Overruled (3 page)

With a sigh he drops his hand and asks, “But she’s good with you hooking up with other people? I mean, she agreed?”

I lift my shoulder and explain, “Well yeah—she’s the one who suggested it in the first place.”

Evans nods. “Sounds like my kind of girl. So what’s the problem?”

I rub the back of my neck, trying to relieve some of the tension that’s taken up residence there. “Even though we talked about it . . . I’m not sure . . . this doesn’t feel . . . I want to do right by her.”

Drew’s voice loses its edge of irritation. “I admire that, Shaw. You’re a stand-up guy. Loyal. I like that about you.” He points at me. “Which is why I think you owe it to yourself, and your Jenny chick, to have hours of dirty, sweaty sex with this woman.”

Not for the first time, I wonder if Drew Evans is the devil—or a close relation. I can picture him offering the fasting Christ a loaf of bread and making it sound completely acceptable for him to take a big ole bite out of it.

“Do you actually believe the horseshit that comes out of your mouth?”

Drew waves me off. “Pay attention, you’re about to learn something. What’s your favorite ice cream?”

“What the hell does that have to do—”

“Just answer the fucking question. What is your favorite ice cream?”

“Butter pecan,” I sigh.

His eyebrows rise sardonically. “Butter pecan? I didn’t think anyone under seventy liked butter pecan.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. How do you know butter pecan is your favorite?”

“Because it is.”

“But how do you
know
?” he presses.

“Because I like it more than—”

I stop midsentence. Understanding.

“More than any other flavor you’ve tried?” Drew finishes. “Better than vanilla, strawberry, or mint chocolate chip?”

“Yeah,” I admit softly.

“And how would you have known that butter pecan was the flavor for you—not just your default choice—if you were too afraid to ever taste anything else?”

“I wouldn’t have.”

He waves his hand, like a magician. “Exactly.”

See what I mean?
The devil
.

Still . . . it’s similar to what Jenny said, the questions she raised. Can we really mean it when say we love one another if all we’ve known is each other? Are we strong enough to pass that kind of test? And if we’re not, what kind of future do we have together anyway?

A slap to the arm snaps me from my introspection. “Look, Shaw, this is supposed to be fun. If you’re not having a good time, if you’d rather take off, I won’t think any less of you.”

I snort. “Sure you will.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, you’re right, I will. But . . . I won’t tell the guys you pussed out. It’ll stay between you and me.”

Before I can answer him the girls walk back into the room. They’ve
changed into loose-fitting, strappy pajamas, shiny in satin. I can smell the mint on her freshly brushed teeth when the blonde leans over and says to Drew, “Come on, there’s something in my room I want to show you.”

He stands smoothly. “Then there’s something in your room I want to see.” Before they advance to the hallway, he glances my way. “You good, man?”

Am I good?

The curly haired brunette stares at me expectantly—waiting for me to make my move. And the realization finally sets in that . . . there’s not any reason to say no.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Drew takes the blonde’s hand and she leads them into the room at the end of the hall.

Left alone with my dark-haired companion, I take a minute to look at her—really look at her. She has breasts larger than I’m used to, a tiny waist, and a firm bubble bottom that balances out the whole package nicely. The kind of ass a man could hold on to, knead with his fingers and guide forward and back, up and down. Her legs are smooth and toned, her skin flawless and tanned.

For the first time tonight, genuine attraction unfolds low in my gut, stirring my poorly underused dick from his five-month hibernation.

I don’t ask her name and she hasn’t requested mine. There’s a thrill in anonymity, a freedom. I’ll never have to see this girl again—what we do and say tonight won’t leave this apartment, won’t come back to haunt me, won’t find its way to judgmental ears in a small town far, far away. A thousand fantasies, each more deviant than the last, flit through my brain like smoke coming off a campfire. Acts I’d never dream of asking Jenny to perform—things she’d probably smack me for even suggesting.

But a beautiful, nameless stranger . . . why the fuck not?

“You want to see my room?” she asks.

My voice is deep, rough like my thoughts. “Okay.”

Her room is a swirl of dark reds, browns, and burnt orange, not overly feminine. I sit on the edge of her bed, feet on the floor, knees spread.

Any trace of indecision has left the building.

As she closes the door she questions, “What’s your major? I meant to ask earlier.”

“Prelaw.”

She moves in front of me, standing an arm’s length away, regarding me with an angled head and hooded eyes. “Why do you want to be a lawyer?”

I smile. “I like to argue. I like . . . provin’ people wrong.”

Taking a step closer, she picks up my hand. Then she turns it over and traces my palm with her fingertip. It tickles in a stimulating kind of way that gets my pulse hammering.

“You have strong hands.”

There are no soft hands on a farm. Tools, rope, fences, saddles, lifting and digging makes for tough palms and hard muscles.

“You know what I like best about sculpting?” she asks on a breathy sigh.

“What?”

She drops my hand then lifts a dark, daring gaze to mine. “I don’t think at all while I’m doing it. I don’t plan, I let my hands . . . do whatever they want. Whatever feels good.”

She grasps the bottom of her top and slides it over her head. Her breasts are pale and ripe and gloriously new to my eyes. She stands just inches away, bare and proud. “You wanna give it a try?”

She puts her hands over mine, skimming them up the warm velvet of her rib cage. When she places my callused palms on her breasts, I take over. Cupping their weight, massaging gently, brushing my thumbs across the peaks of her nipples. They tighten and darken from pink to dusty rose and I scrape my lip with my teeth to stave off the immediate urge to latch on, lick, and bite.

My last coherent thought is six quick words:

I could get used to this.

•   •   •

Three weeks later

“You lying, cheating sonofabitch!”

Jenny’s hands fly out, wild and whipping, striking my face, shoulders, and anywhere she can reach.

Slap.

Slap, slap.

Slap.

“Jenny, stop!” Finally I get a grip on her forearms, holding her still. “Fuckin’ stop!”

Hot, angry tears cover her cheeks and her eyes are puffy with betrayal. “I hate you! You make me sick! I hate you!”

She pulls out of my grasp and runs up the porch, slamming the screen door behind her as she disappears into the house. I’m left standing on the lawn—shredded. Feeling like I’ve been flayed open, my heart not just broken but ripped out. And there’s something else—more than regret—there’s fear. It makes my palms sweat and skin prickle. Fear that I’ve messed up, terror that I just lost the best thing that will ever happen to me.

I push a hand through my hair, trying to keep it together. Then I sit on the porch steps and brace my elbows on my knees. I keep an eye on Presley, on the blanket twenty feet away where she plays with her cousins near the swing set. Her white-blond curls bounce as she giggles, thankfully, completely unaware.

Out of nowhere, Ruby, Jenny’s older sister, appears on the steps next to me. She smooths her denim miniskirt then pushes her wavy red locks off her shoulders.

“You certainly got yourself locked in the shithouse this time, Stanton.”

Normally I wouldn’t go to Ruby for any kind of advice—least of all about relationships. But she’s here.

“I . . . I don’t know what happened.”

Ruby snorts. “You told my sister you fucked another girl, that’s
what happened
. No woman wants to hear that.”

“Then why did she ask?”

She shakes her head, like the answer is obvious. “’Cause she wanted to hear you say no.”

“We agreed to see other people,” I argue. “We said we’d be honest with each other. Mature.”

“Sayin’ and feelin’ are two different things, lover boy.” She picks at her manicure. “Look, you and Jenny are eighteen, y’all are babies . . . this was bound to happen. Only a matter of when.”

I can barely get the words past my constricted throat. “But . . . I love her.”

“And she loves you. That’s why it hurts so bad.”

There’s no way I’m giving up, no way I’m goin down—not like this. It’s the fear that pushes me to do something, say anything. To hold on like a man clinging to a boulder in a current.

I walk up the oak staircase to the room Jenn shares with our daughter and through the closed door that tells me I’m not welcome.

She’s on the bed, shoulders shaking, crying into her pillow. And the knife sinks deeper in my gut. I sit on the bed and touch her arm. Jenny has the smoothest skin—rose-petal soft. And I refuse for this to be the last time I get to touch her.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t cry. Please don’t . . . hate me.”

She sits up and doesn’t bother to wipe the evidence of heartache off her face. “Do you love her?”

“No,” I tell her firmly. “No, it was one night. It didn’t mean anythin’.”

“Was she pretty?”

I answer like the lawyer I’m trying to become. “Not as pretty as you.”

“Dallas Henry asked me to go to the movies with him,” Jenny tells me quietly.

Any remorse I feel goes up in smoke and is replaced with blue flaming anger. Dallas Henry was a receiver on my high school football team—he was always a raging asshole. The kind of guy who made a play for the drunkest girls at the party—the kind who would’ve slipped something into their drinks to get them drunk faster.

“Are you shittin’ me?”

“I told him no.”

The fury cools a notch—but only just barely. My fist is still gonna have a nice long chat with Dallas fucking Henry before I leave.

“Why didn’t you say no, Stanton?” she accuses quietly.

Her question brings the guilt back full force. Defensively, I get to my feet—pacing and tense. “I did say no! Plenty of times. Shit, Jenn . . . I thought . . . it wasn’t cheatin’! You can’t be mad at me for this. For doin’ what you said you wanted. That’s not fair.”

Every muscle in my body strains—waiting for her response. After what feels like forever, she nods. “You’re right.”

Her blue eyes look up at me and the sadness in them cuts me to the bone. “I just . . . I hate picturing what you did with her in my head. I wish I could go back to when . . . when I didn’t know. And I could pretend that it’s only ever been me.” She hiccups. “Is that . . . is that pathetic?”

“No,” I groan. “It’s not.” I drop to my knees in front of her—aware that I’m begging, but not having the will to care. “It
has
only ever been you—in every way that matters. What happens when we’re apart, only means somethin’ if we let it mean somethin’.”

My hands drift up her thighs, needing to touch her—to wipe this from her mind—wanting so badly for us to be
us
again.

“I’m home for the summer. Two and half months and all I want to do for every second of that time is love you. Can I, darlin’? Please just let me love you.”

Her lips are warm and puffy from crying. I brush at them gently at first, asking permission. Then firmer, spearing her mouth with my tongue, demanding compliance. It takes a moment, but then she’s kissing me back. Her small hands fist my shirt, gripping tight, pulling me to her.

Owning me. The way she always has.

Jenny falls back on the bed, taking me with her. I hover over her as her chest rises and falls—panting. “I don’t want to know ever again, Stanton. We don’t ask, we don’t tell—promise me.”

“I promise,” I rasp, willing to agree to just about anything at this moment.

“I start school in the fall,” she presses. “I’m gonna meet people too. I’m gonna go out—and you can’t get angry. Or jealous.”

I shake my head. “I won’t. I don’t want to fight. I don’t . . . I don’t want to hold you back.”

And that’s the crazy truth of it.

There’s a part of me that wants to keep Jenny all to myself, lock her away in this house, and know she’s doing nothing else but waiting for me to come back. But stronger than that is the dread that we’ll burn out, end up hating each other—blaming each other—for all the living we missed out on. For all the things we never got to do.

More than anything, I don’t want to wake up ten years from now and realize the reason my girl hates her life . . . is because of me.

So if that means sharing her for a little while, then I’ll suck it up—I swear I will.

My eyes burn into hers. “But when I’m home, you’re mine. Not Dallas fucking Henry’s—no one else’s but mine.”

Her fingers trace my jaw. “Yes, yours. I’ll be who you come home to. They don’t get to keep you, Stanton. No other girl . . . gets to be who I am.”

I kiss her with rough possession—sealing the words. My lips move down her neck as my hand slides up her stomach. But she grasps my wrist. “My parents are downstairs.”

My eyes squeeze closed and I breathe deep. “Come to the river with me tonight? We’ll drive around until Presley falls asleep in the back.”

Jenny smiles. “A truck ride knocks her out every time.”

I kiss her forehead. “Perfect.”

I lie beside her and she curls into me, playing with the collar of my shirt. “It won’t be like this forever. One day, you’ll be done with school and things will go back to normal.”

Yeah.

One day . . .

3

Ten years later

Washington, DC

T
he work of a criminal defense attorney isn’t as exciting as you probably imagine. It’s not even as exciting as law students imagine. There’s a lot of research, case law referencing to back up every argument in pages and pages of legal briefs that are filled with enough semantics to give a layman a migraine. If you’re part of a firm, when you’re eventually entrusted to represent your clients at trial, there are rarely any dramatic cross-examination revelations, no big
Law & Order
moments.

Mostly it’s just laying out the facts for the jury, piece by piece. One of the first rules you learn in law school is:
never ask a question you don’t already know the answer to.

Sorry to piss on your parade, but it really doesn’t get less exciting than that.

In the United States of America, defendants get to pick who’ll decide their fate: a judge or a jury of their peers. I always advise my clients to go with the jury—it’s a miracle to get twelve people to agree on where they’re having lunch, let alone the guilt or innocence of a defendant. And a mistrial, which is what happens when they can’t agree, is a win for the defense.

Have you ever heard that old joke about juries?
Do you really want to be judged by twelve people who weren’t smart enough to get out of jury duty?
Yes—that’s exactly who you want judging you. Because juries are people unfamiliar with the letter of the law. And those are people who can be swayed—by lots of elements that have absolutely nothing to do with facts.

If a jury likes a defendant, they’ll have a harder time convicting them of a charge that could keep their ass in a prison cell for the next ten to twenty years. It’s why an accused thief shows up to court in a nicely pressed suit—not prisoner oranges. It’s precisely why Casey Anthony’s wardrobe and hairstyle were carefully chosen to appear sweetly demure. Sure, juries are supposed to be impartial, they’re supposed to base their judgment on the evidence presented and nothing else.

But human nature doesn’t quite work that way.

Likeability of the defendant’s legal counsel also carries weight. If an attorney is sloppy, grumpy, or boring, the jury is less inclined to believe their version of the case. On the other hand, if the defending lawyer appears to have their shit together, if they’re well spoken—and yes—good looking, studies show juries are more likely to trust that lawyer. To believe them—and by extension, believe their client.

It’s important not to look like you’re trying too hard. Not to appear shifty or sneaky—the last thing you want is to give off a “used car salesman” vibe. People know when they’re being lied to.

But, here’s the most important thing: whenever possible, you want to show them a good time. Give them something to watch. They’re expecting objections and out-of-orders, the pounding of tables and banging of the gavel. They’re hoping for a live reenactment of Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson in
A Few Good Men
. The system may be boring, but you don’t have to be. You can be entertaining. Show them you’ve got a big swinging dick and you’re not afraid to use it.

My dick is the swingingest of them all—juries can’t take their eyes off it.

Figuratively . . . and literally.

“You may proceed with closing arguments, Mr. Shaw.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” I rise to my feet, buttoning the jacket of my tailored gray suit. That color is a big hit these days with the ladies—and ten out of these twelve jurors are female.

I meet their collective gaze with a contemplative expression, drawing out the pause, heightening the dramatic tension. Then I begin.

“The next time I fucking see you, I will cut your balls off and shove them down your throat.”

Pause. Eye contact.

“When I find you, you’ll be begging me to kill you.”

Pause. Finger point.

“Just wait, asshole, I’m coming for you.”

I step out from behind the defense table and position myself in front of the jury box. “These are the words of the man the prosecution claims is the”—air quotes—“victim in this case. You’ve seen the text messages. You heard him admit under oath that he sent them to my client.” I click my tongue. “Doesn’t sound like much of a victim to me.”

All eyes follow me as I slowly pace, like a professor giving a lecture. “They sound like threats—serious ones. Where I come from, threatenin’ a man’s balls . . . words don’t get more fightin’ than that.”

A series of low chuckles rises up from the jurors.

I brace my arms on the railing of the jury box, glancing at each occupant just long enough to make them feel included—readying them for the divulgence of a dirty little secret.

“Over the course of this trial, you’ve heard things about my client, Pierce Montgomery, that are unflattering. Abhorrent, even. I’m bettin’ you don’t like him very much. To tell you the truth, I don’t like him much myself. He had an affair with a married woman. He posted pictures of her on social media, without her permission. These are not the actions of an honorable man.”

It’s always best to get the bad out of the way. Like tossing out a bag of rancid garbage—acknowledging then moving on makes the stench less likely to linger.

“If he were being judged on human decency, I can assure you I would not be defending him here today.”

I straighten up, holding their rapt attention. “But that is not your task. You are here to judge his actions on the night of March 15. We as a society do not penalize individuals for defending their lives or their bodies from physical harm. And that is precisely what my client was doing on that evening. When he came face-to-face with the man who had threatened him relentlessly, he had every reason to believe those threats would be carried out. To fear for his physical well-being—perhaps for his very life.”

I pause, letting that sink in. And I know they’re with me, seeing the night in their heads through the eyes of the rotten sonofabitch who’s lucky enough to have me for a lawyer.

“My old football coach used to tell us a smart offense is the best defense. It’s a lesson I carry with me to this very day. So, although Pierce threw the first punch, it was still in defense. Because he was acting against a known threat—a
reasonable
fear. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what this case is really about.

Standing in front of the jury box I take a step back—addressing them as a whole. “As you deliberate, I am confident that you will conclude my client acted in self-defense. And you will render a verdict of not guilty.”

Before taking my seat at the defense table, I put the finishing touch on my closing argument. “Thank you again for your time and attention, you have been . . . delightful.”

That gets a smile from eight of the ten—I’m liking those odds.

After I’m seated, my neutral-faced co-counsel discreetly writes on a legal pad, passing it to me.

Nailed it!

Lawyers communicate with notes during trial because it’s bad form to whisper. And a smile or a scowl could be interpreted by the jury in a way you don’t want. So my only visible reaction is a quick nod of agreement.

My internal reaction is a schoolboy snicker. And I write back:

Nailing things well is what I do best.

Or have you forgotten?

Sofia’s the consummate professional. She doesn’t crack a smile. And I’ve never seen her blush. She just writes:

Cocky ass.

I allow myself the barest of grins.

Speaking of asses, mine still has your nail marks on it.

Does that make you wet?

It’s inappropriate, totally unprofessional—but that’s why it’s so damn fun. The fact that our dickhead client or anyone sitting front row in the gallery behind us could glance over and see what I’ve written just adds to the thrill. Like fingering a woman under the table at a crowded restaurant—also fun—the potential for discovery makes it all the more dangerous and hot.

A mischievous sparkle lights her hazel eyes as she scribbles:

You had me wet at “Ladies and gentlemen.” Now stop.

I scribble back:

Stop? Or save it for later?

I’m rewarded with a simple, subtle smirk. But it’s enough.

Later works.

•   •   •

After the rebuttal and an hour’s worth of instructions from the judge, the jury filed into the guarded back room for deliberations and court was recessed. Which gave me the opportunity to meet up for lunch with a certain old fraternity brother at a local watering hole that serves the best sandwiches in the city. Between demanding work schedules and family, we only have time to get together once or twice a year—when we happen to land in each other’s cities on business.

Drew Evans hasn’t changed all that much from our days at Columbia. Same scathing wit, same arrogance that draws women to him like moths to a blue-eyed bug light. The only difference between then and now is Drew doesn’t notice the flurry of female attention that follows him. Or, if he does notice, he doesn’t reciprocate.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else?
Anything
at all?” the twentysomething waitress asks hopefully—for the third time in fifteen minutes.

He takes a drink of his beer, then dismisses her with, “Nope. Still good—thanks.”

Shoulders hunched, she scurries away.

Drew is an investment banker at his father’s New York City firm. He’s also my investment banker—the reason two years of Presley’s college tuition is already sitting pretty in a 529 fund. Mixing money and friendship may not seem like a smart move, but when your friends are as talented at making money as mine are, it’s brilliant.

His phone chimes with an incoming text. He glances at the screen and a goofy smile spreads across his face—the kind of smile I’ve only seen him wear one time before: at his wedding, eight months ago.

I wipe my mouth with my napkin, toss it on the table, and tilt my chair back on two legs. “So . . . how is Kate these days?”

Kate is Drew’s wife.

His extremely beautiful wife.

His extremely beautiful wife whom I danced with—briefly—at their wedding reception. And my buddy didn’t seem to like that one bit.

What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t mess with him about it?

He glances up with a smirk. “Kate’s fantastic. She’s married to me—what else could she possibly be?”

“Did you give her my card?” I prod. “So she can contact me for legal services . . . or
any
service she may need?”

I grin as he scowls.

“No, I didn’t give her your card. Asshole.” He leans forward, suddenly smug. “Besides, Kate doesn’t like you.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?”

He chuckles. “It’s true—she thinks you’re shady. You’re a defense attorney, Kate’s a mother. She believes you enable child molesters to walk the streets.”

It’s a common misconception, and completely inaccurate. Defense attorneys keep the legal system honest—healthy. We advocate for the individual, the little guy, and we’re all that stands between him and the unconstrained power of the state. But people forget that part—it’s all pedophiles and Wall Street retirement fund thieves.

“I have a daughter,” I argue. “I wouldn’t defend a child molester.”

Drew finds my reasoning lacking. “You’re trying to make partner—you defend who the powers that be tell you to defend.”

I shrug noncommittally.

“Speaking of your daughter,” he segues. “How old is she now? Ten?”

As always, the topic of my baby girl brings an immediate surge of pride to my chest. “She turned eleven last month.” I whip out my phone and pull up the pictures that account for most of the memory. “She just made the competition cheerleading squad. And in the South, cheerleading’s a real sport—none of that ‘rah-rah’ pom-pom horseshit.”

Jenny and Presley still live in Mississippi. After Columbia, while I was going to law school at George Washington University, we talked about them coming to live with me in DC, but Jenny didn’t think the city was any place to raise a child. She wanted our daughter to grow up like we both did—swimming at the river, riding bicycles down dirt roads, running barefoot through the fields, and Sunday barbecues after church.

I agreed with her—I didn’t like it—but I agreed.

Drew lets out an impressed whistle when I show him the most recent shots of her decked out in green and gold team colors. Her long blond hair curled into ringlets and pulled up high, shining sky-blue eyes and a breathtaking pearly white smile.

“She’s a beauty, Shaw. Lucky for her she takes after her mother. Hope you’ve got a baseball bat ready.”

Way ahead of him. “Nah, man, I got a shotgun.”

He nods with approval and slaps my arm.

“Hey, stranger, long time, no see.” My eyes are drawn to the sumptuous form of Sofia Marinda Santos, my co-counsel—among other things—as she walks up to our table.

Clothes don’t just make the man—they make a statement for a woman. They speak particularly rapturously for Sofia. She dresses as she is—impeccable, sharp, classy, yet so damn sexy it makes my mouth water. Her red silk blouse is tastefully buttoned, revealing only a few inches of bronze skin below her collarbone—not even a hint of cleavage. But the material accents the God-given bounty of her ample breasts—
full, firm, and fucking gorgeous. A short, gray tweed jacket covers long, elegant arms, and the matching pencil skirt hugs the rounded swell of her hips before revealing toned legs that go on for days.

“Where were you hiding?” I ask, then point to an empty chair. “You want to join us?”

Naturally ruby lips smile back. “Thank you, but no, I just finished having lunch with Brent in the back.”

I gesture while making the introductions. “Drew Evans, this is Sofia Santos, a fellow child molester liberator according to your wife.” Sofia’s dark brow arches slightly at the description, but I continue. “Soph, this is Drew Evans, my old college buddy, my current investment banker, and just an all-around rude bastard.”

Ignoring my dig, he extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Sofia.”

“Likewise.”

She checks the time on her Rolex and teases, “You should finish up here too, Stanton. Don’t want to miss the verdict.”