Pins and Needles

Scroll down for a peek at Chapter 1!




The  truth is rarely seen on the surface, and getting to it might mean digging deep….
After a devastating accident and a long stay in the hospital, the last thing petroleum engineer Sean Wilkinson wants to deal with is the settlement the oil company tries to force on him. He’ll never be able to work in his field again, his education is all but useless, and his surgeons are pessimistic about whether he’ll ever walk again. He needs someone in his corner, but most lawyers take one look at his tattoo-covered father and turn their backs. It’s just Sean’s luck that the one attorney willing to give him a chance is also the hottest guy he’s ever seen.
As a trial lawyer, Nate Delany has a lot to prove—to his father, the world, and himself. Sean intrigues Nate, and he struggles to reconcile the gifted tattoo artist he can’t stop fantasizing about with the quiet, brilliant engineer. His investigation reveals facts left out of the accident report—including an illicit affair, greedy coworkers, and a vicious corporation that will do anything to protect its bottom line. When Sean’s life is threatened, winning Sean’s case, and his heart, becomes a lot more dangerous.



Chapter 1

NATE LEARNED quickly that if he kept a club soda in his hands, no one would shove another drink at him. The bartender had offered him a reassuring smile when he’d approached her about staying sober through the firm’s celebration. She’d even made sure to garnish his club soda with fresh mint so it looked like he had a mojito in his hands. As the newest crop of summer interns danced and moved around them, several of the women showing off to the delight of the senior partners, he was more confident that staying sober was the right decision. Celebration or not, if Nate let himself get drunk, he was likely to break something.
Or someone, he thought, watching as his father raised yet another toast to Paul Tillman, the man of the hour.
“Six point two million!” his father announced, raising his fifth, maybe sixth, drink. People cheered and slapped Tillman on the back. “Enough to make damn sure Mrs. Winslow can pay her mortgage for the rest of her life. Enough to make her whole again.”
There were fewer cheers, Nate noted bitterly.
“And quite possibly the most impressive trial Mercer, Delany, and Goodman have ever seen!”
That, they shouted about.
“The hearsay argument alone!” someone called.
Nate took a deep breath and sipped his club soda, grateful once again that he hadn’t opted for alcohol. Tillman’s hearsay argument had come, word for word, from one of the ten briefs Nate had prepared for the trial. Ten briefs, sixteen depositions, a half-dozen custom visual aids, and the actual complaint itself. Throughout the course of the entire trial, the only thing Tillman had actually done well was to read Nate’s work and rehearse it until it didn’t sound robotic coming out of his mouth.
He’d begged his father to let him handle the trial, even to let him handle one or two arguments, or at least to be on the trial team. His father had muttered the same excuse he’d been regurgitating for two years about not showing favoritism, and insisted Nate would handle a trial when Tillman decided he was ready. Every new attorney was assigned to a partner, he knew. But most were only stuck shadowing a partner for the first year, and in that year they were coached, trained, and mentored for a few months before they were assigned their own caseload. In the two years since he’d passed the bar, Tillman had proved he was more than willing to let Nate handle all of his actual work, but he was never going to let Nate take credit for any of it.
But now, with Nate doing everything except the oral arguments in the Winslow case and securing one of the biggest contingent fees in the firm’s history, there was no way his father could deny him a staff attorney position. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and let Tillman enjoy the limelight.
His father was continuing. His words were slurred, but no one seemed to notice or care. There were more cheers, more toasts, and all Nate could do was lean against the dark bar and watch.
Raising his glass, his father shouted, “Mercer, Delany, Goodman, and Tillman!”


EMMITT DELANY didn’t look good the next day. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and his normally meticulous hair was a mess because he kept running his fingers through it.
Maybe, Nate thought as he watched his father rub his temples, he should have waited.
“Absolutely not,” his father said, not even looking at him. “Tillman’s promotion doesn’t automatically extend to everyone training under him, and it’s preposterous to think you’re entitled to advancement by mere association.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, wondering just what Tillman had told him and the other senior partners.
“I can’t give you a staff position just because of Tillman’s success. It’s been two years, Nathan, since you finished law school. I had such high hopes for you, I really did, but even this year’s interns have contributed more to the firm than you have, and they’ve only been here a month.”
“How, exactly, have I not contributed?”
“How have you?”
“I did absolutely everything for the Winslow case,” Nate pointed out, trying not to let his frustration show. “I wrote the complaint, I wrote the briefs for every motion, I took every deposition, and I’m the one who found our expert witnesses. Damn near every word that came out of Tillman’s mouth in the trial came straight from the briefs I wrote!”
His father sighed and shook his head sadly. “I never thought I’d see the day….”
“What are you talking about?”
“He warned us,” his father said softly. “He said you’d tried to pass the other associates’ work off as your own, that you’d threatened to do the same thing to him if he didn’t promote you.”
“And you believe him,” Nate said, stunned. “You really think I’d do that? I’ve spent the last two years working my ass off for this firm! When every other associate hired at the same time got support and encouragement, I got nothing but opposition because you didn’t want to look unfair. I graduated at the top of my class, I scored in the ninetieth percentile on the bar exam, and I could have walked into a full partnership at any other firm in the state, but I stayed here and worked my ass off for you! I put up with Tillman treating me like a glorified intern for two years for you! And you think I’m lying? You really think I’d try to take credit for his work?”
His father raised a hand, trying to quiet him. “Your intelligence isn’t what’s in question, but your character.”
“I’m your son.”
“You certainly haven’t conducted yourself like a son of mine. This is—”
“Over,” Nate announced. He forced himself to take a few shallow, slow breaths. He hated losing his temper in front of his father, particularly when his father already thought so little of him. He checked the buttons on his suit jacket, checked his cuff links, and forced himself to smile. “I’ll go empty my office.”
“So you’re going to run away? Like a child throwing a tantrum when you’ve been caught doing something wrong?”
“I’m not sure there’s a better option,” he admitted. “This way, everyone gets what they want, or need, out of the situation. You get to replace me with an associate you’re not afraid to work with, and you get to evaluate the quality of Tillman’s work without me.”
“Afraid? What are you talking about?”
“You won’t work with me,” he said. “It’s not an accusation, but a statement of fact. You’re convinced the only way to avoid looking biased is to avoid working with me altogether. I’m not quite sure how it happened, but that fear has the other partners convinced I came into this job expecting you to be biased. The first thing Tillman does with his new associates is take his whole team out to dinner so everyone can get to know the new guy. The first thing he did with me was announce, to everybody in the office, that I wasn’t going to be getting any special treatment from him. The first three months here, he sent me out for coffee and had me make photocopies. He had first-year interns on his team write more briefs than me. When I complained about it, he said he’d give me just enough rope to hang myself by. He made me write every brief and complaint for each of his cases from there on out. He stopped even pretending to proofread the damn things about a year ago. If looking through his case files is too much trouble, you can talk to our witnesses in the Winslow case. Ask them who deposed them. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I had proof in my hand, I don’t think I could stay.”
“Proof always matters,” his father said automatically.
He nodded. He’d lost track of the times he’d heard his father repeat that mantra. Every time he got in trouble as a kid, unless he could provide evidence that he wasn’t guilty, he was punished. Granted, he’d usually done the things he was punished for, but they were childhood mistakes and stupid decisions, like stealing a candy bar from the grocery store when he was ten. Those mistakes had defined his relationship with his father as a child, and had continued to stop his father from trusting him even now at twenty-eight.
“I always expected to have to prove myself,” he said honestly. “To my staff supervisors, to the senior partners, even to you. Especially to you. But I don’t think I can keep trying. This way, I can look for a job where I can get actual trial experience and where every day doesn’t feel like a battle. Hell, it might even be in Tillman’s best interests for me to leave. This way, he can have a chance to show you he earned his promotion on his own merits,” he said, struggling not to shout.
“You can’t be serious,” his father said, holding up both of his hands in a gesture that was almost placating. “Your place is here with me, Nathan. You need to apply yourself, to start showing the other partners what you’re capable of, but there’s no reason to make a rash decision.”
Nate considered his father, wondering if he was looking into his own future. Emmitt Delany was everything he’d always wanted to be. He was constantly skeptical, always composed, and absolutely confident he was right about whatever situation he found himself in. The confidence Nate could manage, but conducting himself with the same decorum had left him exhausted and miserable, for nothing. Nate never wanted to be so unforgiving with his loved ones.
But maybe he already was, Nate thought bitterly. His last three attempts at dating had ended disastrously enough that he was convinced there was something wrong with him.
“It’s not a rash decision,” he said, his voice as cool and controlled as possible. His decision might have come as a surprise to his father, but he’d had two years to weigh his options, consider outcomes, and analyze all of the social dynamics keeping him stuck as an associate. “It’s the only logical decision.”
There was a flash of concern in his father’s eyes. “Maybe we can talk about this? I’ll bring in the other partners and give you and Paul a chance to hash things out, get it all out in the open. Zack Mercer would be willing to take you on as an associate, I’m sure, and he might prove to be a better match.”
He sighed and clasped his dad’s shoulder. “It’s better this way.”


WORD SPREAD around the office fast. He’d barely packed up his laptop when Paul Tillman strode into his cubicle, his expression furious.
“I thought you had a meeting?”
“Don’t be an ass. You’re not going to quit.”
“I’m pretty sure I already have,” Nate said, wrapping up the laptop cord.
“You’re really going to humiliate your father this way?” Tillman asked, almost snarling. “You’ve got some nerve, abandoning the firm he’s built from the ground up, throwing his life’s work away like it’s nothing. I know you’re not a team player, but this is pathetic, even for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tillman. The firm doesn’t need me,” Nate pointed out, grinning. “You’ve made it quite clear to everyone that I haven’t done more than fetch coffee for the last two years. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble replacing me.”
“And you’re just going to prove I was right. You know that, don’t you? It will always be my word against yours, and if you’re not here to defend yourself, I will make damn sure everyone knows you ran away because your father finally figured out how worthless you are.”
Nate wasn’t going to lower himself by letting Tillman bait him anymore. Anything he said would add to the rumors and lies, like throwing gasoline on hot coals. He shoved his phone in his briefcase, dropped his nameplate into the trash, and strode out, leaving Tillman sputtering behind him.
The team receptionist Angelica Vasquez looked up at him, her large brown eyes sad but restrained. Despite having two children at home, she was easily one of the most dedicated members of the office staff. She was there early each morning, stayed late each night, and, unlike everyone else, she saw the work he put in. When he was there until midnight sorting through case law, she’d tucked her children in on the lobby couches and helped him organize thousands of pages of judicial opinions. Her littlest, a petite seven-year-old named Nicole, had spent more than one sick day playing video games in Nate’s cubicle because Tillman refused to sign off on any more family medical leave than the ten days guaranteed in Angelica’s contract, no matter how often her kids got sick or how impossible it was to find last-minute care if they couldn’t attend school.
“You’re really leaving?” she asked, pouting. “I didn’t take you for the type who’d let that bastard win.”
He shrugged and offered her an easy smile. “I’m not admitting defeat,” he insisted. “I’m moving on to round two, that’s all.”
“I’m going to miss you,” Angelica said, standing up from the desk and giving him a tight hug. “Have you got a game plan for this round, or are you just going to quit and hope you land on your feet?”
“Trusting to dumb luck is a game plan, isn’t it? It’s not like things could end up worse than they are here.”
“Maybe you can go into practice for yourself,” she suggested. “Decide which cases to take on your own, rather than just accepting what’s assigned? You could really help people, Nate.”
“I can’t afford it,” he said before recognizing her smile. “You’ve got someone specific in mind, don’t you?”
She shrugged and shifted a brand-new case file across her desk. “A father was in here earlier today, and Mr. Tillman almost called security to kick him out before he listened to what the man had to say. His son was hurt out on an oil rig. Mr. Tillman said there wasn’t any way to recover enough to offset the cost of the trial, that the son should just accept the company’s settlement offer, but….”
“You think there’s more to the case?”
Angelica leaned close and whispered, “All Mr. Tillman was concerned about was how he’d look with this gentleman as a client. He’s a bit… rough around the edges, I suppose. But from what I heard, the money the settlement offered them might not cover the boy’s medical bills, and he’s still in the hospital.”
“They shouldn’t offer a settlement yet,” he explained. “He was on an oil rig?” That would make recovery tricky. Because offshore oil rigs weren’t technically on Texas soil, recovering under workers’ compensation for an on-the-job injury wasn’t a given. And an oil company, with deep pockets and all the time in the world to hire a top-notch legal team, was likely to use jurisdictional issues to avoid taking care of one of their employees if his injuries proved to be expensive. Still, their insurance usually reflected the risk their workers faced, and if the insurance wouldn’t cover the boy’s injuries, it was safe to assume those injuries were catastrophic.
“He lost a leg, Nate. Almost lost both of them,” Angelica said, almost reading his mind.
“And?” he asked, because there had to be more to it if Angelica was taking a personal interest.
“And he’s twenty-two. He just finished a degree in petroleum engineering. The day he got hurt was his third day on the job.”
He flipped through the file, trying to interpret the messy sprawl of Tillman’s handwriting. “This is it?” he asked, nodding at the half page of notes. There wasn’t even enough information to determine the young man’s legal status, which they sure as hell needed to know if they were going to try to help him. “What’s this say?”
She squinted at the note. “I’ve no idea.”
“Well, it’s not like it matters. I can’t snap up one of the firm’s clients, ethically speaking.”
“The father, Mr. Sterner, said he couldn’t afford the retainer. Tillman said to shred the notes and close out the file.”
He flipped through the file again. “Ten grand? A ten-grand retainer for a workers’ comp claim?” Nate considered the messy notes and shook his head. Either the kid didn’t have grounds for a claim, or Tillman really wanted to avoid taking the case. “Tillman’s an asshole, but he’s not an idiot. If he thinks taking this case to trial would cost more than it’d earn, he’s probably right.”
Angelica raised both of her eyebrows. She fiddled with the computer at her desk, then turned the monitor around so he could see. “From the security camera,” she explained.
The man looming over her desk was huge, both tall and muscle-bound, covered in dark tattoos and black leather. He wore a leather vest but no shirt under it, and it was decorated with a half-dozen patches. His tattoos, however, stood out the most. Every inch of visible skin was covered in tattoos. Some were seemingly random shapes, others artistically rendered naked women. Nate could make out compasses, sailboats, skeletal hands, and roses. There were tattoos on his head, his neck, and his face. Even his hands were covered in ink.
“Rough around the edges?” he asked, chuckling.
“His son lost his leg, his career, and almost his life,” Angelica reminded him.
Nate sighed and nodded. It couldn’t hurt to at least meet with them both, assess what their options might be, and give them a push in the right direction. He didn’t have anything beyond his personal cell phone, his laptop, and his own savings to fall back on to cover expenses, but he could handle a workers’ compensation claim for a hell of a lot less than ten thousand dollars. “I’ll see if I can help them,” he promised.
Angelica beamed and hugged him again. “Wait here a minute,” she said confidently. “I’ll call and set up a meeting.”


THE REHABILITATION wing of Houston Methodist was loud and full of people, even though it was nearly six by the time Nate managed to get through downtown traffic. Nurses helped patients walk through the halls, and every room seemed to be filled with visitors. The door to room 304 was ajar, and Nate paused to listen to the driving guitar rhythm of an old heavy metal song playing on a speaker that didn’t come close to doing it justice. The music was more than a little out of place in East Texas, but it still made him smile. When he’d escaped for college, the clubs he’d gravitated toward when he wasn’t studying were always playing heavy metal. It had been five years, but he’d know the chorus of Metallica’s “The Unforgiven” anywhere.
He knocked, even though the door was open. A moment later, the big man from the office security camera pulled the door open and frantically gestured for him to be quiet. He was even bigger in person, towering over Nate’s six-foot height and easily outweighing him by fifty pounds.
“He’s exhausted,” the man whispered. “Just fell asleep.”
Nate nodded and glanced at the bed. He froze, gaping at the young man lying there. He had soft brown hair, streaked blond from long days in the sun. His hair seemed to want to curl in the humidity, and those half curls hung down low enough to frame his cheekbones and sharply angled nose. Despite being asleep, he had dark circles under his eyes.
Across his lap was an open sketchbook with a fabulously detailed drawing of a seashell filling the entire page. The drawing might have passed for a photograph, if the entire thing were finished, but the bottom corner was only partly colored in. He’d fallen asleep with a dark blue colored pencil still clutched in his hand.
“That’s beautiful,” Nate said to himself, keeping his gaze fixed on the sketchbook rather than the silhouette of the young man’s lower body beneath the blanket.
His right leg was obviously in some kind of contraption to keep it still, surrounded by a huge bulk of bandages and splints. His left leg looked normal to the knee, but then the blanket fell abruptly, nothing at all where his shin and foot should have been.
“He’s talented,” the giant replied, beaming. “He can draw damn near anything, but when he gets his hands on real skin…. It’s fucking magical.”
“He’s an artist? A tattoo artist? I thought he was an engineer?”
“Nope. Well, maybe. Uh. You’re the one Miss Vasquez said was coming, right? From Mercer, Delany, and Goodman?”
“I’m Nathan Delany,” he said, knowing it wasn’t quite an answer to the man’s question. “Angelica was worried when the Mercer, Delany, and Goodman terms didn’t work for you, so she talked to me about the case. I’ve got a bit more freedom to pick and choose my clients, so she thought I might be able to help. Would you like to go get a cup of coffee and discuss the details? Or we could try to be quiet until he wakes up. I’ll need to talk to him anyway, so it’s no trouble to wait.”
“As long as the music’s on, we should be able to talk in here. White noise helps drown out the sounds from the hall. Henry Sterner,” the man introduced himself, offering his massive hand. “But folks call me Hawk.”
Nate grinned. “Metallica for white noise? That is actually really cool. My own parents would have tortured me with silence or classical if I were stuck in here. Nice to meet you. The offer for coffee still stands, if you’d like me to bring you some?”
“He’s already having trouble sitting still—coffee ain’t going to help,” the guy in the bed said without opening his eyes. “You don’t have to be quiet, I’m awake. Lucid, not so much. But awake.”
“The doctor said that last dose of pain medication would knock you out,” Hawk grumbled.
“She also said it’d take the pain away. She lied.” He chuckled and opened his eyes. They were a golden brown that almost matched his hair, with darker flecks that made his eyes sparkle like topaz. Nate had never imagined that dusky brown hair and golden eyes could be so striking, but for a moment all he could do was stare, stunned by the combination. He looked as though he’d been through hell, but the exhaustion, pain, and fatigue didn’t diminish the fact that he was damn good-looking.
He watched Nate, his expression puzzled. “Am I hallucinating, or is there a GQ model in my room?” He glanced between them with a sleepy, glazed expression, then closed his eyes again.
“Sorry,” Hawk muttered, rubbing his tattoo-covered temple. “This is Sean. He’s a little….”
“High as a kite?” Nate suggested, smirking.
“And then some,” Hawk said, managing a laugh.



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