jottings about them filled an entire Moleskine notebook—what seemed an endless list of mysteries all finally blended into one big who-put-the-bop-in-the-bop-shoo-bop and it no longer seemed worth the effort.

These arcane requirements never ceased to baffle her. Nicole could not fathom why the Jewish people, a tiny minority of the world’s population, did not allow anyone who wanted to share their joys and lamentations to do so without delay. If you declared yourself a Christian, you were a Christian. You accepted Jesus as your savior, and that was the end of it. Anyone wanting a more hardcore experience had the option of being dunked in a baptismal font. No one cared if you knew what St. Paul said to the Ephesians. Methodists, Episcopalians, Baptists, none of them required aspirants to pass a religious exam. Whatever her problems with the theology—most of it seemed beside the point—the Christian attitude struck Nicole as more, well, “Christian.” She knew that was simplistic, and perhaps even slightly anti-Semitic, but why did religion have to be so demanding? Wasn’t it something that was in your soul? Who cared what she thought about the Talmud? It was as if they expected her to earn a Ph.D. in Judaism before she would be allowed to take off her clothes and submerge naked into the welcoming waters of the mikveh bath in order to surface as a recognized member of the tribe.

It’s not like she wanted to be a rabbi. Although she found the lighting of Sabbath candles unutterably beautiful, to Nicole the Jews remained inscrutable.

Since Jay was not particularly observant, he lacked the moral authority to press the issue and disappointedly submitted to her announcement that, while she was happy—if he’d like, if he ever wanted, if he insisted—to fast on Tisha B’Av in order to commemorate the destruction of the temple (fat chance), wave a lulav and an etrog around on Sukkot (again, unlikely), light the menorah and exchange gifts during Hanukah (she liked that), and, of course, host the family Seder, she was going to hold off on becoming an actual Jew, particularly if it was going to have no effect on Jay’s desire to have another child. If she chose to read a biography of Spinoza, that was her business.

While Nicole was not Jewish, the fact of her marriage rendered her, in real estate terms, Jew-adjacent and as a result, she lived a kind of a dual life. Despite Jay’s lack of overt religiosity, and his having never found the time in his packed schedule to visit Israel, he was an ardent Zionist and a staunch defender of the nation (if not every specific policy of whatever government happened to be in power) when friends and acquaintances discussed Middle Eastern politics. Nicole adopted his point of view (At dinner parties, she would declare: “The situation is far more complicated than a lot of well-meaning people in the media seem to think.”) and learned to bridle when anyone attacked Israel’s right to exist as a Jewish state.

Jay did not reciprocate. Although Nicole harbored a sentimental attachment to seasonal tropes—the carols, the eggnog, the Charlie Brown Christmas Special with its undercurrent of melancholy that transported her back to lonely childhood—he refused to have a Christmas tree in the house (“It reminds me of two thousand years of Christian anti-Semitism,” he said) so Hanukah became her domestic marker for the arrival of winter. As for spring, its advent was Passover. This is how a former high school cheerleader from Virginia came to be pushing a cart down the vegetable aisle in the Mt. Kisco Whole Foods on a March afternoon, shopping for the ingredients to make charoset in preparation for her Seder.

It was Nicole’s fifth Passover since beginning her life with Jay and the first one where she had stated her intention to supervise the meal. In previous years, they had used caterers who served an elaborate if soulless feast, but this Seder would be prepared in the Gladstone kitchen (by a chef, of course) and have Nicole’s artisanal stamp. It was her unstated but firmly held belief that if Jay saw her in this light, as a woman who, however gentile, could nonetheless direct the preparations for this most Jewish of celebrations, the liberation of a people from bondage, perhaps he would unchain her ardent womb.

An hour earlier Nicole was in a Chappaqua cafe eating lunch with her friend Audrey Lindstrom, the thirty-six-year old second wife of an investment banker in his fifties. The two women had met on a committee to plan a gala for the Guggenheim Museum and, upon discovering that they were both former models and second wives of successful businessmen with homes in northern Westchester, established a friendship. Nicole was on her second glass of chardonnay. Audrey wore a fedora and large sunglasses even though they were indoors. Some recent cosmetic injections in her upper cheeks had caused unanticipated swelling.

“I gave one of your necklaces to a friend,” Audrey said, picking at a crab salad. “For her birthday? She loved it. Loved it!”

Nicole took a sip of wine. Preoccupied with her ovaries, the asparagus omelet in front of her was untouched. She regarded her slim and preternaturally stunning friend whose skin appeared luminous.

“Which one?”

“With the rubies?”

“That one’s nice,” Nicole said. Recently, she had been working exclusively with sapphires because of Jay’s Brooklyn project of that name, believed it to be good for marital karma. Had he even noticed? She wasn’t sure.

“I’ve been holding out on you,” Audrey said, taking a sip of chamomile tea. “I have news.” Nicole wrenched her mind from her reproductive system. “I’m pregnant.”

Although this was the most brilliant announcement imaginable for Audrey, it was the last thing Nicole wanted to hear. They had talked about having children. Audrey was slightly younger, a fact that always reminded Nicole of her own rapidly advancing age, and with great effort, she feigned joy for her friend.

“That is splendid news,” Nicole said. Audrey’s husband already had two older children, which made the entire situation even worse since it nearly mirrored her own. Nicole swallowed the last of her wine. It was all she could do to keep from ordering a third glass.

“I had been considering starting a business,” Audrey said. You know, like you? But now that the baby’s coming, I think I’m going to put it off.”

“Makes sense.”

“But you find jewelry design fulfilling, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, so fulfilling. I do.”

The tears that had formed in Nicole’s eyes took her by surprise.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing.” She produced a tissue from her bag and daubed her cheeks. “I’m thrilled for you.”

Nicole sorted through a pile of Granny Smith apples in Whole Foods, pleased that she had repressed the impulse to get drunk. It was bad enough she had cried in front of her friend. Perhaps Audrey interpreted them as “tears of joy.” It would mortify Nicole if anyone thought she was jealous or, worse, bitter. She worried that her wine intake was growing at a rate that indicated a prescription for Ativan might be in order. Of course, that was hardly better than medicating herself with wine. It was a puzzle.

The conversation that had taken place with Jay while horseback riding continued to trouble her. She had been turning it over in her mind, examining his words from every angle, and now viewed their spat—was it even a spat? Did it rise to that level?—as indicative of an ungraspable marital fissure. How did Jay see her? She was an accomplished woman, hardly a trophy wife. The work in Washington on the Congressional Ethics Committee attested to that. She was formidable on her own, and were they not partners? Why was he so against having another child? It wasn’t as if he would be the one getting up to do the middle-of-the-night feeding, cleaning the spit up from his pajamas. Jay was always saying he wanted to make her happy. Was his refusal a sign of both the emptiness of those words and the lack of seriousness with which he viewed their marriage?

She finished packing the apples into a plastic bag, fastened it with a tie, placed it in her cart, and moved to the beverage aisle.

Nicole had never considered having an affair, but she and Jay hadn’t had sex in over a month, and her libido remained vigorous. Something was going on with him. For a man in his fifties, he had a healthy sex drive. Or at least he used to. His recent attempt at making love lacked passion, which is why she resisted. Had that been a mistake? He hardly seemed overly concerned with her rejection of his advances. Could it be that he was the one having an affair? The possibility had not even occurred to her. It was a wild thought. One of her many calculations in marrying Jay was his age and how that would affect his future behavior. Presumably, the need to spread his seed was something for which there was no longer a biological imperative. But if he were feeling dissatisfied in the marriage, if he were no longer finding the emotional sustenance it was meant to provide, then perhaps he was searching for it elsewhere. To Nicole, he never seemed like the cheating type, but a therapist had once told her that “love is giving something we don’t have to someone we don’t know,” from which she concluded anything was possible, and that was the most disturbing realization of all.

She was loading bottles of San Pellegrino water into the cart when she heard an unwelcome voice, at once insinuating and aggressive.

“Nicole!”

A slightly plump middle-aged woman wearing a forest green tracksuit with white piping and tennis shoes was piloting a shopping cart in the opposite direction. Her russet hair naturally fell in tight coils, but the industrial-strength straightening solution her stylist employed gave the tresses a wiry quality. The result was pulled into a short ponytail. Expensive sunglasses perched on her head. Recently, the skin around her light brown eyes had been tightened and despite having abandoned herself to a scalpel belonging to one of the top plastic surgeons in Manhattan the result left her looking as if she were in a perpetual state of surprise. This was Marcy Gladstone, Franklin’s wife. It was bad enough that Audrey Lindstrom was pregnant. What malevolent imp had placed this woman in her path? Didn’t she live on Long Island?

“Marcy,” Nicole trilled.

“Are you sure you have enough matzo?” Marcy said by way of greeting, examining the two boxes of unleavened spelt in Nicole’s cart.

“No one eats a lot of matzo,” Nicole said. “Too many carbs. What are you doing up here?”

“I was visiting a friend who just put in a new tennis court and I thought I’d get some shopping done before I drove home. What’s with the spelt?” she inquired, tapping a fire engine red fingernail on the offending item.

“Jay likes it. It helps with digestion.”

“Men and their heartburn,” Marcy said, shaking her head. “And their prostates.”

This declaration caused Nicole to reflect on Jay’s health. Was he overdue for a checkup? One of the downsides of marrying someone twenty years older was the Prostate Years came earlier.

“I’ll bring some regular matzo,” Marcy assured her as she began to root around in Nicole’s brimming cart.

“What are you doing?”

“Just looking,” Marcy said, innocently.

Along with the apples, there were lemons, walnuts, raisins, and cinnamon for the charoset she was going to make, ingredients for kugel, kreplach, borscht, a root vegetable casserole, and an impressive brisket. Marcy eyeballed it. Nicole had no idea what she had done wrong, but apparently, the spelt was not her only offense.

“I also found chopped liver they make from the livers of cage-free chickens,” Marcy said. “I’ll bring that, too.”

“It’s not a potluck. You don’t have to bring anything.”

“Did they have those at your church? Potlucks, I mean?”

“We didn’t go to church. My parents weren’t religious.”

“Right, I forgot. You were nothing.” Nicole flared, and Marcy quickly said, “Oh, I’m sorry. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it in a negative way.”

“I would never take it like that,” Nicole lied. Her counterfeit smile failed to find its target, now squinting at the ingredients on a carton of chicken broth with the same discernment she brought to the offending matzo.

It was a deeply held belief of Nicole’s that Marcy judged her ability to hew to the holiday traditions and found it wanting. Anyone could prepare a meal, but for the food to have the requisite Jewish soul, her cousin-in-law believed, it required the presence of a Jew in the kitchen. Marcy’s attempt to hide her disappointment when Nicole told her she had abandoned her plans to convert was unsuccessful. In Marcy’s view, it was bad enough Jay divorced his first wife for reasons she could never comprehend, but he compounded that error by marrying a non-Jew who didn’t even know what kind of matzo to buy for Passover. That there would be no Jew supervising the kitchen of the Seder family obligation forced her to attend rankled Marcy almost as much as the concept of her cousin-in-law’s intermarriage.

“Am I forgetting something?” Nicole asked.

“No,” Marcy said, in a way that conveyed yes. Then, “San Pellegrino?”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not exactly seltzer.”

Nicole reflected that if she were to become the Grand Rabbi of the Satmar Hasidim, somehow, she still wouldn’t be Jewish enough for Marcy. The first time they had met was at a family brunch. When Nicole had referred to the lox as “smoked salmon” Marcy’s laugh devolved into a fit of coughing, which she recovered from to patronizingly explain that no self-respecting Jewish person would ever refer to lox (“It’s lox for godsakes!”) as smoked salmon (“That’s like calling a bagel a roll!” she pontificated).

“You know, I’m curious why you mentioned prostates,” Nicole said, tired of her quasi-relative’s self-righteous bullying. “Is Franklin having problems with his?”

Marcy seemed taken aback by the question. She looked around to make sure no one was listening. Several shoppers grazed passively nearby, none paying attention to the Gladstone women.

“What does that have to do with Passover?”

“You brought it up,” Nicole reminded her.

Marcy weighed whether to share anything other than her disdain with Nicole.

“He is.”

“Can he get an erection?”

If Marcy could have opened her eyes any wider, she would have, but surgery had rendered that impossible. Nicole looked around with feigned concern as if atomic secrets were being discussed. She enjoyed tweaking the prudish Marcy’s sense of decorum.

“With or without the little pill?”

“It’s not always men’s prostates, Marcy. Sometimes you have to spice things up a little.”

“Oh?”

“Jay and I made a sex tape.”

Somehow Marcy’s eyes widened. The thought that two married people, at least one of whom was Jewish, had made a sex tape was like telling her there were eleven commandments.

“No, you didn’t.”

“It was hot.”

“You videoed yourselves?”

“For Purim.”

Marcy’s mind spun into orbit. Since Purim was the holiday where Jews were encouraged by rabbis to wear costumes of the most outrageous kind, drink wine to the point of intoxication, dance in the street—behaviors Marcy would never in a million years engage in, but still—and pursue all manner of licentiousness short of having sex with other people’s spouses, perhaps Nicole was telling the truth.

“You’re not serious.”

“I was Esther and Jay was Haman.”

“Okay, you’re kidding, right?” Marcy’s eyebrows, which could still move, had nearly reached the sunglasses on her forehead. “Tell me you didn’t wear Purim costumes.”

“It’s not like we’re putting it on the Internet. What’s the problem?”

“You’re married people.”

“It’s not a sin.”

“You had sex in Purim costumes?”

“I can’t tell you everything.”

“Nicole . . . that’s sacrilegious, isn’t it?”

“Come on; it’s not like people in the Bible didn’t have a ton of sex. What do you think all that begat-begat-begat was?”

“They didn’t tape themselves.”

“Oh, touché, Marcy. You’re right about that.”

“Tell the truth. Did you make a sex tape?”

Early in their marriage she convinced Jay to make tapes of their lovemaking—the usual gymnastics as well as some light bondage that mostly involved the creative application of her pashmina collection—and in a postcoital haze watch them on her laptop. After they viewed the images (which did not include Purim costumes), the couple laughed with a freedom more satisfying than the actual sex. Jay always made sure she erased them promptly, but Nicole was not going to report any of this to Marcy.

“You two should think about it,” Nicole said.

“Making a tape?”

“Ask your rabbi.”

“I should ask Rabbi Nachman for permission to make a sex tape with Franklin?” Marcy hooted. “Have you met Franklin?”

“Maybe he’d be into it,” Nicole said. “You’d probably feel better about yourself.”

“I feel fine about myself.”

“Then don’t do anything.”

Nicole bared her teeth in what a passerby would swear was a smile. To deal with someone like Marcy, it’s sometimes necessary to move from a stance of receptivity to one of artfully couched aggression. Having done that, Nicole was now ready to finish the shopping.

“I’ll see you at the Seder,” she said, and triumphantly thrust her cart down the aisle.

Chapter Twenty

In the gray dawn light that filtered through the windows of the Crush It health club, a caffeinated Christine Lupo pumped iron in the company of other early risers. She intended to transform her pastry-craving middle-aged body into the kind of smoothly humming machine that could better withstand the rigors of a political campaign. To this end, she rolled out of bed each day at five-thirty, was picked up by Sean Purcell (more than happy to book the additional overtime), and was driven to the gym where she stretched, jogged on a treadmill, and lifted weights for an hour.

As the perspiring district attorney worked out, her uneasy consciousness invariably wandered to the guilt she felt over her divorce, although why she felt guilty mystified her since the whole thing was Dominic’s fault. Together they had told the kids, and neither had taken it well. Dominic Jr. stared at the floor and, when his sister’s crying jag subsided, asked if he could live with his father. Dominic Sr., to his credit, said that would not be possible. The scene played on an endless loop in her head, and she had to concentrate to think clearly and consistently about her nascent campaign and the duties of her current office.

Through the murk and mist of her professional quandaries (staffing, budgets, trials), the one that kept surfacing and submerging then surfacing again like a mutant swamp goblin was the question of whether or not to convene a grand jury in the shooting of the unarmed civilian John Eagle by Police Officer Russell Plesko.

The shooting had predictably generated a great deal of local media attention, but after an initial press conference (carried by all the local network affiliates), Christine had kept a low profile. How she proceeded would have ramifications for her political career and, while it was important to serve justice, she was intent on handling the situation in a way that would redound to her benefit. But the more she pondered her options, the knottier the problem seemed. To not convene a grand jury would send the message that she was insensitive to the needs of the community. Arrange for one and the police would hate her. Somehow, she believed Obama was responsible for the position she was in.

Rain threatened as the district attorney walked from the parking lot to her office accompanied by her vigilant driver, Sean. She noticed a bus from the County Department of Corrections parked at the side of the building. A daisy chain of shackled prisoners plodded into a side entrance supervised by several armed guards. Christine stopped and watched this motley array of pimps, drug dealers, armed robbers, check kiters, serial shoplifters, deadbeat dads, and sex offenders as they shuffled into the building and imagined Russell Plesko in their ragged midst. The easiest choice would be to bring the case to a grand jury. The DA could control the entire process, and she would never have to see the unlucky officer in one of her courtrooms. But things did not always go as planned. There was a slim possibility, however remote that the grand jury would recommend an indictment and then she would be—

This thought was disrupted when she observed one of the prisoners, a hulking white man in his thirties, glaring at her. She met his rage-filled eyes.

“HEY LUPO, FUUUUCCCKKK YOOOOUUURR AAASSSS!!!”

The man’s voice resonated against the building and into the trees. Most prisoners had no idea who the district attorney was, saved their fury for the judges, and rarely expressed it out loud. This criminal was obviously someone who watched local television. A breach of decorum that involved verbal abuse was highly unusual. Visibly provoked by the prisoner’s insolence, Sean asked if she would like him to talk to the guards. She motioned for him not to move and waited for the officers to take control. When the procession continued to snake into the building the district attorney lowered her voice an octave and commanded:

“HALT!”

The guards and prisoners ceased moving because they were accustomed to following orders.

Christine marched over to the prisoners, heels sparking off the pavement.

“Guard!” she barked at the one nearest her, a crew-cut young white guy shaped like a fire hydrant. “What’s your name?”

“Officer Kimble,” he said in a voice suddenly flush with authority. He seemed to know who she was.

“What’s the name of the prisoner who shouted that obscenity at me, Kimble?”

Kimble looked up and down the hapless row. Some stared at nothing, submitting meekly to their fate, others eyed the DA with a mixture of fear and contempt.

“Dunno,” he admitted. There were fifteen inmates in this human bracelet of unlucky charms. “Could’ve been any of them.”

It was rare that Christine made a move not knowing where it would lead. But now she stood in front of the prisoners unsure what to say. To turn and walk away was not an option. She had chosen to confront the loudmouth who had yelled the insult, and so she approached him. The man gathered over her like a storm. There were several murky tattoos on his neck. He sucked on large teeth. If he was intimidated by the presence of the district attorney his behavior did not reflect it. All eyes were on them.

“The reason you’re locked up,” she began, “is that you think the laws don’t apply to you.” Her tone was merciless. “Because of the way you choose to act, you’ll be in front of a judge today. I’ll find that judge’s name. The judge is going to know what you said to me, and he or she will enter it on your record. I’m not going to ask you to apologize because if you had the brains to do that, you probably wouldn’t be here today.” The prisoner regarded her from his lofty height with what looked to Christine like indifference. She wondered if he would seize this chance to clean up his mess. He did not. “Enjoy your day,” she said.

When the DA walked away, she repressed the urge to stick her middle finger over her shoulder and flip off the whole group, including the guards. Sean Purcell increased the length of his strides to keep up with her.

In the office, she pulled up the day’s docket on her computer and quickly determined the name of the belligerent prisoner, then dashed off an email to the trial judge reporting what had just occurred. A nerve-jangling telephone conversation with her divorce lawyer took up most of the next hour. There were meetings until lunch, which she ate at her desk while reviewing the various prosecutors’ reports on trials currently underway. When she found herself reading the same document for the third time, it occurred to her that the decision regarding the Plesko situation was having a greater effect on her ability to concentrate than she had realized. Why was the decision to convene a grand jury proving such a challenge? Had the bombastic O’Rourke, the head of the police union, intimidated her? That couldn’t be possible. She had faced him down, put him in his place, just like she did that obstreperous prisoner earlier in the day. What, then? She told her assistant Kelly to find Lou Pagano.

Ten minutes later he was seated on her office couch, drinking a can of diet soda.

“No grand jury,” he said. “What good could come of it?”

“It would be unusual.”

“I talked to the witnesses myself, Christine. They all said the same thing. I saw the video the maintenance guy took with his phone. It’s a terrible thing that happened, but the cop shot a mentally ill individual who was attacking him. Plesko is clean. He had rotten luck. And I’ll tell you something else—he’s a nice kid, married with a baby, spotless department record, youth league coach. In this environment, you and I both know what can happen, and if it goes in front of a Bronx jury—“

“Why would we get a Bronx jury in White Plains?” Pagano snorted. He recognized her message. She knew what Bronx jury meant.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“So give the cops exactly what they want,” she said.

“Police violence is a problem, but this is the wrong defendant,” Pagano said. He drained his soda and crumpled the can. “This guy goes to trial, anything can happen, and if he winds up in jail, I’m not gonna sleep well for a while.”

Elbows on her desk, Christine made a steeple with her hands and inserted her face. The DA would have more challenging problems than this when she became governor.

“I don’t see how we can avoid a grand jury.”

Late that afternoon the district attorney looked up from a trial report she was notating to see the jittery Kelly.

“That imam?” Kelly said, “He’s back.” Her tone was apologetic as if Ibrahim Muhammad’s presence was her fault.

“What do you mean, he’s back? In the office?”

“No, out front. With some friends.”

Christine rose from her chair, crossed to the window, and looked toward the plaza in front of the building. Seventeen stories below, the imam, situated behind a police barricade, led a group of protestors, several of whom held signs she could not make out. A group of police officers observed them from a distance.

“They have a right to be there if that’s what they want.”

“Should I have Sean bring the car around the back of the building?”

“I’m not scared of them,” the DA said.

Against her better judgment, she took a call from her husband, who let her know that he had no intention of taking a beating in the division of their assets. As his agitation intensified and became personal (Him: “Why are you being such a bitch?”), she resisted the urge to return fire (Her: “I only said you’ll regret your behavior.”), but her lack of aggressive pushback only seemed to embolden Dominic Lupo who, by his account, anticipated being subjected to a brand of torment not meted out since the Spanish Inquisition. By the time she hung up on him, the window in which she could accomplish anything having to do with her actual job had slammed shut. She locked her office door and for five minutes sat in her chair and stared at the framed picture of her children that she kept on her desk. Somehow, the district attorney managed not to weep.

Forty-five minutes later, briefcase packed with work, Christine Lupo left the building with Sean at her side and headed across the plaza toward the parking lot. Government employees moved through the twilight in groups of twos and threes toward their cars. All of them were ignoring Imam Ibrahim Muhammad and his band of demonstrators, who stood quietly holding signs that said INDICT PLESKO, JUSTICE FOR JOHN, and ALLAH WILL JUDGE. A mixture of men and women, black and white, some in Muslim garb others in street clothes, stood on the sidewalk at the edge of the plaza and Christine had to walk past them to access the parking lot. Unafraid of the sidewalk foot soldiers or the judgment of their god, she set her shoulders, quickened her step, and nodded to the police officers. They saluted her.

When the protesters recognized the district attorney, the whole scene sprang to life and Ibrahim Muhammad shouted into a bullhorn, “What do we want?” His enthusiastic flock yelled back, “Justice for John!” “When do we want it?” Muhammad loudly asked. The reply: “Now!”

One of the police officers, an imposing black woman, detached from the group of cops and appeared at the DA’s side. Her nameplate read “Malone.”

“I’m going to walk you to your car if you don’t mind, m’am,” said Officer Malone.

“I got this, Officer,” Sean informed the cop.

Christine told Sean to let the policewoman do her job, and the three of them continued past the chanting protesters, across the street, and into the parking lot where the DA thanked the officer again. Sean held the door open and the DA climbed into the town car.

As Sean backed out of the parking space, turned the wheel, and made for the exit, her mind strayed back to the upsetting conversation with her husband, and it took her a moment to realize that a wedge of activists had broken from the group and swarmed across the street toward her car. Police officers sprinted from the plaza to chase them down.

She watched with increasing concern as Sean calculated whether he had enough time to floor the gas pedal and, with a hard twist of the steering wheel, skirt the protesters and get away before anything could happen or whether he was going to be forced, by the presence of human beings in front of the vehicle, to come to a complete stop. Instead, he did neither, and while two young protesters, a white man and a black woman, threw themselves in front of the car, Sean let the vehicle roll forward. The white man jumped out of the way, but the black woman did not move quickly enough. She lost her footing and the car knocked her to the ground. Sean jammed the brakes as the cops corralled the unruly mob.

The DA jumped out of the car and kneeled by the woman. Several demonstrators surrounded the victim, including Imam Ibrahim Muhammad. Sean stood at his boss’s side, alert and prepared to deflect anything incoming.

To Christine’s immense relief, the woman did not appear to be badly hurt or hurt at all. Putting the humanitarian concern aside, running over a pedestrian was not the best way to kick off a political campaign. Christine asked the woman if she was all right.

“I think so.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tamika Crawford.”

Christine noticed her left leg had begun to shake. She made an effort to control the timbre of her voice.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Crawford.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Sean said, teeth clenched.

Ibrahim Muhammad asked if she wanted an ambulance and Tamika Crawford said no, I didn’t hit my head, so let’s just get on with it. She climbed to her feet, brushed her jeans off, and trained her gaze on the DA. Christine noticed the woman had unusually long eyelashes.

“You need to serve justice,” Tamika said.

“You sure you’re okay?” Officer Malone asked the protester, who was examining a scrape on her elbow.

“I think so,” she said.

“Then you’re under arrest,” Malone said, brandishing handcuffs.

This turn came as a surprise to Tamika and she looked at the DA, who understood that an escalation would not be helpful.

“Let’s forget it,” Christine said to Officer Malone. “Just let her go.”

While this was going on several security guards poured out of the building and with their assistance the police detail herded the protesters back across the street.

It occurred to Christine, while the event unfolded, that this would be an extraordinary moment to announce that she was convening a grand jury in the Russell Plesko case. The drama would leap out of news accounts, and cement her reputation as a woman of both compassion and principle. Instead, she wished Tamika Crawford well, expressed her gratitude to the police, and asked Sean to take her to the Parkway Diner. She was meeting with a political consultant and did not want any county officials who frequented the usual watering holes to see her.

When he was in high school and wanted to drink somewhere the management didn’t check IDs, Russell Plesko and his friends went to the Fenian in Port Chester. A brackish dive near the train station with a jukebox and cheap drinks, most nights back then it was packed with high school athletes. Russell lettered in three sports, and he and his teammates were regulars. They drank tequila sunrises, ate beer nuts or pickled eggs, then drove back to their family homes careful to go just under the speed limit. He went less regularly now but could usually count on seeing a friendly face. In the early evening on this weeknight, he sat alone at the bar sipping his second beer. A couple of dull-faced commuters nursed restorative cocktails nearby.

The bartender approached him, wiping a glass. A robust woman in her sixties with an unlit cigarette dangling from thin lips, Mrs. Costello was married to the owner. Russell had known her since he was sixteen and he had never called her anything other than Mrs. Costello.

“How are you doing, Russell?” Her voice held a lifetime of Virginia Slims. “You want another beer?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Costello.”

He wasn’t in a chatty mood, but Mrs. Costello didn’t move.

“You know the bar sponsors a Little League team, right?”

“Sure, I know.”

“Ralphie Bonfiglia’s the coach and his company is transferring him to Boston for a few months.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You coach basketball, don’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you want to coach the Little League team until Ralphie comes back?”

The offer flabbergasted Russell. Given the state of limbo he currently occupied, the idea of making plans was something he had not considered.

“Are all the parents on board?”

Russell and Mrs. Costello had avoided any talk about his situation. She had not brought it up, and Russell did not volunteer information.

“Don’t worry about the parents. Mr. Costello likes you, he’ll talk to anyone who’s got a problem.”

“And Ralphie’s okay with this?”

She told him not to worry about it, everyone would be grateful. Russell had trouble envisioning any return to routine existence, but this gesture showed him he could be accepted back into society despite what he had done. He rubbed his knee, the one that had buckled on him that awful morning. It was still sore.

“All right, then yes.”

She nodded and went to check on the customers down the bar.

Russell thought his interview with Lou Pagano of the Westchester County District Attorney’s office had gone well. The encounter had been friendly, and Russell told his story from every possible angle. He liked Pagano who did not seem to have a bad attitude about cops but came away from the meeting not sure how it would work out.

Since the shooting, his days had taken on a strange texture. The White Plains Police Department had placed him on administrative leave and confiscated his firearm. He and his wife fought constantly, and their bickering caused the baby to cry incessantly. Reporters waited for him outside his apartment building. Circumstances led him to the house of his brother, a Yonkers firefighter with a wife and three kids. He had spent the last several nights on a pullout couch in the finished basement. It was not an ideal arrangement. There, he would thrash for hours, unable to sleep. In the morning, he would put on sunglasses and pull a trucker cap low over his eyes before he left for the day. He worked out at a local gym during off hours when he would be less likely to run into anyone he knew. He took his laptop to the library where he read the news in a quiet corner. His friends on the police force called but he parried their invitations to grab lunch or drinks. He prepared himself for the worst. Mrs. Costello’s offer of a coaching opportunity was like seeing an angel slide.

That morning he had met with his attorney for the second time, a meeting he had requested. Joan Abelson was a lawyer at Rose, Gardener & Seligman in downtown White Plains. Her manner was as brisk as her wardrobe, which consisted of a tailored gray pantsuit and a white blouse. Blond hair cut short, two gold studs in her left ear. Russell sat across from her in a sports coat and khakis, cap on his lap. The lawyer sipped a large mug of chai tea. Russell found the scent relaxing.

“How have you been doing?”

“Been better,” he said.

He realized that his leg was bouncing and stopped it. He did not want the lawyer to think he was nervous. She waited for him to talk but Russell was not sure exactly what to say. He knew he needed to ask a question before she told him she had work to do and would call when there was news.

“How long does it usually take before the DA’s office says whether it’s going to put a grand jury on a case?” He hoped that his edginess was not painfully obvious. At least his voice was forceful.

“As I told you when we met the other day, it varies.”

“Is my situation taking longer than usual?”

“If the DA were to make an announcement today, that would fall somewhere into the average length of time. She’s not taking too long.”

““I’ve been reading about grand juries.”

“And what have you learned?”

“They can be unpredictable,” Russell said. He pinched the brim of his cap, now resting on his thigh.

“That’s true.”

“It’s impossible to tell how this is going to play out?”

“Russell, look, as I said, this is a serious case that will have ripples far beyond you and your situation. It would be highly unusual for the district attorney not to convene a grand jury. I can pretty much guarantee it, in fact. But that doesn’t mean you have to start worrying yet. If the case goes to trial, you’ve got a better-than-average chance of beating the charges. Your record is exemplary, you’re active in youth sports. It was a bad situation.”

“The fucking worst,” he said. “Excuse my language.”

The attorney nodded supportively. He appreciated that she seemed to be listening to him and was sensitive to his distress. Russell wished he could stop worrying. Joan Abelson certainly seemed untroubled by it. He admired the dispassion lawyers brought to their work. Studying law interested him. If he were allowed to return to his job, perhaps he’d ask to be assigned to the DA’s office. The department certainly was not going to put him back on the street anytime soon.

“If the case goes to trial, and I’m not saying it will, we’ll get you a sympathetic jury, and I’m going tell them your story.”

The door to the bar opened, and Russell heard the men before he saw them. Two black guys. He tensed. They were talking about a school board meeting that had occurred the previous evening. The men, who appeared to be around forty, sat in a booth and ordered drinks. Although people stared at him in public, and some probably judged him harshly, no stranger had spoken to him since the incident. The media had not widely circulated his picture, but he had assumed people would know his identity. That this did not appear to be the case astonished him. Still, Russell was sensitive to the presence of African-Americans, who, he believed, would take a particularly harsh view of what had happened. He glanced at the men and was pleased to see they remained indifferent to his presence.

Russell was not a regular churchgoer but he believed in God, and this put him in a knotty position. In his view, he had not sinned. And yet now a man was dead, and this death was on him. He had caused it. That was horrible but what else could he have done? His life had been in danger. John Eagle could have grabbed his gun. Whether or not he was at fault, the remorse at having taken a life weighed on him. Russell Plesko lived by the words “peace officer.” It was the first time he had drawn his weapon on the job.

He took another sip of his beer and peered around the bar. Since he was young, he had wanted to be a cop. He had barely finished college not because he couldn’t do the work, but because he wasn’t suited for sitting in a classroom. Russell loved being on the force. It allowed him to interact with new people each day and he enjoyed the respect they showed him. White Plains was a mostly middle-class city, and despite pockets of poverty, it was not a bad place to be in law enforcement. He had planned to work for twenty years then pension out, buy a weekend cabin upstate, spend time in the woods with his family. Now all of it was in jeopardy.

He glanced at the black men. They were still engrossed in conversation. Down the bar, one of the commuters ordered a refill. Russell tossed a couple of bills on the bar, waved to Mrs. Costello, and walked out.

It was early evening and the air had chilled. The sun was low in the sky when he walked into the Fenian. Now traces of purple lingered on the horizon, and he could see the moon rising over downtown Port Chester. Russell had parked around the corner. Turning up the collar of his jacket, he wished he could call Christine Lupo. He needed to know what was going to happen.

It was evident something was wrong when he turned on to the side street where his car was parked. The streetlight lit the windshield of Russell’s five-year-old gray Honda Civic unevenly. The illumination reflected in intricate patterns on both lateral extremes, but the middle was bashed clean through and swallowed the glow like a dead star.

Christine regarded her dinner companion across the table at the Parkway Diner. Bruce Lathrop was a husky man with a shaved head and stubbly face, the combination of which lent him a menacing aspect that he undercut with an open, easy-going manner. He wore jeans and a sports coat. The two of them were in a booth, and spoke quietly so as not to be overheard. They were expecting someone else to join them.

As the ambitious politico picked at her salad, the consultant revealed that the initial polling she had commissioned exposed an unfortunate truth: Her name recognition was not as high as either of them had hoped.

“All the drug dealers you lock up, the wife beaters—our research shows that, at least outside of Westchester County, no one cares.”

He chewed thoughtfully on a piece of turkey bacon and let this unappetizing reality sink in. Despite the hour, Lathrop had ordered breakfast.

“What about all the times I’ve been on television?”

“The TV has mostly been local, so some people in the city know you, but upstate, no one.” He saw her reaction to this, a barely perceptible downturn of her coral lips, and said, “Hey, you’re not paying me to sugarcoat it, right? But look, since you’ve been in office, you haven’t had a genuinely sexy case.”

“I was on TV for an entire month when we put away the doctor who killed his wife’s boyfriend. CNN did that story on the nightly news.”

“Joe Blow in Buffalo? He doesn’t care,” Lathrop explained. “You can’t take it personally.”

The district attorney forked a juiceless piece of tomato into her mouth and chewed but did not notice the lack of taste. She took her entire situation personally. The lucrative career in the private sector she had passed up to work twelve hour days for a government salary, dealing with armed criminals, rapists, murderers; her conviction rate was the envy of her colleagues across the country, and yet she remained a nonentity to the public? It was maddening.

“And we convicted the doctor on evidence that was circumstantial,” she reminded the bullet-headed operative.

“Which was impressive, don’t get me wrong,” he said, awarding her the booby prize of his approbation. “But locking up that guy doesn’t make people look at you and think”—here he paused for effect, then said in a stentorian tone—“Governor Lupo.”

Christine examined the combination of greenery in her bowl as if the configuration in which the chef arranged it contained a code that, when cracked, might offer a solution to this riddle. It ate at her that despite the high level at which she discharged her duties, brought indictments, and put criminals behind bars, she found herself barely better known than some state senator from Poughkeepsie.

Then came the consultant’s proposal: “But if there was a case that was the right kind of high-profile—” He didn’t need to finish the thought.

“You think I should indict the cop who killed the civilian?”

“Not for political reasons, that’s for sure.” He tore a piece of wheat toast, dipped it in a pool of egg yolk, placed it in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “But it would be a publicity bonanza.”

“People already say I’m too in love with the cameras.”

“You can’t be successful in this business if you hang back,” he pointed out. “All this racial stuff going on now with the cops, no one’s taking them on.”

“You know what happens when you antagonize the police?”

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t be a gamble, but when you take a hard look at your profile, you might want to think about it.”

“Even if I were inclined to do that, this looks like the wrong defendant. My deputy personally interviewed all of the witnesses. He believes the officer was justified in his use of force.”

“What’s the cop’s name, Plesko, right?” The DA confirmed this. She could see the computer in Lathrop’s head sort files and bring up a document. “I think that’s a Hungarian name, probably Catholic, which falls under the heading of white European. He’s not from some ethnic group that’s going to rally to his defense.”

“You forget the cops,” she reminded him. “They’re a group. I hosted a delegation of them in my office to discuss this, and I can tell you, they’ll be upset.”

“They’re always upset. And by the way, I’m not advocating either position, just thinking out loud.”

“I’m not going to indict that guy to get traction in an election.”

Bruce Lathrop held his hands up, palms facing across the booth, stop right there.

“Hey, I would never suggest anything so cynical,” he assured her. “Look, you want to be elected governor, you need to win the city. You want to spend your time running around upstate putting the Schenectady-Albany-Troy equation together, be my guest, but that’s not how you get elected governor. New York City is a union town. You gotta make inroads down there. On the one hand, if you want to look at this thing through the self-interest prism, you’re better off not bringing the case to a grand jury.”

“But if I do, then it would look like I had balls.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Frankly, I think voters prefer balls to integrity.”

“New York is full of liberals who might be pro-union, but they’re not particularly pro-police, and it would look like I had more integrity if I did, right? And balls.”

“Look at what happened when Reagan fired the air traffic controllers,” Lathrop said, wistful at the memory of the routed labor movement. “It was like Washington crossing the Delaware. Balls and integrity in a single package.”

“Not that I would ever think that way,” the DA said.

“So, you have a conundrum.”

“That’s your brilliant insight?”

“Hey, don’t kill the messenger,” he said.

That her frustration had revealed itself further frustrated the DA. It wasn’t Bruce Lathrop’s fault that she was in this position. Was the harsh tone she had just used misdirected anger she felt toward her husband? It was her suspicion that if she were not going through a divorce at this highly inconvenient time, her thinking around the police shooting would have greater clarity. Her inability to come to a decision was something that she would be happy to lay at her husband’s feet if that were not a sign of mental weakness. But it was. She offered her apologies for snapping at Lathrop. Accustomed to far worse from egotistical, narcissistic politicians, he told her not to worry about it.

Outside the window, a black limousine glided into the parking lot and pulled up to the restaurant door. A substantial man in a business suit emerged from the backseat and Christine instantly recognized him. He hustled into the diner and seconds later was hovering over their table. He smiled ingratiatingly at the DA and introduced himself to Lathrop.

“Sorry I’m late,” Franklin Gladstone said. The consultant moved over, and the new arrival slid in beside him. He looked at Lathrop’s plate. “Who eats breakfast at night? This guy’s nuts!” Franklin delivered the words like a punchline, but since they were not funny, he only received forced smiles in response.

The waitress arrived and asked Franklin if he’d like to order something, but he waved her away. The three of them exchanged pleasantries, then Franklin declared the preliminaries over and requested that they discuss the reason he’d driven up to White Plains. Christine admired Franklin’s no-nonsense style as it reflected her own. He was someone who “got things done” and was acquainted with a great many potential donors, two qualities she prized. She walked Franklin through her money-raising operation, how much the campaign had already, and what her projected needs were between now and the election. Franklin listened intently, nodding as she enumerated the challenges of putting a donor network together. Having illuminated the financials, the district attorney asked if there were any particular policy issues he wanted to discuss.

“I’ve already vetted you on policy,” he said.

“I need to know you’re comfortable,” Christine said.

“I can tell you I’m nearly always the smartest person in the room,” the hereditary kingpin assured them. “I assess situations quickly based on the data my people put in front of me. I don’t like it, I’m out, but if I like it—”

“You’re in,” Bruce said.

“This guy’s a genius,” Franklin said.

Christine smiled, pleased by Franklin’s enthusiasm. He was a force she could harness. “Do you think you’d like to be a bundler?”

“It would be an honor to encourage my friends to violate campaign finance laws on your behalf.” The DA and the consultant stared at Franklin. When he said, “I’m joking!” the pair laughed like it was professional comedy.

The check came, and Christine grabbed it, but while she was digging into her wallet, Franklin picked it up. “It’s a thing I like to do,” he said. “Indulge me.”

In the parking lot, Franklin asked Lathrop if he might have a private word with the district attorney. Deferring to the donor, the consultant shuffled to his Prius.

“My wife and I would like to host a fundraiser for you at our home.”

Christine’s eyes melted. Franklin Gladstone was the whale she had been praying for. “I would love that,” she said, deploying the word love strategically with the expectation her new patron would derive warmth from his proximity to its sound.

“Are you free for dinner next week?” Franklin asked. “I have some ideas.”

It sounded as if he were asking her on a date. She was not remotely attracted to anything about her new admirer other than the size of his investment portfolio but was nonetheless flattered.

“I think so.”

When they shook hands, Christine noticed that Franklin held hers too long. His was fleshy and slick like an eel. She had been an emotional wreck since viewing the photographic evidence of her husband’s perfidy and Franklin’s attentions had a palliative effect on her feminine ego. She stood a little taller as she walked to the car, entirely resolved to exploit her new benefactor’s remaining hormones.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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