by Freya Barker
Seconds
Freya Barker
Contents
Letter to the Reader
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
The Salvation Society
Acknowledgments
Books by Freya Baker
About the Author
This book was inspired by the Salvation Series written by Corinne Michaels. It is an original work that is published through The Salvation Society.
Copyright © 2020 Freya Barker
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in used critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses as permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, mentioning in the subject line: “Reproduction Request”
at [email protected]
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, any event, occurrence, or incident is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created and thought up from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Editing:
Karen Hrdlicka
Proofing:
Joanne Thompson
Letter to the Reader
Hey all!
Just a few words from me!
First of all, thank you so much for your interest in SECONDS.
As a big fan of Corinne Michaels writings, I’m thrilled to be part of the Salvation Society world!
When I first put pen to paper I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. What was only supposed to be a one-time thing, turned into a passion I’m far from done with after six years and 38 books.
Writing is therapy for me, and through my stories I hope to share a little of what it has given me: HOPE.
My dream is for my readers to find that same ‘hope’ in my words. Not just for love and romance, but for a good, happy, satisfying life, regardless of current circumstances. To show through my characters that despite roadblocks thrown in our path—with an open mind—we can learn to see and move beyond our limitations. That we can stand strong in the face of adversity, and sometimes as a result of it.
Believe in yourself—in your worth.
I hope you enjoy my stories, and I hope you’re able to take something away from them.
Happy reading!
xox
Freya
Chapter One
Reagan
“Objection!”
I glance over at the prosecutor’s desk where my ex-husband jumps to his feet, red-faced.
“What now, Mr. Tory?” the judge, who appears to be running thin on patience, barks.
“Irrelevant, Your Honor. The victim isn’t on trial here.”
I duck my head to hide my smile, even as I get to my feet as well. I was waiting for his objection when I started questioning my witness about his connection with the victim. It would appear Neil is finally cluing in to my purpose for calling William Cirillo.
“Ms. Cole? Relevance?”
“Yes, Your Honor. It has been my client’s testimony from the start; it was Mrs. Winters’ own action at the root of the unfortunate accident that ultimately took her life. A claim dismissed by prosecution, touting Sheila Winters’ near saint-like reputation ad nauseam. Since Mr. Tory continues to bring up Mrs. Winters’ exemplary character, I’m merely trying to establish a more realistic picture.”
According to Sean Davies, this wasn’t the first time he’d picked up Sheila at the Red Lion on Godwin Boulevard. The pub is close to the highway and a popular stop for truckers and travelers, right down the road from a couple of economy motels.
That’s where they’d been heading, my client and the victim, when he lost control of the wheel, hit the ditch, and his van rolled several times before coming to rest against a tree. Sheila, who hadn’t been wearing a seat belt at the time because she was busy going down on my client—by his account—was ejected through the windshield and perished at the scene.
Cirillo is a regular at the Red Lion who had his own experience with the victim, which is what I was asking him about when Neil shouted his objection.
“Mr. Tory,” Judge Embury calls his attention. “Ms. Cole makes a valid point. Since you’ve opened the door to Mrs. Winters’ character, defense has a right to walk through.” He turns his gaze on me, over the rim of his reading glasses clinging desperately to the tip of his nose. “Ms. Cole, you may continue, but I suggest you get to the point.”
I do an internal fist pump before sharply nodding in confirmation.
“Of course, Your Honor.”
Ten minutes later, Judge Embury hammers his gavel on his desk to try to restore order to the courtroom, as the victim’s husband is hauled off by two burly court bailiffs. A quick glance over to the jury box shows most eyes are on the irate man, yelling and struggling against the firm hold the guards have on him. The moment the heavy oak doors shut behind them, all eyes turn front and center, where William Cirillo sits open-mouthed in the witness box.
“Ms. Cole. Any more for this witness?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Would the prosecution like to cross-examine the witness?”
“Yes,” Neil snaps, before quickly adding, “Your Honor.”
He glares at me before rounding his desk and walking up to Cirillo.
For the next forty-five minutes, he tries every trick in the book to shake William from his testimony without success. The only thing he accomplishes in his frustration is shine a spotlight on the fact the victim was a part-time hooker, who apparently enjoyed the thrill of giving head while her john was operating a moving vehicle.
He finally gives up—clearly disgusted with the witness and angry with me—and stalks back to his table. What he thought would be an easy conviction and another chance to best me, is not looking so good now.
Judge Embury dismisses the witness before calling a recess until court reconvenes on Monday for closing arguments.
“That was good, right?” Sean asks me when the judge disappears into chambers.
“That was very good,” I confirm, grinning at him.
I dive under the table for my accordion folder and start stuffing my files in when I can sense Neil looming over me.
“That’s low, even for you,” he says in a growl.
I shove my chair back and stand up before turning to him. My eyes are level with his, thanks to the six-inch heels that are killing my feet, but it’s worth it; they have the desired effect. Neil has always been sensitive to his height, or rather, lack thereof, and I’m not above using that in my favor. Like now.
“Merely doing my job,” I reply calmly.
“You just destroyed a good woman’s reputation.”
That stills my hands. He’s trying to get under my skin and knows me well enough to be effective.
“I’m not the one with a propensity for fairy tales, Neil. I deal in facts.”
“Don’t work too late.”
I look up t
o find Sally standing in front of my desk, her coat on, and her purse slung over her shoulder. Beyond her I notice at some point night has fallen outside while I’ve been slaving over my closing argument.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was this late.” I have a tendency to lose myself in what I’m doing and block out the rest of the world.
“Not to worry,” she assures me. “Matt is at a sleepover and I didn’t have any plans.” Matt is her ten-year-old son and the only man in her life. “Nothing but half a bottle of wine and leftover pizza waiting for me tonight.”
I stretch my arms over my head and lean back in my chair to loosen the tension in my muscles.
“God, that sounds good. Go home. I won’t be far behind you, I’m almost finished here.”
“Want me to come in a little early Monday so you can practice on me?” She indicates the yellow legal pad I’ve been scribbling on for the past hours.
“No need. I won’t have to be in court until ten, so just come in at eight. That should give us enough time.”
“Sure thing. Have a good weekend.”
“You too.”
She slips out the door and I watch her through the large window as she makes her way across the parking lot to her car.
I’m not surprised she stayed. Sally is one of the most loyal people I know. She’s been my legal assistant for five years and when I left Thatcher, Cleaver, and Associates six months ago, followed me without question. She simply turned in her resignation right after I handed in mine and asked me where we were going next. For months that meant her showing up at my place at eight in the morning, setting up shop in my dining room, until we finally found this small office.
Technically it was my brother, Jackson, who had found it for me. It’s a serious step down from my seventeenth floor office with a view of downtown in Norfolk, but the old real estate office in a nondescript one-story building on the edge of town is all mine. Well, at least for the remainder of my two-year lease.
McGregor Bail Bonds owns the building and occupies the office beside mine. I’d been hesitant at first, but the close proximity has already been mutually profitable. They’ve bounced a few clients my way and I’ve handed out their number more than once as well. It’s turned out to be a surprisingly symbiotic relationship.
I’ve only really had contact with Pooja, their office manager, but I know that aside from the owner, they have three bondsmen working there. I’ve seen a couple of guys go in and out of the office at times, but haven’t had the pleasure.
When I no longer can ignore the gnawing in my stomach, I pack up my notes and laptop, and shrug into my coat. Whatever needs to be tweaked I can do at home; not like I have big plans anyway. Flicking off lights, I palm my keys and step outside, locking the door behind me before turning toward the parking lot.
And slam face first into a large solid wall.
The deep grunt and large hand landing on my shoulder kick my instincts into high gear. I immediately take a step back and haul up my knee.
Cal
“Christ, woman,” I grumble, barely managing to twist enough to have her solid knee land in my thigh muscle instead of where it was aimed.
But the next moment I’m jabbed in my lower ribs and I take a fast step back, letting go of her shoulder. Looking down, I see her fisted hand—keys poking out from between her fingers—coming at me again, and I quickly grab hold of her wrist. She’s clearly had some self-defense training.
“Let go!” she yells, her eyes widening when she finally looks up at me.
Fuck. I’m well aware my appearance won’t help this situation, since I haven’t trimmed my hair—both on my head and on my face—since I left on a skip a month ago.
“Name’s Callum McGregor,” I quickly inform her when she opens her mouth again, I presume to scream bloody murder. It snaps shut. I carefully let go of her wrist, holding my hands up in case she decides to swing at me again. “I’m getting some identification out of my pocket.”
I realize I have her at a disadvantage—blocked in the small alcove housing the entrance to each of our offices—so I quickly pull my driver’s license from my wallet and hand it to her.
Her relief is immediate when she scans my information and hands it back. Then she tilts her head to the side as she takes me in.
“You need a haircut.”
I’m not sure whether to laugh or be offended at the random observation of a woman I don’t even know. A woman I, admittedly, observed through the window with some interest as she shut down the office earlier. Jackson Cole’s baby sister is well put-together, to put it mildly, and watching her isn’t exactly a hardship. I’m not quite sure what to make of her directness, but I opt to let go of the chuckle I’ve been trying to hold. A good call, as it turns out, because her mouth quirks up on one end in a sardonic smirk.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, sticking out her hand, which I easily swallow in mine. “That was rude. Blame it on nerves. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Reagan Cole.”
“Likewise, and I should be the one to apologize; I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.”
I don’t notice I’ve been hanging onto her hand—which fits quite comfortably, folded in mine—until she pulls it back.
“I wasn’t paying attention,” she counters. “It’s been a long day and I was distracted trying to decide what to feed myself.”
As illustration, her stomach emits a loud rumble. Her eyes widen as she slaps both hands against her midsection.
I stifle the urge to invite her to Joe’s, where I’d intended to go for Mexican after dropping off my files. It’s all I could think of these past few days on the road, and sharing a meal with a beautiful woman would be a bonus, but Reagan isn’t just any woman. She’s Jackson’s kid sister, and I seem to recall there being a rule about not lusting after a buddy’s sister. I’m definitely lusting.
Instead of giving in to my urge, I take a step back and shove down my interest as I look into her hazel eyes.
“Don’t let me keep you. I should get in and finish up my paperwork. Nice meeting you.”
“You too.”
Determined not to let those pretty eyes or that silky voice tempt me, I turn away and let myself into the office.
Despite being bone-tired, I flick on the lights and make my way to my desk. Might as well get my notes typed up for Pooja to process on Monday and get this entire frustrating file over with. At least for now.
It’s my own damn fault; I should never have taken her case when she called me from jail six months ago. Krista Hardee, spoiled daughter of real estate mogul Oliver Hardee, and the woman I made the mistake of dating briefly three years ago. It hadn’t taken me long to find out she was more trouble than she was worth, which was evidenced by the length of time it took me to scrape her off.
Six months ago, she’d been charged on drug trafficking charges—wrongly, she claims—and she wanted me to bond her out. It seemed like a pretty safe bet, given her father’s substantial roots in the region. I frankly never considered she might jump bail.
Boy, was I wrong.
Took me a month to track her damn ass down to South Padre Island near Port Isabel, Texas. Took me another two and a half days hauling her back up here in my truck, with two decidedly unpleasant motel stays.
Fuck, was she a pain in the ass. Fought like a cat too, every chance she got. Even when I delivered her to the jail tonight, she managed to leave a mark on me.
I slip the paperwork in the folder, staple my notes to the cover for Pooja, and drop the file on her desk for Monday. For a moment, I consider going through the messages she left on my desk, but decide they’ll have to wait as well.
Instead of Joe’s—I might be asleep before my food is served—I end up hitting a drive-thru for a greasy burger I wolf down on my way home. After a quick shower, I throw my duffel and dirty clothes in the laundry room to deal with later, and roll into bed.
Yet instead of falling asleep right away, I lie awake for a while mulling over the case, but the
last thing on my mind before I finally drift off is a pair of gorgeous hazel eyes.
Fuck.
Chapter Two
Reagan
I’m wearing a big smile when I walk into the office.
“I knew you had it in the bag,” Sally says, reading my expression correctly as she gets up from behind her desk. She throws her arms around me for a hug. “You nailed the bastard.”
“You mean I won the case for my client,” I correct her, but grin when I catch her rolling her eyes. I walk over to my desk to dump the heavy file. Sally passes on her way to the small galley kitchen in the back and returns moments later with a cake box. “Tell me that’s red velvet?”
“What else?” she fires back, as she slides it on my desk before returning to the kitchen for plates and forks.
I open the familiar black and pink box from Sweet Confections on North Main. My favorite bakery and enemy to my hips. I quickly swipe through the whipped cream cheese frosting with an index finger I quickly pop in my mouth. “Oh my God,” I hum around my digit, the flavor exploding on my tongue.
“You’re lucky you need that finger to sign my checks,” Sally grumbles, waving the chef’s knife in my face before cutting a pair of decadently sized slices.
“How did you know?”
“I didn’t,” she admits, shrugging. “But I figured it would also serve to soothe a negative outcome had that been the case.”