Jensen:: A Military Bad Boy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 1) (11 page)

Two hours later, I’m at a bar with Ramsey and Harlow when I get the call I’ve been waiting on despite trying not to.

“Jensen, it’s Riley.”

Her voice sounds so damn sexy. I can’t help picturing the cleavage and ass that goes with it.

Harlow must know by the look on my face that I’m excited to hear her voice on the other end of the line.

“Flavor of the day?” he asks me.

“Something like that,” I mouth as I go outside in order to hear her better.

“Hey Riley. Been thinkin’ bout me?”

“Umm. Ha.”

Her tone is awkward, as if obviously wanting to remain professional, but she doesn’t deny it. She just half- laughs that addicting laugh of hers.

She’s just your lawyer
, I remind myself.
And even if she weren’t, then just like Harlow said, Flavor of the Day is all she’d ever be.

I can’t let this chic keep knocking me off my game. I have to remember the rules that have always kept me safe. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do commitment. I do hard, fast one night stands. Wham- bam- thank- you- ma’am- and- please- lose- my- number- now types of encounters.

“Actually, Jensen,” she continues, “I’ve been working hard on your case. But I have some questions. Can you come to my office tomorrow?”

“What time?” I say it too quickly, but it’s too late to try to reign myself in. Damn, this girl makes me act differently than I normally do.

“First thing in the morning?”

“I have work. I don’t get out until six.”

“Well that’s a little… later than I usually meet with clients,” she says. “But I must admit that your case is moving more quickly than I’m used to, and I need to keep up. So we can meet when you’re done with work. My office is in the Sunshine Building, downtown.”

“Right.” I wouldn’t expect such a fancy pants lawyer to have an office in such an old, decrepit building, but I don’t say anything. Insults wouldn’t go well with the fuck- me vibe I’m trying to project. “Well I’ll see you then,
Ms. Morrell.
”

She gives me another small giggle before we hang up.

When I get back to the bar, my brothers are all ears.

“Soooo, who is she this time?” they demand.

“That was actually my lawyer.”

I take a swig of my Whiskey and Coke, hoping my shrug looks nonchalant enough.

“What happened to that Dylan guy?” Ramsey asks with interest. “I thought you said he was a good lawyer?”

“They say he is, but he was hell- bent on pleading that bullshit defense based on PTSD. Can you believe it? He wanted me to say I’m crazy. Like Mom!”

Harlow scoffs and says, “Jensen, we all know you’re nothing like her. You and all of us have always had to clean up after her mess.”

But Ramsey raises his eyebrows.

“PTSD doesn’t mean someone’s crazy,” he says softly.

“I… I know,” I say, realizing how insensitive I could have sounded.
What is it with everyone continually reminding me that PTSD doesn’t equal crazy? And continuing to call me out for being such an ass about it?
“I just meant that I know I don’t have PTSD.”

“Sure,” he says. “But if you did, it wouldn’t be such an awful thing.”

Why does he care so much
? I study his face but it’s a mystery. I don’t think he’s trying to say he thinks I do have PTSD, because Ramsey has never been one to mince words. He’d just come out and say it. We’ve always been close like that.

Harlow interrupts our slightly serious conversation by punching me in the arm.

“But you were using your pick-up voice while talking to your lawyer,” he insists. “She hot?”

“Ha. Yeah.” I turn back to my glass on the bar, wanting him to drop it already. “But she’s super stuck up.”

“I’m sure you can soften her up,” says Harlow, with a grin.

“Stop. She’s my fuckin’
attorney
.”

I don’t know why I feel so protective of her. I know Harlow is just fucking with me like he always does, teasing me about my tendency to go through girls like red lights. But she’s not just any girl. She really is my attorney, and she really is… different, somehow.

“Well I gotta go,” Ramsey says, his hand clasping my shoulder as he stands up. “Early day tomorrow.”

“Me too,” I say, swigging back the rest of my drink. “Although I swear if these trainees don’t start stepping up, I don’t even know how I can do this job. Could you imagine us just moseying down a mountain in Kabul? We’d all be dead. But these trainees act like they’re training for a day at the park, not a war.”

“I know nothing can compare to serving in the Special Ops with your pararescue brothers,” Ramsey says, sympathetically. “But this seems like a good gig for you. You’re given free reign and you’re paid much better than you used to be—”

“And much better than Ramsey and I still are,” Harlow points out.

“And you still get to do what you love,” Ramsey finishes.

“But I’m not with you two. And I won’t get to be deployed.”

I know I sound whiny. There are still opportunities to go overseas as a private contractor if I want. But everything’s changed so quickly and I do miss working alongside my brothers. After all we went through as children, we have each other’s backs like no other men could. And it was an honor to serve alongside them as “brothers” in the military as well as actual “brothers.”

“Well, once you sort this criminal case out, I’m sure you can come back,” says Ramsey, always so supportive.

“But why would you want to?” quips Harlow. “Stay where you are and I want to come join you.”

Now there’s an idea
.

“Yeah, first thing’s first,” I say, as I stand up to leave.

I say goodbye to my biker friends as we get ready to leave. They tell me to come back soon and that they’ll buy me a round to celebrate my escape from the slammer. I think I’m ready to join up with them, and even if Harlow and Ramsey don’t understand, these guys have become like a second family to me. Harlow and Ramsey still have our Special Ops unit to count as their figurative brothers, but I don’t. So I need the FreeFlyers.

As we walk outside to the parking lot, Ramsey follows me to my bike instead of heading to his car.

“I’m glad you found some friends here,” he says.

“Thanks.”

I stare at him, thinking his nice comment is really just a lead- in to tell me to be careful, or that motorcycle clubs are notoriously rough, or something along those lines. But he doesn’t say anything further.

“I didn’t mean to upset you about the whole PTSD thing, either,” he says.

“Well, it’s kind of upsetting, Ramsey. My last lawyer, Dylan— from the VLA? Before I fired him? He sent me to go see this shrink who specializes in PTSD. I had to answer all kinds of prying, embarrassing questions about my past. Mom, Harlow, the war, everything. All so he could find some bullshit reason to say I have PTSD.”

“And did he?” Ramsey asks, with that look of curiosity returning to his face.

“Did he what?”

“Conclude that you have PTSD?”

“I don’t know. I’m assuming he did. His whole job is to testify that I have PTSD. But I never found out because I fired Dylan before he received the report from the doctor.”

“I think maybe I should see that doctor.”

What?
I look into Ramsey’s eyes and they look resigned and sad.

“I’ve just not been sleeping well at all. Night sweats. Really bad dreams. Drinking too much. I don’t want to turn out like Mom. I think I should get some help. And my overreactions have been off the charts. You know that girl I was seeing briefly? Nadia?”

I nod.

“I didn’t tell you this because I was too embarrassed. But we broke up because I went on a binge and then accused her of cheating on me, just because I saw her hug a guy at a club. It turned out it was her cousin. I felt like such an idiot. I looked up my symptoms and apparently they’re all classic PTSD indicators.”

This doesn’t sound like my brother at all. Ramsey is always the cool, calm, collected one. He’s my rock and my go- to guy for advice, support and help.

“But you’re so strong,” is all I can manage to sputter.

“Well, that’s the thing, Jensen. I know you don’t have PTSD. But you keep saying it as if anyone with PTSD is weak or crazy. When really it’s just something that happens to people. It affects them, changes them.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I say, and I wrap my arms around him in a rare hug. “I’ll get you this doctor’s info. I’m sure he can help.”

“Thanks, bro.”

He turns to walk across the parking lot and as I get onto my bike I still can’t believe it. I guess I seriously misjudged PTSD and the people who have it. And I sincerely hope Ramsey can get help. I suppose he’s been holding our dysfunctional family together for so long that even he could crack under the pressure.

I try to think positively as my bike careens around the curves and I head home. Ramsey will get better. I won’t be convicted. And I get to see Riley again soon. In fact, I have a “date” with my beautiful, fancy pants lawyer. Tomorrow evening just can’t get here quickly enough in my book.

Chapter 13

I move my mouse wall art from beside the door to my office to right near my monitor. It’s near and dear to my heart because my grandmother bought it for me when I passed the Bar. A cute little cartoon mouse smiles out at me and underneath him is a quote from Frantz Kafka: “A lawyer is a person who writes a 10,000-word document and calls it a ‘brief.’”

It always makes me laugh. Just like memories of Gram. She’s gone now but she was the one person in my family who was sane. And she wouldn’t have cared if I was a lawyer or a cashier. She just wanted me to be happy.

I’ve been here setting up my office since five o’clock, and nervously awaiting Jensen’s arrival.
I’d told Jensen I’d been working hard on his case, and that was the truth. But the rest of the truth is that I don’t really have any other choice.

His case is my
only
case right now, and I haven’t heard anything from my former firm. My days are pretty empty now compared to when I managed multiple complex civil litigation cases of my own, plus helped out partners on other cases.

I suppose that Jensen’s case is benefitting from all the free time I have to spend on it, as well as my personal feelings towards him. I know that he doesn’t want to use a PTSD defense, and the more I looked into his case and researched the PTSD issue, the more I began to agree with him that PTSD is not the best way to go here.

I called the expert that Dylan sent Jensen to, who doesn’t even think Jensen has PTSD— although I’m sure that his opinion could definitely be influenced or swayed. In fact, I’m beginning to think that’s what happened in the majority of the cases in which he’s been an expert. All the defense lawyers seem to think that a PTSD defense is the way to go, but I disagree on a case by case basis, for several reasons.

For one thing, if a current or former service member really has PTSD and needs treatment, of course it’s best for them to get the diagnosis. But it can carry some downsides they might not be expecting— I’ve read that a PTSD diagnosis automatically carries a 100% disability rating and that sometimes service members diagnosed with it are ineligible to continue in their military duties or even find employment outside of the military. There’s certainly an unwelcome and unfair stigma that comes with having PTSD that many would like to avoid.

And the most baffling thing, to me, is that automatically claiming PTSD doesn’t always even work out well for trial purposes. The prosecutor knows that most service members go for that defense and so they paint the defendant as all the negative characteristics of a person diagnosed with PTSD— irrational, rash, triggery, rage- fueled, etc. If not played correctly in the hands of the defense attorney, the jury might be inclined to think the defendant is guilty simply because he has PTSD. I can definitely see Jensen’s concerns, and not just because I wish he’d jump my bones.

I had also told Jensen that I don’t usually meet with clients so late, but he’s my only client, and I have nothing else to do anyway. It’s not like I’ve heard from Brian. And I told Jensen his case was moving more quickly than I was used to, which is true… but something else is moving more quickly than I’m used to as well.