by Hazel Parker
“What do you mean?”
“Stop,” I said, putting my hand up. “Asking questions like that to the lawyer is a good way to get you sliced and diced. These guys are pros. When they ask questions or make statements, they can already anticipate what you are going to say. In some ways, the really good ones, when they call a witness forward, they already know what they’re going to say; the details might change, and the wording might alter, but the story will be outlined already by the lawyer. They just have to ask the right questions to get you to look bad.”
“Sheesh, you make it sound like one giant theater of fuckery.”
I should have been offended by that, but I just laughed. Splitter seemed ready to apologize, but my laughing had eliminated that need.
“Just don’t say that when I’m sober,” I said, but I was smiling when I said it. “There’s some truth to it. This is why we’re doing it now, though. We want to prepare you with the best possible alibi. It’s also something you’re going to need to discuss with the Saints, most especially if they get called to testify.”
“They won’t testify on me,” Splitter growled, suddenly very serious. “There is no fucking way that any of them would ever sell me out.”
“You’re missing the point,” I said, leaning forward. “I know that. The other lawyers know that. But you know what? The other lawyers know how to make your club look very unsympathetic. They know how to make Trace and anyone else who goes on the stand look untrustworthy and like a criminal. That’s different than being a criminal, but it’s like a theater in that appearances matter. So. Trace could get up there and vouch for you and say you weren’t there and call you a real-life saint. Won’t matter. The lawyers will make sure the questions they ask will either make Trace look like someone who doesn’t listen to them or someone who can’t be trusted.”
Splitter leaned back in his seat.
“Ah, fuck,” he said. “Sorry, sorry. Drunk me swears a lot.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but drunk me doesn’t take offense,” I said, and then I said something that was particularly… damaging or promising, depending on when I thought about it. “It’s your chance to say and do some things maybe you haven’t been able to yet.”
Splitter showed no reaction at first, simply crossing his arms over his chest, making me wish he would wrap them around me. Goodness did he look amazing.
And then that smirk came. That smirk that made me want to grab those cheeks, grab his body, and just… just… do things that were so sinful I felt embarrassed just thinking about them, but think about them I did.
“I’m in no state to do this seriously,” he said. “So, you can leave if you want, I don’t want to waste club money, but I do want to do something with you if you want to stay.”
“Hmm,” I said, pretending that it was a debate in my head even though it was not even close to that. “Well, it’s not like I have anything else to do. So, sure, why not. Just don’t tell me I have to drive a motorcycle or get on one with you right now.”
Splitter just laughed, although his face seemed to suggest he had thought about it. Or maybe I was just reading into it what I feared.
Though, admittedly, the thought of riding the bike had crossed my mind, if for no other reason than the story… yeah, and just the story. Nothing more. I swore.
“Nope, I don’t do that,” he said. “I’ve seen too many Saints get stupid with their choppers after drinks. No fucking way.”
“OK, just because I’m buzzed doesn’t give you free rein.”
Splitter held up his hands as if surrendering, adding, “Sorry, ma’am,” and then smiling.
“Apology accepted,” I said, smiling back. “So what did you want to do?”
“I want to cross-examine you.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
Oh boy.
This could get interesting really fast.
“How does that sound to you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sure,” Splitter said. “You could come to one of our parties. We’d throw one just for you.”
“Oh, heavens,” I said, thinking about how that would play out in the tabloids. “I’m good. I’ll sit here on the witness stand for you.”
“Good answer,” Splitter said. “Now then. When did you first meet one Shaun ‘Splitter’ Reddings?”
I knew immediately where this was going, and everything in my head screamed “TROUBLE!”
But you know what? It was the right kind of trouble. It was the kind of trouble that I kind of wanted to experience. It was the kind of trouble that I needed to unwind a bit.
That’s how I saw it, at least.
“Well, I met Mr. Reddings where he was being held prisoner, just yesterday, in fact.”
“Hmm. And what did you think of Mr. Reddings? Keep in mind lying under oath is a federal offense.”
“Oh, you’re going to use that on me?” I said with a giggle. A giggle! I couldn’t believe I had actually giggled! “Well, I thought that he was funny. I thought that he connected very well with me. And… I thought he was kind of handsome.”
“Hmm, interesting,” Splitter said, playing the role of prosecutor with hilarious accuracy. “And let me ask you this then, Ms. Reynolds. You say you found the defendant ‘kind of handsome.’ Elaborate, if you would, on what that means?”
“Well,” I said, feeling heat all over my body. “I think he has very nice eyes. His slicked-back hair is very on point. He’s muscular, of course, and fit is always handsome. But… it’s more than an appearance. It’s a way that he carries himself. He’s a man who knows what he needs to do and he gets it done. But he’s also a man very in touch with his emotions. And most men are either too afraid to be in touch with their emotions, or they are so in touch they can’t function. And Mr. Reddings really strikes that balance in a marvelous way.”
Though Splitter was doing a remarkably good job of maintaining his “role,” he let slip a few smiles here and there. The tension was so palpable, I didn’t even want to drink anymore; I worried the clinking of ice would somehow interrupt.
“If I may, Ms. Reynolds, you are on trial for the crime of having an attraction to my client, Mr. Reddings,” he said, to which I arched my eyebrows. “We have more than enough here to find you guilty. If you would like, you can take a plea deal now.”
“Oh, my, I think that may be in my best interest.”
By now, the alcohol had me full force.
And that was a force I was more than happy to surrender to now.
“Then I’ll ask you to stand up and take your plea deal.”
I did, never breaking eye contact with him. Splitter rose and came over to me. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked close at me.
This close, I noticed that he had showered, no longer smelling like oil. Not only that, he had put on some cologne that I had never smelled before. I knew then that this smell would forever be associated with Splitter.
“Tell me how you plead,” he said.
I smirked.
“Guilty as hell.”
With that, Splitter leaned forward, pressing his lips into mine. My stomach rushed with heat, flipped on itself several times, and never settled down for the duration of the kiss.
But that was just the first of many kisses. The intensity was getting heavy.
And then Splitter did something that Joshua had never done.
He grabbed my butt and lifted me up.
Perhaps to Splitter and some of the other girls that he had been with, such a move was full of sexual tension and the perfect thing to do.
But from what I had experienced—keeping in mind that Josh was the only man I had ever had intercourse with—it was like a violently aggressive move. I staggered back, shocked at what had happened.
“Splitter,” I gasped.
I knew that he hadn’t made the move in a violent fashion. He had not tried to rape me. There was nothing about what had happened that I would hold him accountable for.
It was just… I wasn’t ready for it. Not at that moment. Too sudden. Not gradual enough.
“Are you OK?” he said. “Was it something I did?”
“It’s just… I’m not… I’m not ready for that,” I said, trying to control my swell of emotions.
“Not ready?” he said, sounding more empathic than inquisitive. “How come?”
No more hiding the truth, Amber. You just kissed your client. Your own, gosh darn client. Your own!
“I got a divorce two days ago,” I said. “It’s the greatest shame of my life. I grew up in a small town in South Carolina and had known my husband since childhood. It felt like a fairy tale dream come true, but the more we spent time in Los Angeles and the more my career took off, the further apart we drifted. I’m Catholic, you know this, and there are few things worse than a divorce. Most especially because it wasn’t like he cheated on me or abused me. We just… grew apart.”
I sighed.
“I entangled you in something I should not have, Splitter,” I said. “Forget the professional issues. I trust you to keep them quiet. I’m just… I’m not personally ready for something like this, you know?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Splitter asked.
It was a completely logical question to follow up and a completely reasonable one… and it was one for which I had no good answer. I had an answer of “because it did not impact you and I professionally” but given what had just gone down, that was a weak excuse, and I knew it.
“I don’t know, Splitter,” I said. “I don’t know. I’m just… I shouldn’t have taken you on as a client.”
“Amber!”
“It’s not just professional. It has nothing to do with that. I would have defended you any time going forward. But I thought that if I jumped into my work, I could block out the divorce and do well and what not. But instead… well, I hate to say it, but I made a huge damn mistake.”
The fact that I swore, I thought, said it all.
“Can you at least sleep on it?” Splitter said. “I could go to jail for the rest of my life if I don’t do this right! I don’t want to think about life in prison. I care about the Saints so much and would never sell them out, but I have needs too, Amber! I don’t want…”
His eyes began to well. He turned away, looked to the ceiling, and took several audible breaths.
“Just think about it, OK?” he asked, his voice waving. “Just… don’t quit here. If you wake up and decide to quit, fine. But don’t do it now. I’m sorry that I moved too fast for you. I got excited. Too excited. I shouldn’t have done that. But don’t let it ruin our professional relationship.”
Why did I have to let myself get this far? If I had just told Mr. Cole when I first saw him that I needed to take a personal leave, I’d be in Hawaii right now, sitting on a beach, trying to find inner peace. Instead, here I am, just creating so much more chaos for myself than I did before.
“I screwed up, Splitter,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
I didn’t want to make it official right there that I was quitting.
But I did not see any other way that it would turn out. No matter what scenarios I played out in my head, they all resulted in me stepping away, refusing to bill the Saints for the two days I worked with them, and then wishing him luck. If my head wasn’t right personally, it sure as heck wouldn’t be right professionally.
Without another word, I walked out the door, tears starting to pour down my face. I hadn’t even made it to the car when it turned into full blown crying.
Chapter 9: Splitter
About the only goddamn fucking good news during this shitty period of whatever the fuck had just fucking happened was that Amber had told me she would take twenty-four fucking long hours to decide on if she still wanted to fucking represent me.
God fucking damnit!
Fucking hell!
Fucking shit!
I didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was divorced. I figured something was up with her, but as long as it wasn’t her being pregnant or having AIDS or some stupid shit like that, I could have handled anything. A divorce? Please. I figured by the time I died, I’d have gone through a few marriages before I gave up.
But… what the fuck?
I couldn’t make any fucking sense of it. I made what any man would have made as a move at that moment. Granted, the ass grab was probably a little aggressive, but it wasn’t like I ripped her shirt off on the spot, nor was it like I buried my fingers inside her. I went from making out with her to grabbing—not slapping or hitting or spanking—her ass. I wouldn’t do it again, obviously, but…
Fuck!
I tried to find ways to believe that this wouldn’t spell the end of us, both personally and professionally. Well, personally, that was probably shot to hell. I couldn’t speed up time, nor could I go back in time to prevent her from getting married. The first time we kissed and made romantic overtures to that degree would forever be two days after she got divorced, and like it or not, that would fucking color us for some time.
But professionally… I needed her. I really, truly, honestly needed Amber. I didn’t want to go to prison, not even for a few months. There were so many Mercs in the cells that it would only be a matter of time before I got killed if I went in there. That was the fucking terrifying part, the thing that had started to hit me after Trace had let us know they were still running around.
It didn’t matter if my sentence was life in prison or just six months. It only needed to be long enough for the Mercs to get me because once they did, it was all over. They were not going to be kind and benevolent spirits, nor were they just going to stare at me from a distance. They were going to fuck me up to make an example out of me for what had happened to Diablo… and there was not a goddamn thing that we could do about it.
We had a couple of members in prison doing short stints, sure, but we had told them to lay low on purpose. We didn’t need the jail cells full of war and full of our members getting killed. Besides, most of them were in on very minor charges; the most serious one was some sort of aggravated assault that was six months, not exactly the kind of thing worth developing a relationship in prison over for.
And even if this wasn’t the case, even if I knew that I wasn’t going to get shanked and murdered within just a few days of going to prison… I didn’t want to fucking go!
Goddamnit!
I took my glass and threw it back toward the bar, watching it shatter against the wall like my hopes and expectations for Amber. How could she? How could she had gone through with that, knowing it was probably a bad idea, but still done it anyway?
Fuck.
I had enough on her that I could blackmail her into doing it. I had more than enough information on her that I could make life a living hell for her.
No, no, no, Splitter, don’t be that guy. If she leaves… it fucking sucks. You’re better than that.
I knew my emotions were getting the best of me. I knew that I was losing my mind. Throwing the glass actually helped some, but it would take a good day or so before I could calm myself back down to the point of thinking rationally.
I just… fuck…
And now that the DMs were back on the streets or threatening to get back onto the streets…
Could life get any worse?
Well, the answer to that was yes. Amber could officially quit, I could get shot at by the Mercs, and I could die. But could life get any more unstable and confusing? That, I wasn’t sure about.
I could have used another thirty drinks or so to calm myself. Just… anything to deal with the fucking night—
A window shattered. I suddenly turned right and saw a brick had flown through. I hurried behind the bar to grab a gun, but before I leaned down, bullets fired. I quickly took cover, but was still mortified that I was a lone defendant against a probable army of criminals—or, really, an army of Mercs.
Because in Green Hills, whatever petty criminals existed, they sure as shit weren’t stupid enough to fuck
with us.
Only about a half-dozen shots fired off, but they were fucking terrifying. I had no backup, and no safety for at least ten minutes before the rest of the Saints would have shown up. I let about two minutes of silence pass by as I attempted to calm myself before I turned the corner.
I didn’t see anyone on the other side. No one had broken in, although bullet holes marred the windows and the wood. I crawled on the ground, military-style, moving toward the window, positioning myself for a clear shot.
But when I got there, there wasn’t anything to see.
“Motherfuckers,” I growled. “Motherfuckers!”
I thought of running into the street, taking matters into my own hands, and adding a few murders to my rap sheet. The fuck did it matter at this point?
Instead, I turned to see the brick had a note attached to it. I tore it trying to take it off the brick, but what was written was still abundantly clear.
“You killed our leader. Now we kill all of you. This is step one. -Devil’s Mercs.”
If not for the fact that I wanted Trace and the rest of the Saints to see what was in my hands, I would have torn that fucking paper to shreds, lit it on fire, and then pissed on it for good measure. Instead, I took my gun to the couch, laid down, and did my best to go to sleep.
I think eventually I passed out, but all I know is that when I finally did, the sun was starting to rise.
* * *
I was awoken by a familiar voice, which, thank God, because if not, that gun would have been fired instinctively.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Trace said as I opened my eyes.
I looked over to see that the door behind him had not yet even closed. He was the first one in besides me; I had left the place exactly as I had gone to bed last night.
“I wanted you to see what the fuck the DMs did last night,” I said, rising from my sleep. “I wanted you to realize that they are going to come after us, and if we don’t do something…”
“Splitter,” Trace said. “Leave it to me to figure it out, OK?”