Don't Walk Away: A Second Chance Fake Fiance Romance

by Eva Luxe

  I try not to grimace as I recoil at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.

  But the prisoner’s question is valid, and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.

  What am I doing here?

  I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer. Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty jail instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.

  I was finally able to talk to Charles a little bit after my evaluation with his dad, and he hadn't bothered to mention anything to me about his form of "entertaining" the clients, or his whereabouts on the night that we were supposed to have our date.

  I hadn't had the energy to get into any of that with him. Instead, I'd told him that his dad and the other partners want me to volunteer for a military organization and that I'd found this one.

  "The VLA? They deal with, like, criminals," Charles had said, grimacing. "At like, the jail."

  Clearly Charles didn't think I should be volunteering here, but he doesn’t understand what’s at stake if I don’t.

  “Ms. Morrell, keep following me, this way please,” says Tim McDonald— or is it O’Donald?— as he leads me through the prison complex I’ve never before entered. “We’re almost there.”

  He must know that I’m strongly considering turning around and leaving. Maybe Charles was right— I don’t need to go to these lengths to impress the firm.

  There has to be something I can do that satisfies the firm's military pro bono requirements and that doesn’t involve trips to the local jail where I’m accosted by lecherous inmates. But ever since my latest performance evaluation at the firm, Jack Holt’s words have been ringing in my memory.

  I need to fit in at the firm. I need to do whatever it takes.

  It's no wonder Charles doesn’t understand. He was born to "fit in" at his father's firm, whereas I have to go to great lengths to earn that privilege.

  When I began calling around to military legal service organizations where I could volunteer so that I could be a better “fit” for the firm, the Veterans’ Legal Alliance was the only one that responded immediately. So, I jumped on the opportunity to obtain a pro bono gig as quickly as possible.

  Tim had explained to me that the VLA organization provides all types of legal services and representation to military veterans, and that usually means representing them in criminal trials. It’s a totally different world than I’m used to, since my work at the firm involves representing large corporations in civil litigation matters in which they’re fighting over money or partnership agreements. But I’m open to anything that will help me become partner at the firm.

  Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. A handful of inmates stand around speaking in hushed tones to each other, while others sit quietly by themselves.

  “These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim explains.

  He sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.

  One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.

  His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off a Día de los Muertos/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.

  The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.

  What in the world was that? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity courses through my veins. I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type.

  I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos. Except for those celebrity guys I just thought about why trying to make myself come. But that doesn't count. That's not real life.

  In real life I'm in a relationship, I remind myself, as an afterthought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at the stranger’s thick brown hair, shining brown eyes, and constantly flexed muscles.

  I am going to have to try hard to tear my thoughts away from him and keep them focused on this new volunteer job.

  What have I gotten myself into? I wonder, on many different levels.

  I look at the inmate again and then back at Tim, who is eager to explain the new gig to me.

  I guess I'm about to find out.

  Chapter 6 – Riley

  “It’s amazing how many military personnel are arrested while serving or shortly thereafter,” Tim explains, handing me a thick binder full of information.

  Veterans’ Legal Alliance, Inc., it reads on the front cover, and then: How to represent a service member or veteran charged with a crime in state criminal court.

  “I’m not really knowledgeable about…” I begin, but Tim holds up his hand and smiles kindly at me.

  “We know you don’t have criminal law experience,” he says, easing my fears. “But since you routinely handle complex commercial litigation and white collar crime- type fraud suits between business partners and the like, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly.”

  I look at him skeptically, hoping he’s right.

  “These kinds of cases are more difficult in some ways but the basic procedures will be a cakewalk for you,” Tim continues. “And we are here to train you and provide you with all the support and resources you need.”

  “‘We’ being…?” I ask, looking around the room and noting the lack of any other lawyers.

  I suddenly feel a presence immediately behind my right shoulder and jump, realizing that Mr. Not My Type is standing directly behind me. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. I feel goosebumps spring up all over my body, and it’s not because I’m afraid, or cold.

  “Myself, as director of the organization,” Tim continues, “and all other staff and attorneys. I must admit we run a slim ship, which is due to the lack of willing personnel, but those who are available to help are incredibly passionate and talented at what they do.”

  “I see,” I say, trying not to blush and hoping that Mr. Not My Type can’t tell what an inexplicably powerful effect his presence has on me.

  The inmate clears his throat and says, “Mr. McDonald?” in a polite yet bold tone of voice.

  I can literally feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck, as if he had whispered his question right there in public, in one of my most intimate spots.

  “Yes, Jensen?” Tim responds, with a smile. “Call me Tim. And this is Riley Morrell. She might be volunteering temporarily with our organization. Riley, this is Jensen Bradford.”

  “Hello, Riley,” says Jensen, extending a well-built forearm in my direction.

  There’s something about the way he says my name that sounds so foreign and new, as if I’ve never been called it before in my life.

  “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I say, reaching out to meet his grasp.

  He shakes my hand like a lumberjack and I wonder how tall he is. Definitely quite tall. But his eyes remain focused on Tim’s.

  “Mr. McDonald,” he continues, dropping my hand and leaving it to feel suddenly completely empty. “I’m wondering if Dylan is here? He said he’d talk to me about my arraignment hearing before it starts, and that’s relatively soon.”

  “I believe he was held over in court,” Tim answers. “He has a busy docket today. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  “All right, thank you sir,” Jensen says. “I’m glad to hear it because I�
��d really like to talk to him.”

  He returns to the table on the far side of the room without so much as glancing back at me, and I feel slighted, even though I have no idea why I want this prisoner to talk to me, as eloquent and polite of a prisoner as he may be.

  Sure, he’s tall, athletic, muscular, and gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should have an instant crush on him, I remind myself.

  I’m in a relationship, even if that fact is so easy to forget these days. After protesting against my choice of pro bono work, Charles didn’t even bat an eye this morning when I told him I was leaving the office and wasn’t sure when I’d be back. Although he had been against me going to the jail in theory, once I’d told him I was going, he seemed not to care one bit.

  In fact, I don’t know if he even heard me, even though I’d repeated myself. I have to admit that ours has always been a relationship built on politics and convenience more so than on passion or romance, but lately Charles has become more distant than ever.

  I try to focus on Tim’s explanation of the process for representing veterans. But I can’t help sneaking glances at Jensen.

  A few times, he meets my gaze and stares back at me unabashedly. It’s enough to cause my heart to race just as fast as when I’m delivering a closing argument in trial.

  “Many of our veterans aren’t used to life after the military,” Tim explains. “They’ve been taught different ways of handling conflict than are acceptable in or expected by the rest of society. Sometimes they experience flashbacks or fight-or-flight reactions due to PTSD, either already diagnosed or as yet undiscovered.”

  “I see,” I say, nodding my head but wondering how I can represent clients that Tim describes as seeming unpredictable if not dangerous.

  I’m really not sure this pro bono gig is for me. I guess Charles will be happy to hear that, if he’s listening when I tell him.

  “Much of our work involves educating the judge on the effects of war and the symptoms of PTSD,” Tim continues. “It’s our most common defense and applies to most situations.”

  “I see,” I say again, distracted as Jensen— all six feet six inches of him, if I had to guess— stands up and nods towards the doorway.

  Someone— I’m assuming the lawyer named Dylan— approaches and shakes his hand. Then they head over to a small lawyer/ client meeting room.

  Just before heading into the room, Jensen turns around and winks at me. And I feel like a Disney princess starring on Broadway.

  What the hell has gotten into you? I scold myself. You meet a prisoner and you’re suddenly swooning and turning into some air head? Straighten up! Be professional.

  “Ms. Morrell?” Tim asks me, his eyebrows furrowed together in concern. “Is your silence an indication that you have to think about it?”

  I can only assume he must have asked me if I was ready to sign on as a pro bono lawyer volunteering for the VLA, and I missed the question because I was swooning. I clear my throat and open my mouth, ready to tell him that I’m not sure. It doesn’t really seem like the place for me.

  Then I remind myself that I need the relevant military representation experience to satisfy my firm, and so far, no other military organization has even returned my call. And maybe I might get to see Jensen again, even though he already has Dylan as the lawyer assigned to his case. And even though I shouldn’t even be wishing for the opportunity to see him again, since he’s an inmate, and I’m in a relationship.

  “Take all the time you need to think about it,” Tim continues, and I’m grateful he’s not rushing me into making a decision right away.

  “I understand that right now you just want to volunteer a few hours a week to meet your firm’s pro bono requirements," he says. "But if you find that you enjoy this type of work— which many lawyers who try it out surprisingly do— then there might be room for a new staff attorney, at least part-time, and that’s a position you could be paid for. Granted it’s not nearly as much money as you’re used to but it might be a bit more fulfilling than…”

  He trails off, obviously not wanting to offend me, but I know where he was heading. More fulfilling than representing rich old dudes and helping them fight with other rich old dudes about who screwed over whom financially? I want to say.

  Instead, I just smile at him, because he’s a nice guy, although a bit misguided. He looks like a hippie from California or Vermont. He clearly got into the legal field due to a desire to help carry out social justice.

  He doesn’t have fire-breathing dragons for parents, always standing over his shoulder harping at him about his career choices and salary and opportunities for professional advancement. And he must not need the money that my cushy law firm job provides.

  He can afford to follow his dreams. Heck, he can afford to have dreams.

  “I’ll think about it, Mr. McDonald,” I say, standing up to shake his hand. “I do appreciate you meeting with me today.”

  “I need to speak with a few of the men here now about their cases,” he says. “But I’ve arranged for a guard to escort you out.”

  I start to think about how crazy it is that I’m in a place where I need a guard to escort me out. But as I begin to make my way back towards life as I know it, I can’t help having a little bit of a fantasy of being locked in with Jensen.

  Since he’s in this place, he probably has a checkered past and a dark soul. I bet he’d know how to rough me up in ways that Charles has never thought of. And I bet I’d enjoy every second of the new and different experience.

  Too bad my current circumstances are so set in stone. Because in a different life, I’d love to take a walk on the wild side with the handsome, troubled inmate named Jensen Bradford.

  Chapter 7 – Jensen

  What am I doing here?

  That was my first question upon my arrival to jail, and it still plays over and over again in my head.

  I can’t believe I’m in fucking jail over some stupid fist fight. I’ve had so many in the past, but I’ve never been ratted out by my opponent like the loser who just ratted me out.

  Then again, I’ve never fought such a loser. And the fight certainly wasn’t voluntary.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a Bradford, and we’re known for causing trouble. There were things I did in high school that were less than okay, and even more things I did while in the SEALs that have skirted the line of “appropriate military personnel behavior,” but luckily, I’ve always gotten away with them.

  I’ll add this experience to my long list of WTF moments, and I shouldn’t be surprised that my actions have finally caught up with me.

  It makes no difference though. I would gladly beat up the bastard all over again if given the chance, no matter the punishment, even though he’s the reason I ended up in jail. I just hope this doesn’t affect my career too negatively.

  On that note, I glance around, wondering where Dylan is. He’s my lawyer from the Veterans’ Legal Alliance, and I’m waiting in the holding area for him to finally show up. My arraignment and bond hearing are quickly approaching, and this fucking dude is nowhere to be found.

  I sigh, trying to hide my disgust that my lawyer is MIA. But then I see that Tim McDonald, the director of the organization, is here, and I have hope that he’ll know where Dylan is. He seems to be the only guy in this place who has a clue about what’s going on.

  And then I notice the chick sitting across from him at the table. When I say notice, I mean that it would be impossible to miss her. She’s all decked out in a fancy suit, her hair meticulously curled into blonde waves that cascade down her shoulders.

  Damn. Blondes are my type. And I love long hair. I just want to reach out and grab it, and not in a friendly way either. In a “let me show you who’s boss” type of way.

  And that ass. I can see part of it from this angle and it’s full and curvy, just like I like them. My cock needs your curvy ass, I want to tell her.

  But that’s ridiculous. I’m in jail, and she’s likely in the lega
l field, since she’s meeting with Tim and since she’s dressed like she’s auditioning for an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

  Besides, even if she weren’t completely fucking out of my league, she’s not my type. I mean, yeah, sure, her looks are my type— I’d hit that in a second, and then throw her out of bed and never talk to her again— but her personality clearly isn’t.

  I’m into laid-back girls that I can easily talk to, and do a lot of other things with as well. Such as share a beer with them. Or maybe even some whiskey. Or, hell, have a threesome with them.

  And this chick looks like the total opposite of all of that. Stuck-up and snobby, with a stick up her ass and something to prove all the time, to somebody, for some reason. I know the type, and I stay away from them.

  But still. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  Out of nowhere she surveys the room and locks eyes with me. She has beautiful eyes, like she just got off a plane from some Nordic country as ice cold and steely blue as those eyes of hers.

  I look back and hold her gaze. Of course, I do. I’m no pussy, and even though I wouldn’t date her, that doesn’t mean I won’t try to fuck her. I don’t “date” anyone, anyway.

  She looks like the type with a boring boyfriend or husband at home, but I don’t care. I don’t want a relationship, just some hot sex.

  She’s probably never had hot sex but there’s always a first time for everything. Just like me winding up in jail for some stupid fight no different than the ones I’ve gotten into since I was a boy, without such humiliating repercussions.

  No one knows what the future holds. I'm sure I’m not her type, either. I doubt she’d date me. But I bet I can get her to fuck me.

  I want to bend her over and pull her hair while I do it. I bet I could have her moaning and yelling out my name all night long. As soon as I'm sprung from this joint.

  I decide to make a move. I’ve never been known for my patience.