“Does the plaintiff have representation?” Judge Andrews asks her.
“We were supposed to, your honor. He’s late.” She twists her neck and looks towards the courtroom doors with her last ounce of hope.
Judge Andrews almost rolls his eyes. Neither of them believes the representation is late.
“Mr. Callahan?” Judge Andrews begins flatly. “State your position.”
Here we go. “Your honor, we are asking that you grant an eight-week extension to prepare.” Even though we’re on opposing sides and I won’t be able to help her, eight weeks will at least give her time to find other counsel.
In the same instance, I know my job is to bury that counsel.
And I do my job very well.
“Eight-week extension granted.” Judge Andrews lifts his gavel.
That was quick. I’m almost surprised. That was hella-easier than I thought it’d be.
“Your honor,” hippie girl strongly interjects. “It’s already been sixty days! And the children in this case are being detained in separate foster homes—”
“Ms.?” Judge Andrews interrupts.
“Hayes. Remember, I was here last time for the private conference. We were trying to settle the dispute before coming to trial. I’m Jackson Prescott’s advocate.”
“Yes, I remember,” he states with a hint of impatient annoyance. “Will you be representing the younger Mr. Prescott in this case at the trial, then?”
The pale porcelain of her face burns red as the heat rises in her cheeks, giving away her emotions. She steals a quick sideways glimpse of me, and I’m wishing she wouldn’t do what I think she’s about to do.
“Yes. Yes, your honor,” she replies. “I’m all the children have got.”
“Then continue,” he instructs, giving her the floor.
“The three Prescott siblings are being housed at different state facilities and foster homes throughout the county,” she argues emotionally. Andrews isn’t going to like that. “They aren’t even being granted privileges to visit one another. We’re asking that—”
“Are they housed safely?” Andrews interrupts. Unconcerned, his eyes drop to the papers in front of him. No doubt in preparation for his next case.
“Perhaps, your honor. But they’re not together,” Ms. Hayes presses, trying to gain back his attention. “They are twelve, nine and five years old. They’ve already been through so much trauma losing both of their parents, and their suffering and grief is only being exacerbated by their separation.”
Judge Andrews has heard this all before. I know he’s not entirely hardened to the plight of orphans, but he’s savvy to the facts of life for kids in the system. And, unfortunately, so am I. “Ms. Hayes, I appreciate your dedication and passion, however most facilities are hard pressed to take three siblings in at a time. I’ve made my ruling. I am granting Mr. Callahan’s request for an extension. We’ll reconvene in eight weeks; I’ll hear your arguments then.”
The gavel hits the block hard, causing Ms. Hayes to jump a little at the jarring disruption.
Lagging back deliberately, I give her a few moments head start so she can get out of the courtroom first. I can only imagine how upset she is.
Now, my mind races with unanswered questions—the kind that’ll only be answered after I get the chance to look in the Prescott case file.
The hollow victory of the extension sits like a lump in my throat, and it pisses me off! This victory was mine. Is mine.
My mind fights to take it back. Not paying attention as I turn the corner, I slam into Ms. Hayes, whose attention is fixed down the hallway. The impact jars us both, and I instinctively grab her shoulders to keep her from falling.
I shouldn’t notice the scent of jasmine floating about her or the feel of her toned arms beneath the fabric of her thin shirt, but I do.
She gasps, “Don’t touch me!” Genuine fear paints her expression.
I lift my hands in a non-threatening “hands up and off” gesture. “I just didn’t want you to fall.”
Once she registers who I am, her eyes quickly dart back down the hallway, scanning the same area she’d been frozen looking at the moment before.
“Are you alright?”
She throws a scornful glance over her shoulder at me before speeding off and out through the courthouse doors.
I curse under my breath. What the hell is wrong with her? I rub the palm of my hand against the back of my neck, trying to make sense of it all. You know what, this doesn’t have anything personally to do with you. She’s upset. She’s not a trained lawyer. Her representation didn’t show up and now she’s struggling to keep it together.
This environment is stressful. In fact, I have a suspicion I won’t see Ms. Hayes here again.
“Hey, Tom,” I address the security guard as I leave. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Connor.”
Once outside, a gust of icy wind comes blowing down from the north. Pulling my suit jacket around me tighter, I move through the rows of parked cars toward my own.
“Leave me alone!”
I’m now familiar with that voice. I quickly dart around and see Ms. Hayes standing defensively in an empty parking space a few rows over. She’s clutching her attaché to her chest. Papers are sticking out from the opening; loose ones are crumpled against her arms and chest or clutched in her hands. Other pages that have fallen to the pavement float away on the wind. A bulky guy in a leather coat stands way too close to her, towering over her much smaller frame. His eyes are hard, his stance intimidating. It looks like maybe he tried to steal her attaché or wanted to mess with her files. She tries to move away, but he effortlessly blocks her.
Her expression is defiant, but the terror in her eyes is real.
Quickly moving in, I wedge myself between the two of them. “It looks like the lady doesn’t want to dance. You should move along.”
“You move along,” he orders, his deep voice low and menacing.
I smirk, thinking of the last time I got into a real fight. It’s been awhile, and I certainly wouldn’t mind hitting someone, especially this guy.
“Did you drop this nice lady’s papers?” I continue.
I watch his hands ball into fists.
“Step back.” I direct the words to Ms. Hayes, who seems frozen to the earth, held by gravity to the pavement.
I nudge her out of the way just as the guy swings, landing a fist squarely against my jaw.
“That felt fucking great!” I laugh deep from my belly. Brings me back to the good old days. “Thanks,” I tell him, right before my right fist connects to his sternum and my left uppercut slams against his jaw.
Off guard, he stumbles back. When he recovers and swings again, I block the hit and send a front kick against his chest. He staggers backward and falls hard on his ass, a shocked look on his face. Quickly, he leaps to his feet and runs in the opposite direction.
I turn to Hayes, who stares after him, her eyes glazed over as if she may be in shock.
“Are you alright?” I ask gently.
She blinks herself back. “No, I am not alright!” She rushes to collect her scattered papers, but the wind has carried several out of immediate reach.
Kneeling on the blacktop, I help her gather the pages that’ve accumulated around our feet.
“What are you doing?” Her voice snaps like a whip.
“Helping you. Isn’t that apparent.” Damn, she’s confusing.
“You’re kidding, right?” She kneels in front of me while she seizes stray pages and shoves them in her attaché. “You know, for a second, when you offered to help back at the courthouse, I actually thought maybe, just maybe you were different—with your progressive style, your tattoos and piercings…”
I am different, I think. Then my ego chimes in. I knew she was checking me out.
“And you’re probably wearing a concert tee under your respectable, slate-gray suit jacket, thinking you’re all that, when all you are is one of them!”
&nbs
p; Whoa! “Whatever you think,” I assure her, “I’m not one of them.”
“I can’t believe you beat up your own thug!” Her tone is incredulous.
“I don’t have thugs.” I almost laugh at the ridiculousness of her accusation.
“Really? You don’t? Mr. Harrison of Harrison and Smith”—she sneers the names—“certainly does. And since you’re fighting for them, that asshole was your thug.”
“You’re mistaken,” I say seriously. “Harrison’s firm doesn’t play dirty.”
Our eyes meet. Tears stream down her cheeks, and her face is flushed with anger and cold. Her coat is unzipped and splayed open; the light fabric of her blouse along with the exposed skin of her chest put her at the mercy of the winter wind. She’s trying to put the papers back in her case but she’s struggling. Her hands are shaking from adrenaline, plus she’s not wearing gloves and her fingers are visibly stiff from cold.
“Let me help you.” Gently, I pry at the mess of pages she still clutches protectively in her freezing hands.
“They’re sweet kids, you know. Good kids.”
“I’m sure they are,” I agree softly.
A scrap of paper gets loose and is tossed on the wind. When she reaches out to snag it back, she pitches forward. I catch her by the shoulders. When I do, the gold chain that’d been tucked beneath her shirt slips forward and swings free.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
She straightens. “Thank you,” she sputters like a reflex.
I can’t stop staring at the necklace. “Where…?” Without meaning to, I reach out and catch the golden pendant that dangles against her chest with careful fingers.
Ms. Hayes scrambles back. “What are you doing?”
I shake myself out of it. “Nothing,” I stammer. “I… I haven’t seen one of those pendants since—”
Protectively, she pulls the pendant away and drops it back underneath her shirt.
My heart hammers behind my ribs and my pulse echoes in my ears. The air is knocked out of my lungs—as if I’d been roundhoused in the chest.
It couldn’t be.
She eyes me once over with a deeper mistrust as her brow furrows, and it’s like she’s trying to read the sudden change in my countenance. Jamming the last of the papers into the unzipped opening of the attaché, she stands, cups her hands to her mouth and blows a swath of warm air against them, her attention never leaving my face.
“I don’t know what your game is. I don’t know why you’d pretend to protect me, unless this was a show for the security cameras, but I promise you—and you can take my words back to your boss—I’m not going to quit.” Her eyes spark with electricity. “No matter what you people do.”
Elle
WRAPPING MY HANDS around the steaming mug of tea, I feel the heat transfer deliciously into my icy hands. I really hate January in Minnesota. Samson, the malamute-husky I’ve been fostering for the local rescue is finally asleep at my feet. It only took a brisk five-mile hike in the snow to wear him down and tire him out.
I can’t help but smile. He’s such a sweetheart. Leaning over, I stroke his luxurious silver and white coat.
He probably has some wolf in him too, I think. Already, being a husky drops his chances of being adopted by nearly eighty percent, then ninety percent of rental homes have restrictions set in place that’ll keep him out due to his breed and size. I lucked out that my roommate owns her small condo and doesn’t mind me bringing fur-babies home with me.
I lean back against the couch cushion, set my tea on the end table beside me and pull my PC onto my lap. I lift the lid and wait in the dim light for it to start up. As I begin to think, I automatically, out of years of habit, reach for my pendant. Cradling it between my thumb and forefinger, I trail the smooth edges and engraving against my fingertips.
It had startled Callahan. The pendant. Like he’d seen a ghost.
“Good,” I contemplate out loud. “Maybe he’s Catholic and feels guilty about what he’s doing.”
We’ll need that because if Harrison sent him, he’s one of the best. “With the capability to grind me to dust in the courtroom,” I mumble.
I get onto Google and pull up two tabs: Harrison and Smith Law and Connor Callahan.
More than I expect pops up for Mr. Callahan. Quipped facts from his bio page on the firm’s website: Graduated top of his class at University of Minnesota, interned at Harrison and Smith. And then there’s a list of about a hundred volunteer accolades and pro bono cases he’s led that I choose not to read.
Very nice. Good for him.
The city probably loves him. Gorgeous man, smart, successful, amazing physique. He’s probably engaged to the governor’s daughter. Of course, he’s their token reformed bad boy, with his tattoos and piercings. I’d seen the ones on his eyebrow and lip this afternoon, along with the black gauges in his ears, up close and personal. Even his hair is rebellious—brown with hints of red—cut short, it’s still unruly, with small curls playing in different directions. His intelligent eyes are the color of blue-green turquoise.
When I first saw him, I was immediately drawn to him. He’d almost looked familiar somehow. And when he touched me—my skin thrills with goosebumps even now at the memory—I had the strongest moment of déjà vu.
Or it was simply lady hormones, I chide. I hate how my body responded to him.
I shake the déjà vu idea off. I was upset, angry and afraid—not a good combination for rational thought—my mind must’ve been playing a trick on me.
“Whatever. Jackson, Max and Lily, I’ve got your backs.”
Several more articles about Minneapolis’s golden boy pop-up: “Running for a Cause,” “Young Lawyer Caught Giving Meals to Homeless,” “Unconventional Lawyer Breaking Stereotypes and Making Changes in the Twin Cities,” “Former Foster Kid Gives Back.”
That last one throws me. Wait, he was a foster child himself? Then he should be the last person to—
I’m about to click on the article, when my alarm sounds, reminding me of my interview with Mr. Cade North at The Core downtown.
Probably better that way. I’m not the type of person who snoops into people’s pasts.
I close the search tab before heading out the door.
The Core may be the most amazing place I’ve ever seen. The genius and brainchild of Cade North—once in the foster care system himself—it’s a place for kids in the twin cities and surrounding areas to come to work out their troubles and emotional pain, literally. In fact, all states should follow Cade North’s model and create Core programs in their cities and towns. I know. I’ve done a lot of studying up on it. Cade and his wife Debra are role models for many of us in the field.
I’m so excited to meet him! A chance to work for the Norths and mentor under them would be a dream come true. It’s one of the main factors that made me move here.
I laugh a little and think, Yeah and endure the blustery cold of Minnesota!
And believe me, it’s freaking cold here!
Standing on the sidewalk in front of the main doors, I take a deep breath and touch my pendant for luck—it’s always given it to me faithfully.
The moment feels magical—charged with an incomprehensible energy, like I’m supposed to be here, in this very moment. As I turn my face to the sky, snow begins to fall and lights on my lashes. I close my eyes…
And make a wish.
Pushing the double doors open, I step inside. The Core is bursting with activity. Kids as young as five are kicking a sparring bag, while older teens are in the ring boxing with adult mentors and counselors; others are lifting weights. The most remarkable part of this program is not even the physical aspect of it. These kids are learning to believe in themselves again and in the adults in the world around them.
I step up to the front desk where a big guy in cut-off sleeves showing off his beefy arms greets me.
“Hey there.” He smiles. “Can I help you?”
“Yes. I have an appointment with Cade North.�
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“What’s your name? I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Elle Hayes.”
“I’ll be right back.” He comes out from behind the desk and takes off down the hallway until he disappears into the back.
As I wait, an entire pre-school-aged class parades through the lobby wearing their white gis, following their teacher. They are too cute! Each wears either an orange or yellow belt or a combination of the two colors. One little girl with flyaway messy brown hair chops the air with her hand.
“HI-YA!”
Her teacher, in the same attire except that his belt is brown, smiles. “Great strike, Elisha.”
As they walk past, I’m impressed by The Core’s symbol, which is woven on the back of their gis: a large, strong oak tree with solid roots, illuminated by a rising sun.
That’s when the guy who greeted me comes back with Cade North. I steady my breathing so I don’t appear too eager.
But I’m totally, completely, ridiculously eager. So much so, my adrenaline spikes and my body begins to shake.
Pull it together, Elle.
I’ve seen Cade North in photographs, but nothing prepared me for the man himself. He carries a physically and psychologically strong presence; he’s tall and his frame is muscular—like he practices what he preaches. His expression is open and engaging. Welcoming.
I hope he can’t see me tremble.
“Miss Hayes, it’s very nice to meet you.” He reaches out and grasps my hand in a firm shake. “I’m so glad you were able to make it.”
When he takes my hand, something happens; I can feel a calm strength emanating from him. His smile is disarming, and I feel myself immediately relaxing.
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Let me give you a tour of our facilities, then we can finish our conversation in my office.”
“Sounds perfect.” I smile and this time it’s unforced and natural.
“From the looks of your resume,”—he begins as we walk—“you have a lot of experience, Miss Hayes—and way too much personal experience—on both sides of the system.”
Risk: An Enemies to Lovers, Second Chance Romance Standalone (Brothers of Ink and Steel) Page 2