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As his best friend, Tyler understood that the topic of his father was distinctly off-limits.
    “But I thought we were bonding,” Tyler continued. “You know, one oppressed white male to another.”
    J.D. gave him a look. “Very cute. Laugh now, but we’ll see who’s laughing in two years when you come up for partner and they toss your ass out onto the street with nothing more than a ‘thanks for your time.’ ” J.D. gestured to the court. “Now—if we’re finished with your little personal insights into my psyche, do you mind if we play some squash here?”
    Tyler bowed agreeably. “Not at all.”
    The two once again resumed their game. Silent. Focused. J.D. was just getting back into his groove when Tyler brought up another topic of conversation he had even less interest discussing.
    “So I saw you walk by my office this afternoon with Payton,” Tyler said. “You two looked chummy as always.”
    J.D. dove for the ball and narrowly missed it. Cursing under his breath, he picked himself up from the floor and walked it off. He knew Tyler was baiting him once again and was hardly about to give him the satisfaction of being successful at it a second time.
    “Payton and I had a meeting in Ben’s office,” he replied matter-of-factly. He tossed Tyler the ball.
    As their play continued, so did Tyler’s taunting. “So . . . did you congratulate her on the Chicago Lawyer article?”
    J.D. smiled, thinking back to his conversation with Payton earlier that day. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. In my own way of course.”
    “You know, maybe you should run your whole ‘women just have to stay in the race’ argument by her,” Tyler teased. “I’m sure she’d have a few thoughts.”
    J.D. scoffed at this. “Please—as if I’m worried about anything Payton has to say. What’s she going to do, give me another one of her little pissed-off hair flips?” He flung imaginary long hair off his shoulders, exaggerating. “I’ll tell you, one of these days I’m going to grab her by that hair and . . .” He gestured as if throttling someone.
    Without breaking stride, he returned Tyler’s serve. The two smashed a few back and forth, concentrating on the game when—
    “Is violence always part of your sexual fantasies?” Tyler interjected.
    J.D. whipped around—
    “Sexual—?”
    —and got hit smack in the face with the squash ball. He toppled back and sprawled ungracefully across the court.
    Tyler stepped over and twirled his racquet. “This is nice. We should talk like this more often.”
    J.D. reached over, grabbed the ball off the floor, and hurled it right at Tyler.

    J.D. HEADED HOME later that evening, still smarting from the squash-ball blow to the cheek. He didn’t know what hurt more—his face or his ego. A very competitive player, he couldn’t believe he had let Tyler distract him so easily. Taunting him about Payton, it was so . . . simplistic. But what could he say? As always, she brought out the worst in him. Even while playing squash, apparently.
    Truth be told, however, on this particular occasion he had a bit more on his mind than Payton Kendall. As J.D. parked his car in the underground garage of the Gold Coast high-rise condo building where he lived, he felt tired. Really tired. As if all the nineteen-hour days he’d been putting in the last year were suddenly catching up with him.
    Heading toward the garage elevators, J.D. pushed the remote on his key a second time to double-check that he had locked the doors. He knew he was overprotective of his car, but come on—who wouldn’t be? As he had once joked to Tyler, driving a Bentley actually made a man wish he had a longer commute to work. While Tyler had laughed at the joke, his father sure hadn’t when J.D. had said the same thing to him. In fact, it was that very car, the silver Bentley Continental GT, that had precipitated The Fight, the infamous argument between him and his father two years ago.
    J.D.’s father, the esteemed