Naked Love

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  * * *

  Hours later in court, the prosecution rests. There is a quick-held breath as everyone waits to hear what the defense will do next. Will they move to dismiss? And, of course, he does. But the judge declines his request. The court is adjourned, and it’s not long before there’s a press conference outside, put on by the prosecutor while the defense stays in hiding, most likely preparing for tomorrow.

  I stand on the sidelines and listen to what amounts to more of the courtroom conversations. Hours of the blown-up nonsense, and I’m sad for one reason. Right now, there will be no justice for a dead woman and her unborn child. Twenty minutes later, I’m in my favorite coffee shop, at my corner table, heading to the bar to collect my order. It’s then that I notice the prosecutor, a tall, lanky man in a basic blue suit and tie, sitting alone at a table and working on his MacBook. Seeing an opportunity, I walk up to his table.

  He glances up at me. “Cat from Cat Does Crime,” he says. “I was a fan until you dogged my performance. I read your true crime on the Piaz murders. It was good, but I’ll write my own book on this. Move along. I’m busy.”

  Okay.

  Reese just lost his title. He’s no longer Mr. Arrogant Asshole. This guy stole it from him.

  I walk back to my seat, sit down, and spend the next hour working on my column. My closing statement is this: When you charge a suspect without proof to satisfy the public, you disappoint that very public when you can’t deliver a conviction. You have responsibility to charge when you have proof, and not sooner. And so, I’m going to challenge the defense to do more than protect their client. Give us the killer. Give that woman and child, and their family, justice. Until then, —Cat.

  I look up to realize that some time along the way, the new Mr. Arrogant Asshole has left, and I grab my phone and dial Reese. His voice mail picks up and I leave a message.

  “Hopefully that hotdog didn’t kill you and you get this message. Here is my closing statement, which I’m not changing, but I want you to know about it.” I read it to his voice mail and then add, “Good night, Reese.” I end the call and pack up, heading back to my apartment.

  As I enter the building, I stare at the fancy tiled floors and glance up at the towering ceiling. I inherited my apartment when my mother died. It had been her getaway. Her escape from my father, and he knew about it. I was unsure what to do with that little piece of information when I found out about it, but I tucked it away and pretended it didn’t exist. Or I thought I did. Now, tonight, something about that encounter with Reese has stirred old feelings I don’t want to feel, back to life. I don’t even know what to call the feelings. Betrayal. I’d felt betrayed when I realized nothing about my life was exactly what I’d thought it to be. My parents were not happy.

  And so I do what I do when I feel lost. I enter my luxury apartment, pour wine, and find my way to my favorite spot. A claw-foot tub hugged by windows, the moon and stars sparkling outside the window. I waste no time running a hot bubble bath, stripping down, and climbing inside. I’m halfway finished with my glass of wine when my phone rings. I glance at the number I now know to be Reese’s and, with wet, bubble-covered hands, answer on speaker.

  “Hello, Reese,” I say.

  “I’m going to tell you what I told Lauren, when I told her I was going to pursue you.”

  “You told Lauren that you were—”

  “Yes. I did. And she wished me luck. To which I replied: Challenge accepted. Which brings me to your closing statement: Challenge accepted, Cat. Good night.”

  He hangs up.

  I sit up and forget how wet I am, calling Lauren. “I wondered when you were going to call,” she says.

  “Did Reese—”

  “Yes. And I told him good luck.”

  “And he said?”

  “Challenge accepted. But I know you. He’s the kind of man you’re drawn to and fear. And he’s your job. What are you going to do?”

  I don’t deny anything she’s just said. We worked twenty-hour days together at the DA’s office. We talked. A lot. Lauren knows me more than most. More than anyone, really.

  “Cat?” she presses.

  “What am I going to do?” I repeat. “I’m going to get naked with that man and say goodbye.”

  She laughs. “Then I’m going to tell you what I told him. Good luck.”

  I scowl as if she can see me. “Challenge accepted.”

  She laughs louder, and I hang up.

  5

  Cat

  Day 4: The Trial of the Century

  I wake up exhausted and in need of caffeine, which is Reese’s fault. He was on my mind last night, keeping me awake, which is unacceptable unless we’re naked and together. Thinking means I’m getting too involved with him emotionally, and I’m not doing that now or ever. Deciding my coffee stop is safe today, or rather necessary for everyone else’s safety, I pull myself out of bed and hurry to the shower, then put my Keurig to use to make a cup of coffee, which I drink while drying my hair, then flatiron it to a sleek shine. I don’t tie it back, and tell myself that has nothing to do with Reese. It’s the tired thing motivating this decision. I need the attention off my puffy-ass face.

  I dress in a favorite outfit, a burgundy pantsuit with pants that hit at the ankle. I pair it with stilettos, and the shirt beneath the jacket is white; I then head to the coffee shop, where I read my newly posted column, as is my routine, and I do like my routines. The fact that I’m pleased with what I’ve written helps take the edge off my crankiness. And the fact that every other headline is about a baby killer, and headlines make my fact-based commentary stand out. Finally, it’s my turn in line, and I order my white mocha, while trying not to admit that I’m a tiny bit disappointed that Reese has not shown up.

  Once I’m at the courthouse, I wade through the gaggle out front. Once inside, I discover that I’m seated near Reese again, and when he enters, his eyes find mine and his words are in the air between us: Challenge accepted. At the moment, they’re about him and me and me and him, not this case. But as he takes the courtroom reins, it becomes clear that he’s up to that challenge as well. He calls the family and friends of the victim to the stand, and one by one, proves that no one knew his client was someone involved with the deceased. His client knew her, but he wasn’t sleeping with her. He was trying to help her out of an abusive situation with her boyfriend.

  Come lunchtime, I head back to the same food trucks I’d visited yesterday, and I’ve just gotten my nuts again when Reese reappears. “You have to eat something other than nuts.”

  “My nuts are healthier than your hotdog.”

  “Yeah, well, I only do hotdogs during trials,” he says as we step to the hotdog truck.

  He orders, and a few minutes later we’re sitting on the same bench as yesterday.

  “Why only during trials?” I ask, finishing off a handful of nuts. “Is it like a superstition thing?”

  “It is,” he confirms. “I ate a hotdog at lunch the day I got my first jury win. It’s superstitious, but in this line of work, you take any advantage you can get.”

  “You’re winning,” I say.

  “Juries are unpredictable,” he says. “You know that.”

  “I do. I worked for the DA for several years, and even when you believed you should win, you didn’t always win.”

  “The DA with a Harvard law degree,” he says. “You could have been banking and you chose public service.”

  “I come from money,” I admit. “I make my own living, but I inherited my apartment, and that gives me the freedom to do what I want. I can’t say I’d be different or the same in my choices if that wasn’t the case.”

  “I came from nothing,” he says. “You should know that about me.”

  He says those words with a hint of that arrogance that I don’t read the same way I have in the past. It’s as if the arrogance is a wall to protect him from those who might judge him unworthy. “You seem to be doing pretty well now. And you know that what you do have, you cr
eated.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I do now. I walked away from law. I embraced what works for me and I’m better at what I do now because of how I started. So I can’t regret it.”

  “Why the DA? Why public service?”

  “I thought I was helping those who needed help. Instead, decisions are politics, and then pregnant dead women don’t get justice served on their behalf. And innocent people end up with a stigma attached to them that they don’t deserve. I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

  “You underestimate me if you believe that’s how this ends.”

  “You’ll have to hand over a damning case against someone else to end it differently.”

  “And I will. If my client lets me keep going. He wants this to be over.” He balls up his wrapper and tosses it before taking my hand in his again. “Until tomorrow, Cat,” he says, using my little goodbye in each of my columns before standing and walking away. Leaving me with that spicy scent of him lingering in the air, and a date for lunch tomorrow.

  I could no-show.

  But I don’t want to.

  * * *

  Later that night, I am in bed with a pizza and no man. Just me. I’ve been alone like this for years, really. I mean, yes, there was the artist, but we had sex. The conversation was convoluted at best. Maybe that’s why I chose him, and stayed with him way too long. He’d never really known me. He’d never threatened my heart. But I got to have an orgasm. I got to feel a body next to mine. It had seemed like enough. Which brings me to my column, which I write carefully on this day, because I dare to talk about domestic abuse. My closing statement reads like this:

  Who killed Jennifer Wright and her unborn child?

  That is the question in the courtroom now, and as the defense presents their case, more and more the answer doesn’t sound as simple as who has been charged. Interestingly, I believe the defense could ask for a dismissal again at any time, and based on evidence, he should be granted that request. But I find myself wanting this trial to continue. I want to know who the killer is, and I want to see that killer brought to justice. Tomorrow is Friday. My assessment is that as much as I want this case to continue, it’s expensive financially and emotionally. If the defense plans to ask for that dismissal, Friday is the day. Until then, —Cat.

  I shut my computer and stare up at the ceiling. If the trial is over, then what?

  Do I dare my one night, followed by a goodbye with Reese Summer?

  Or do I just say goodbye?

  Or is it really hello?

  No.

  What am I thinking?

  * * *

  Day 5: The Trial of the Century

  I have trouble sleeping again, and I wake up with butterflies in my stomach as if I’m the one who has a high-profile case to close today. With the potential dismissal of the case, today feels like it should be more formal. I dress in a light blue suit dress that I pair with a black jacket, tights, and stilettos again, and despite drinking coffee at home, my white mocha has to happen. I reach the coffee shop and the line is predictably out of the door, but I’ll get my white mocha and a better mood with it. I’m reading my own column on my phone while standing in line when I receive a text from my literary agent: Loving your coverage of the trial. So is your editor. She wants to contract your coverage as a new book. Are you in?

  My mood is instantly better, and I type: Yes, x 1000

  My agent answers with: I’ll email you the offer when I get it.

  Smiling now, the rest of the line is short, and I wonder if yet another book deal will finally win my family’s support instead of their ire over my career choices. I’ll share the news once I sign the contract. I’m already thinking about how to structure a book, and how today’s happenings might impact my choices, when I finally get to the register. I head to the end of the bar and spy broad, perfect shoulders in an expensive suit: Reese. Reese is here. And I know he’s here for me. I stop walking, and that’s when everything changes. The woman next to him, a pretty blonde, is flirting with him. He looks down at her and laughs that charming laugh of his. Apparently, he likes blondes. Just how many is he pursuing? Asshole. Why did I even think all this interaction we had was about me, rather than the obvious—him getting laid?

  Suddenly, Reese and the woman turn in my direction, and the woman is still looking up at Reese as his attention lands on me. The woman starts walking, and her destination is: Into me. Her iced coffee explodes all over me. I gasp with the shock of the cold beverage, and I’m pretty sure some of it just drained down my pant leg. “Holy hell,” Reese murmurs, while the woman panics.

  “Oh God. Oh God. I’m sorry.”

  Reese hands me napkins while he starts wiping my dress. I grab his hand. “Stop.”

  “Cat—”

  “Don’t say my name.”

  He frowns. “What?”

  “Deal with your other woman. She’s upset.” I rotate away from him and into her. “Please move.”

  “I—Yes.” She backs up, and I charge past her and down a set of steps that lead to the lower-level bathroom, and there is no question that I have ice between my damn boobs.

  I reach the bottom of the steps, and luckily the bathroom is empty. I open the door, step inside, and shut myself in there. I’m a mess. A complete, sticky, horrible mess. I dig the ice from my bra and try to dry off enough to just get me out of here and back home.

  * * *

  Reese

  I take a step to follow Cat, but the woman who was talking my ear off while I waited on my coffee steps in front of me. “I’m so sorry,” she proclaims. “Obviously you know her. I want to make this right.”

  “It was an accident,” I say. “And I’ll handle it.” I step around her, weave between bodies at the crowded bar, and head down the stairs that Cat had been rushing toward.

  At the bottom level, I find the bathroom and knock on the door. “Cat.”

  The door flies open and she points at her coffee-stained dress, while I try to focus on the stains, not the curve of her breasts and her discreet but lush cleavage. “You did this,” she accuses, pulling my gaze back to hers, while her verbal attack reminds me that she is hard to get in every way but a good fight.

  “I didn’t do this,” I say. “I—”

  “You were flirting with that woman and she was staring at you with her panties melting, and she just walked right into me. You did this. Move. I need to go home and change.”

  She’s jealous, and I can’t help but be a little pleased about this, but I bite back a smile and a laugh sure to get me hurt. “Panties melting?” I rest my arm on the doorframe above her. “Sweetheart, since I met you, the only panties I want to melt for me are yours.”

  “Really?” she demands. “Prove it.”

  “Name the time and place.”

  Her cheeks huff. “Forget I said that.”

  “No. I won’t forget that you said that. Challenge once again accepted.”

  “Move. I need to go home and change because you ruined my dress.”

  I decide not to point out the inaccuracy of that statement yet again, and settle on a peace offering. “I’ll buy you a new dress.”

  “Seriously? You’ll buy me a new dress? Is that supposed to melt my panties? You think you can buy your way past your bad behavior? First you cut in line and want to buy my coffee, and now this. You really are an arrogant ass, and I can’t be bought.”

  I grab her and pull her to me, my hand at the side of her face, the other on her hip, when I want my hands everywhere, all over her. “I was not flirting with that woman, but you are another story.” I close my mouth down on hers, my tongue licking into her mouth. At first, she resists, but I deepen the kiss and she moans a sexy little moan, and then she’s melting into me, kissing me back. The taste of her is chocolate and coffee. Temptation burns through me, thickening my cock.

  But she suddenly pushes on my chest, tearing her mouth from mine. “Like I said,” she pants out, “I can’t be bought.”

  �
��You think that kiss was bribery?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says. “I do.”

  “Did it work?”

  “A little, but once you let go of me, I’ll get over it.”

  “If I give you the chance, but I won’t.”

  “I told you—”

  I kiss her again, this time a long, drugging, deep kiss before I say, “If I had time,” I say, finishing the sentence in my head with multiple choices: I would fuck you, lick you, punish you with an orgasm you want but can’t have until you see me again. “I have to get to court.”

  “If you had time,” she says, “I still wouldn’t let you do any of the things you’re thinking about doing.”

  “Like I said: Challenge accepted.” I release her and start up the stairs, turning back to add, “You taste as good as I knew you would,” before I turn away and head back up the stairs.

  “Reese,” she says from behind me just before I reach the top level.

  I turn to find her standing at the bottom of the step. “Yes, Cat?” I say, and holy fuck, she’s gorgeous with her hair down like this.

  “You have my lipstick all over your mouth and face.”

  I reach up and run my finger over my mouth to find a shade of pink on my finger. “Is it at least your lucky shade?”

  “I just had coffee spilled all over me while wearing it.”

  “And I kissed you.”

  “Yes, actually, there is that.”

  I have a brief moment in which I contemplate charging down the steps and pulling her back into the bathroom, where I would set her on the counter. Next her skirt would go up her gorgeous legs, and I would settle a knee in between her thighs, and rip off her panties rather than melt them. I would then lick her until she moans, tugs on my hair, and begs for more. But I have fucking court.

  Instead, I simply say, “See you in court, Cat,” before I turn away and head into the coffee shop again, where I stop for napkins, and head for the door, motivated to win my case, and Cat. And I am going to win with Cat. One lick at a time, if that’s what it takes.