Hardass (Bad Bitch) (4 page)

Caroline

“He clocked the handsy guard?” Terrell sipped his white wine.

“No.” I leaned back in my ratty comfy chair and tucked my feet up under me. “Where did you even get that?”

“Oh, I was just making your story more entertaining, is all.” He took another sip and started flipping through the channels.

This was our nightly ritual: debriefing and bitch session. We’d been roommates in law school and didn’t see any reason to change it, especially since we’d lucked out and were working at the same firm—even though Terrell went to Tulane, whereas I went to a city school with a less than stellar reputation. I was pleased, even if Terrell’s parents weren’t.

The New Orleans Lynches were a formidable clan, full of some of the city’s foremost doctors and lawyers. They were dissatisfied that their firstborn had thrown his lot in with an “opportunistic climber” like myself. I smirked at the memory of Terrell relaying that little bit of intel. Of course, that was back before Terrell had come out, so they just assumed I was after his trust fund.

Sometimes, I was glad I hadn’t come from money. Then again, I looked around our apartment—far nicer than what we should have been able to afford as fresh-out-of-school lawyers—and was happy Terrell and his trust fund assisted me in living far beyond my means.
Cheers.

I took a gulp of wine. “Mr. Granade was plenty entertaining. Trust me. He was just so, so—”

“Alpha?”

“Yes!” I laid my head back and stared at the swirling ceiling fan. “Like, he was the usual him but turned up even more, you know?”

“Sounds fascinating.” He kept flipping channels until he landed on a show about some woman addicted to eating soap. “Disgusting. We have to watch it. What about the serial killer? Did he tell you to rub the lotion on your skin or else you’d get the hose again?”

I snickered into my glass. “No, but I have no doubt he would, given the chance. He’s a burnout meth-head who likes hitting hookers more than drawing breath.”

“Guilty, huh?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Granade didn’t say, and I couldn’t tell. He’s definitely a bad man, but I don’t know if he’s the Bayou Butcher.” I remembered the way Mr. Granade had touched my knee under the table to reassure me. I sighed.

Terrell rolled his eyes and turned up the volume on the TV. “Well, did Mr. Granade say if he likes cock? Mine in particular?”

I spit my wine all over my pajama pants.

“Hey, don’t waste it! This is some of the good stuff from Lynch Lane.” Terrell jumped up and grabbed a paper towel from our kitchen. “Here, clean yourself up. Raised in a fucking barn, I swear.”

I snorted as he laughed and plopped back down on the couch.

I dabbed up the spilled wine and thought for a moment about wringing the paper towel into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure he’s all about P in the V.”

Terrell snorted. “Yeah, yeah, they all say that until they’re screaming my name, and then I don’t return their calls the next day.”

“You really think you could bed any man, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.” He waved the remote at the TV. “Now, look here at this bitch. She just ate a whole bar of Ivory and now she’s going for some Irish Spring. What kind of redneck soap is this? You’d think the producers would at least spring for some Burt’s Bees or Rodan and Fields.”

“I guess she’s a woman who appreciates the simpler things in life, Terrell. Hey, speaking of bitches, did Yvonne talk shit about me while I was on my field trip today?”

“Does a pig have a curly tail?”

“The one in
Charlotte’s Web
did, so yes?”

“Yes. She went all over talking about how you cheated on Mr. Granade’s criminal procedure question.”

“How the hell could I cheat on an off-the-cuff question like that?”

Terrell shrugged. “I don’t know. She just said that a dumb hick like you could never have gotten it right unless you cheated.”

I set my glass down and moved over to plop next to Terrell. “Did you defend my honor?”

He smiled into his wineglass. “No, I agreed that peasants like you are all cheaters.”

That was it. I dug into his ribs, his white T-shirt no match for my little sausage fingers, as he called them. He yelled and almost dropped his wine before scooting away to the end of the couch and fending me off easily with his free hand. Terrell was six-four and two hundred pounds of muscle. Sneak attacks were my only chance.

“Dammit, Caroline, I almost spilled my wine.” He laughed but kept his hand up. I thought about jumping at him and grabbing onto his curls, but he really would have been pissed about that. No one touched the hair—ever. “And yes, of course I told her to shut her twat-face.”

I sat back, slightly appeased. “Good.”

“Now shut up and let’s watch this chick get her insides Zestfully clean.”

I kicked at Terrell’s pajama-clad legs and settled down. We spent the rest of the night unwinding with trash TV. Even as Terrell gave running soap commentary, my thoughts strayed back to Mr. Granade—his fingertips along my lower back, his hand on my leg, his eyes on me.

I had to excuse myself and head to bed a little early.

“Sure, you’re tired, right?” Terrell smirked.

“Yep. See you in the morning.” I put my glass in the sink and headed down the hall to my bedroom.

“I can hear your vibrator, you know,” he called to my retreating back.

“I know. Rub one out to it if you just have to. I won’t judge.”

“I certainly will not, but I do suspect we’ll be fantasizing about the same person. Oh, Mr. Granade, you want me to stay late? I like your tie. Is it Valentino? I have the same one in navy. You want me to bend over your desk and pi—”

I shut my door and drowned out whatever fantasy Terrell was having. I had one of my own to play out that involved the same desk and a much more creative use of Mr. Granade’s tie.

“Class clown, you ready to head over to the district attorney’s office?” Mr. Granade leaned into my cramped, windowless office. His navy suit was cut perfectly to accentuate his broad shoulders. Terrell would be impressed. So was I.

“Um, yes. I didn’t realize it was so late.” I checked the time on my laptop. We had fifteen minutes to get to our appointment.

He leaned against my doorframe as I gathered my legal pad and a pen. “Usually the associate reminds the partner about appointments, not the other way around, Ms. Montreat.”

His gaze was stern and his tone cold. So, in response, I bent over from the waist to grab my purse off the floor behind my desk.

When I stood straight again, he was looking down the hall and running a hand through his hair. I smiled. He’d looked at my ass, all right.

“Sorry, Mr. Granade. It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” He stalked away, and I hurried to keep up. My stride was far shorter and my heels far higher.

We passed Terrell’s even smaller office, but I only had time to give him a quick wave before I followed Mr. Granade onto the elevator. The doors closed, and he moved away so we were standing in opposite corners. He was careful not to catch my eye in our reflection, so I took the opportunity to study his features yet again—the hair tickling the tips of his ears, the smooth jaw, the strong chin. What would his hands feel like on my waist? Or higher? Or lower?

My thoughts warmed my skin, and a flush crept into my cheeks. The elevator stopped, and he waited for me to exit ahead of him. I did, swaying my hips as I walked to his car. Once again, he walked toward the passenger door as if he were going to open it for me before he thought better of it and went to the driver’s side. Clearly, he’d been raised right, but he was squashing his gentlemanly instincts where I was concerned.

He drove out of the deck and took us down Perdido Street to the government buildings.

“Remember how I told you to be at the client interview? Seen and not heard?”

I glanced to him, but his sunglasses hid his eyes again. “Yes.”

“Do that again times two when we’re in their office. Got it?”

I gripped my legal pad. “Sure. But if I’m not supposed to, you know, do any lawyering, why did you even bring me?”

“Would you prefer if I left you at the office and chose another associate to work on this case?”

“No, I was just—”

“You were just complaining about the immeasurable experience you are about to gain, experience that none of the other associates have. But by all means, keep complaining, Ms. Montreat. See where it gets you.”

The threat of being taken off the case was enough to shut me up. Still, I grumbled a whole hell of a lot on the inside.

The silence held as he snagged a parallel spot on the street in front of the justice center and deftly parked the car.

“See, Ms. Montreat? I knew you could do it.” He smirked, the dimple almost breaking through. “All you needed was a little guidance.”

I got out and slammed the ever-loving crap out of his car door. He winced but didn’t comment as I moved around the front of his car toward the justice center entrance. He walked at my elbow and opened the door for me. We skipped the metal detector line and went straight to the prosecutor’s office.

“Hi, Carla.” Mr. Granade smiled at the receptionist.

The pretty brunette batted her lashes at him. “I was wondering when you were going to show up, handsome. Glad to see you again. And who’s this?”

“Just my associate.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little tin of candies that he handed to her. “Where’s Matt?”

Just my associate?
I didn’t even have a name? And he gave gifts?

“Oh, you know I love these.” She took a taffy from the tin and popped it into her too-wide-open mouth, her eyes on Mr. Granade the whole time. I felt like I was trapped in a Willy Wonka porn, but I was just an Oompa Loompa cameraman.

Mr. Granade smiled down at her, though there were no dimples.

She swallowed (
of course she did
) and said, “Go ahead into Conference One over there. I’ll call Matt to come on up here for your meeting. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Maybe some tea?”

I saw my chance and took it. “I’d love some sweet tea—”

Mr. Granade gripped my wrist behind the reception desk. “No. We’re good. Thanks, Carla. You’re one in a million.”

She picked up her receiver and began to dial.

Mr. Granade squeezed my wrist and let it go before turning and gesturing to the nearest conference room. “After you, Ms. Montreat.” His mouth was a thin line of disapproval.

As soon as the door closed behind us he said, “Didn’t I mention that you were not to speak the entire time we’re here?”

“I was just being polite.” I stared at his nose—brave enough to look him in the face, just not in the eye.

“No, you weren’t.” He lowered his voice. “Carla is an extremely helpful ally. Get your head in the game or I’ll find an associate who will. Now take a seat and don’t say another word.”

Asshole.
I met his eyes then, and shot mental daggers into them, before walking around the table and sitting. He smoothed his tie, though it was still as pressed and perfect as it had been when I’d first seen him this morning. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the wall and looked at his watch.

The silence stretched out between us as we waited, and waited, and then waited some more. I wanted to play on my phone or start a conversation, but I’d be damned if I was going to crack and say another word to him. And I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting on me for playing Candy Crush instead of remaining stone-faced like him.

It took a full forty-five minutes before the door opened and Matt walked in. He had a disc and a manila folder under one arm.

“Sorry to run late, Wash. Just had trouble getting this CD made, is all.” He dropped the items on the table and winked at me. His sandy blond hair was cropped short, and he had brown eyes a couple of shades lighter than my own. A handsome man, though nothing even close to Mr. Granade in the looks department.

“Funny how every time I come here like this, you’re late.” Mr. Granade still leaned against the wall, but he was no longer relaxed.

“You mad?” Matt grinned.

“No. Worse.” Mr. Granade stood straight and squared his shoulders. He had more than a few inches on Matt. “I’m inconvenienced. Some of us have to actually work for our clients, not twiddle our thumbs at our desks on the State’s dime.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time one of your dirtbag clients makes a mess I have to clean up on the State’s dime.”

I’m sure my gaze went back and forth as if they were playing a tennis match. I wanted Mr. Granade to win, but it would be more than a little interesting if the two of them got into a tussle, on the floor . . . over me.

“You lose your manners on the trip over here, Wash?” Matt turned to me and offered his hand. “Who’s this?”

I shook his hand and returned his stare.

“That’s my associate.”

“I gathered that.” Matt pulled out the chair across from me and sat. “What’s your name?”

“Caroline Montreat.” I could feel Mr. Granade’s gaze lasering into the side of my head.

“I’m Matt Turnbull. Nice to meet you. When did you graduate law school? You look mighty young.”

“Last year.”

He slid his gaze down my body, lingering at the neckline of my red blouse beneath my suit jacket. “Young. I like it.”

“Matt, that’s enough.” Mr. Granade loomed over him.

“I was just making her acquaintance, is all. Same way you made Fawn’s.” Matt leaned back and smiled like the cat who got the canary.

“How is your
wife
,
by the way, Matt?”

“She’s fine.” He drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes still on me. “Still mine. Thanks for asking.”

What had I just walked into? Matt’s gaze slid south again, and I fidgeted in my chair.

Mr. Granade picked up the manila file folder and the CD. “This everything?”

“Everything I’m required to give you, yes it is.”

“I have your word?”

“That’s all I got except for the stuff locked away at the sheriff’s office. You can go fetch that yourself, can’t you? How about you just walk the block over there and I’ll keep Caroline company while you’re gone. Show her how a real lawyer does business.” He smiled. I wanted to wipe the look right off his face with the bottom of my shoe.