Bad Bitch (5 page)

Another squeeze at my throat. “Look at me. Don’t stop looking at me.”

I did as he said, watching him work me over. His fingers slipped back into direct contact with my clit. I was there. But I had to wait. Wait until he told me.
Wait, wait, wait.
The intensity grew, my pussy screaming for reprieve from this torture.

“That’s it, angel.” His voice was low, praising me.

With a few more powerful thrusts he threw his head back. “Come for me. Now.”

I came as he shot inside me. He groaned to the ceiling, deep with pleasure at his release. His cock spurted hot jets as I cried out. I died a little from the overwhelming waves of pleasure that raced through my entire body. I milked his shaft. I wanted every last drop. I only regretted that he was inside my pussy instead of coating my throat. I came so hard that I may have had some sort of religious experience. Because, God and all the saints, this guy could fuck.

Lincoln

Holy Christ. This woman, the one I’d heard an earful about from the entire U.S. Attorney’s Office for the whole time I’d been in the city, was the best piece of ass I’d ever had. I don’t think I’d come so hard in my entire life.

She was everything they’d said and more. Evan, or “bad bitch” as she was called by the AUSAs, was in control. So in control that she almost made poor Jonesy cream his pants in the bar. She was a master of manipulation, maintaining a tight grip on everyone around her, even when she was at ease.

When she’d moved on to me, I knew I had to have a taste. Breaking her control was the sort of challenge I could never resist. Not to mention she was hotter than a firecracker at Mardi Gras. A petite hourglass with big tits and a nice ass. Nothing better.

I rolled off her and lay on my back. The city lights glowed outside her expansive windows, the skyscrapers’ watchful eyes ignoring the night and burning through the dark. Her taste was still on my tongue, sweet and savory at once. She lay next to me, panting. Her red hair, now mussed, fanned out over the pillow, and those blue eyes watched me. Her nipples were still hard, unable to relax from the tension that had lit up her body only moments before.

I enjoyed every second of her. I only regretted making her say no, telling me she didn’t want it. But the thought of bending a powerful woman like her to my will was too much of a temptation. She drew out my darker side from the moment I saw her at the bar. Her confidence, the sexy way she dressed, and her tight body. No wonder Jonesy had blue balls all the goddamn time. He was no match for a woman like this. Jonesy was only five years younger but a million years away from being in her league. Evan wasn’t for the faint of heart.

She whipped the white duvet over her flushed body, ruining my view of her ample tits. I wanted to have her again, to feel her nails in my back. But I didn’t want to ruin the game.

I knew she was interested in more than just a casual fuck. She wanted information on her newest client, Castille. I’d known she was going to represent him from the moment he’d walked into her office. My investigator had tailed that prick all over the city. I was delighted he’d lawyered up with Evangeline Pallida, especially given the tales I’d heard about her and what I knew already. A worthy opponent, but a possible monkey wrench as well.

I raised up on my elbow, still taking in her form despite the covers. “I should be going.”

“So soon?” she asked. Her blue eyes were luminous against her pale skin and the white duvet.

I bet she never asked men to stay and only did so now to get her information. I rose and dressed. She lay on the bed, looking at me with eyebrows raised, no doubt surprised I would dare leave her when she offered me the honor of staying the night. I smiled.

I looped my tie around my neck before crawling back on top of her. Her breath hitched as I pressed down into her body. Her warmth radiated through the duvet and into my chest. I nipped at her neck, her sweat now turned into a salty sheen that tingled on the tip of my tongue.

“You could stay,” she purred and wrapped her arms around my neck.

I wanted to. But that would be letting her win.

“Sorry, angel, you already took everything I had to offer tonight. You’ll have to get the rest of your information at Castille’s arraignment next week. Grand jury’s already set to indict his sorry ass tomorrow.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled my hair hard enough to hurt. I didn’t mind. Turnabout is fair play.

“You motherfucker!”

I didn’t move, just let her pull as I took her mouth, plunging my tongue into her tight lips. That little taste would have to do. I pushed up and off the bed before she could do any real damage.

“He’s going down.” I slipped my shoes on. “You’d best know that now. I’ve been working his case for a year. Ironclad. Locked up tight. Tighter than . . .” I let my gaze travel down the duvet to the delectable juncture of her thighs. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” She sat up and clutched the duvet to her chest. Her hair was wild, and she looked as if she would tear me apart. I had half a mind to let her.
Fucking sexy.

“I’m going, angel. Just wanted to give you fair warning.” I turned and left, not giving her another look even though I wanted to. “Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”

The litany of expletives that erupted at my back was one for the record books. I think some of the words were even in other languages, and many were in the vein of “cum Dumpster,” “thundercunt,” and “jizz gargler.”

I laughed loud enough for her to hear as I let the front door click shut and locked behind me.

I took a cab home. For the first time in months, I didn’t spend the spare time thinking of Castille and all the ways I would make him pay for his crimes. I didn’t even give a thought to the broader aspects of my case, the wider net that could bring in several bigger fish.

Instead, I pictured Evan in my mind and thought about all the things my little angel’s filthy mouth could, and would, do to me.

“Ready?” Woodhall asked.

“As ready as I’m ever going to be.” I collected my docket sheet and notes from my desk and followed Wood into the lobby of the federal courthouse. Attorneys hurried about, setting their own self-important pace. Everything in this city went at light speed compared to the leisurely, congenial pace of New Orleans. It was a steep learning curve, but I was a quick study.

We climbed the stairs to the courtroom where Castille was set to be arraigned.

Woodhall had kept a close eye on me ever since I’d arrived in his office. He was hands-on for a U.S. attorney and made sure he kept his trial abilities sharp. He wasn’t a bad superior, all things considered. He maintained an old-school attitude, but he let me run this case. I knew it better than anyone else. Wood wasn’t interested in the details or the numbers. He just wanted to nail the bad guys. He was a blunt instrument, or maybe more of a figurehead, while I was the facts and finesse.

I had detailed notes, outlines, timelines, profit-and-loss statements—anything I would ever need to convince a jury of Castille’s guilt. He was a snake, a clever one. He’d worked dozens of retirement homes in and around New Orleans. He went in, paid the nursing home some upfront money and a promised kickback, and got exclusive access to all the residents. He gave them a song and dance about how he could double their returns. The seniors living there ate it up, dreamed of leaving their children with a vast fortune when they checked out. He was selling them their end-of-life dream and they were all too eager to buy in. I’d seen the scheme many times, but Castille had taken the shell game further than any of the other perps I’d sent to prison.

At each home, he would single out a couple of seniors and actually pay them exceptional returns on their money. These victims then became the best advertisement money could buy. Word about Castille’s great investment spread through the retirement homes. Soon, the seniors were cashing out retirement funds and insurance policies, and even selling family heirlooms, to join in on the Castille plan. A classic Ponzi.

It was at first, anyway, until Castille realized he didn’t have to keep the scheme going by paying prior investors with funds from new investors. Instead, he pocketed the cash for himself, thinking he was untouchable. If any of the elderly victims made a fuss, he gave an even larger kickback to someone at the nursing home to make the problem go away. There was not enough of a trail to connect the dots on my suspicions of murder, but I had more than enough evidence to convict him for bilking his victims. And I had even more than that once I got the first stage of the case out of the way. That second wave of cases was the big score, not this lousy prick. But there was a new problem, one with red hair and a dirty mouth. I couldn’t think about that now. No, I needed to focus on Castille.

His indictment for numerous counts of fraud had been handed down the previous Thursday. The grand jury did its job. Then it was my turn.

The arraignment was a formality. The court would read the charges, which ranged from wire fraud to money laundering. Castille would enter his not-guilty plea, and the game would begin in earnest.

After three flights of white marble stairs, Wood and I arrived at Judge Matilda Crane’s cavernous courtroom. The wood-paneled walls were luxe and dark, setting a formal tone, and the ceilings soared above, coffered by a network of beams. The bench where the judge resided was high, a dais more than a bench. Two dozen rows of pews for spectators lined the gallery, a jury box sat to the left, and the two large counsel tables were already filling up. Castille wasn’t the only iron in the fire for the day, but he certainly was the hottest as far as I was concerned.

I saw Castille’s slicked-back hair as soon as I stepped into the courtroom. He was sitting in the front pew. Evan sat next to him. Her hair flowed down her back in loose waves. She wore a dark suit, pinstriped and sleek. I couldn’t see all of her, but imagined she was wearing a tight skirt to match.

She leaned over to him and whispered in his ear. I found myself imagining putting a vicious hurt on the greased son of a bitch, and not just because he was a piece of shit a dozen times over. It was because her lips were so close to him. Too close. I wanted to push them apart and give him a beatdown. But I didn’t do things like that. Not anymore, at least. I swallowed my anger.

As Wood and I strolled past and sat at one of the counsel tables, I confirmed my earlier suspicion. Tight skirt, almost too short, and black high heels. Lord, she knew how to dress to show off her assets.

Castille glanced up at me before darting his focus elsewhere, anywhere but back in my direction. We’d met during my investigation. His New Orleans lawyer never let him tell me anything, but I’d subpoenaed every last shred of paper from him, searched his house, raided his banks, and gone through the entirety of his slimy existence with a magnifying glass. His criminal ambitions had been the primary subject matter of my life for the past year.

Evan gave him a pat on the arm before rising and coming to the other counsel table.

“Evan.” Wood nodded.

She smiled at him and sat as far away from us as possible. “Hey, Wood.”

She crossed her legs at the knee, pulling the fabric of her skirt taut across the tops of her thighs. The shade in the middle of the triangle created by her legs drew my eye. I remembered what her wet curls looked like at her cleft. I couldn’t allow my thoughts to stray too far in that direction. Getting a literal hard-on for justice was frowned upon in the profession.

“Good to see you, Evan,” I said over the growing din of other lawyers.

“Lincoln.”

The ice in her tone had Wood shaking his head at me. His elbow met me hard in the ribs.

“What did I tell you about her?” he whispered. Well, it was approaching a whisper, possibly just a series of grunts.

“You told me she was a man-eater. I took that as an encouragement.”

Wood threw his pen down on the table and laughed.

Evan leaned back in her swiveling counsel chair and gave us a look that would have killed anyone else. The dark triangle between her knees widened a bit as she moved, almost giving me a glimpse of what I’d already tasted, what I wanted to taste again and again.

The door opened behind the bench, and Judge Crane entered. She had the air of a wise old owl, set off perfectly by her horn-rimmed glasses. Without much fanfare, she got right down to the particulars of each case. The docket ran quickly. Multistate drug dealers, illegal immigrants, felons in possession—one by one the defendants pled not guilty. At the very end of the list were the white-collar criminals. A few more not-guilty pleas and then it was Castille’s turn.

Evan and I stood, squared off against each other even in this brief proceeding. “Judge, Mr. Castille is pleading not guilty to the charges and looks forward to having his day in court to dispute these spurious accusations.”

The judge looked over her glasses at Evan and said in a bored tone, “Noted, Ms. Pallida.”

Clearly, this wasn’t her first brush with Evan.

“Judge, I’d also like to move for disqualification of Lincoln Granade from the prosecution of this case.”

I want to say I had some inkling she might try this. I didn’t. This sort of a disqualification challenge simply wasn’t done without a heads-up from counsel beforehand. She wasn’t following the unwritten rules of the profession.
Shots fired.

“Ms. Pallida, as you are aware, this is a proceeding for pleas, not for arguments about disqualification. This matter hasn’t been briefed, and I’m certain Mr. Granade is not prepared to argue this today. No doubt he’d like a chance to respond to your arguments in the normal course of business instead of this ambush.”

Evan smirked at me. Just a little quirk of her lip and a side eye to go with it.

I dropped my legal pad on the desk. “Judge, I’d be more than happy to take this up on the fly.”

The smirk faltered a hair.

“What are the grounds?” I aimed my question at Evan. She ignored me.

Evan walked to the middle of the well, standing right before the bench, and addressed the judge directly. She was at ease there in the center of the room, taking the spotlight away from the judge and letting the glow rest solely on herself. She knew how to work the floor and put on a show. I followed her into the well and leaned against the jury box, arms crossed.

“First, Judge, Mr. Granade, though I’m sure he’s a
fine
attorney, is not a member of the bar in the State of New York. He is not a true resident of the State of New York, and he certainly does not have citizenship here. Therefore, on that basis alone, he cannot bring any charges against my client in this state.”

Judge Crane took the glasses off her nose and let them hang from their colorfully beaded lanyard. “Is that all you have, Evan?”

Evan shot me a look of pure poison.

“No, Your Honor. In addition to that, Mr. Granade has been stalking my client for over a year. Haunting his home, following his family, checking up on him. In this country, a defendant is innocent until proven guilty.” Her voice rose along with her feigned indignation. “Mr. Castille, as he sits here today, is an innocent man under the law. But Mr. Granade has used the full force of the federal government to impugn and slander this man throughout the city of New Orleans and now here, in New York. Mr. Granade even has a private investigator tailing my client as we speak.”