Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Whitney Gracia Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover designed by Najla Qambers of Najla Qambers Designs
http://najlaqamberdesigns.com/
Formatting by Erik Gevers
Table of Contents
Titlepage
Copyright
Note for Nook users
Denial (n): from Reasonable Doubt 2
Titlepage again
Dedication
Prologue
Testimony (n.):
Emotional Distress (n.):
Malfeasance (n.):
Impasse (n.):
Foreseeable Risk (n.):
Overrule (v.):
Months later…
Rebuttal (n.):
Remedy (n.):
Stay (n.):
Harass (v.):
A Priori Assumption (n.):
Omission (n.):
Suppression of Evidence (n.):
Swear (v.):
Reasonable Doubt (n.):
Condone (v.):
Adjourn (v.):
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Note from the author
for Nook users.
Dear Nook readers,
It seems that some readers who bought “Reasonable Doubt, Volume Two” from Barnes & Noble have been missing a chapter called “Denial (n):” from their Nook reader.
While I have no idea how this could have happened I apologize for this omission. Let me give you readers that missing chapter here.
Whitney G.
Denial (n.):
A statement in the defendant’s answer to a complaint in a lawsuit that an allegation (claim of fact) is not true.
A few days later…
Andrew
I was officially out of my damn mind.
I was in my bathtub, and Aubrey was sitting on top of me—panting as she came down from another orgasm.
She was spending the night at my condo for the third time this week, and it was pointless to even pretend like I minded.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but she’d definitely gotten to me. She was infiltrating my every thought, and no matter what I did to try and come back to my senses—to remind myself that this could only be temporary, she slipped deeper into my life.
“Why are you so quiet tonight?” she asked.
“I’m not allowed to think?”
“Not when a naked woman is in your lap.”
“I was giving her a chance to relax.” I slid my hands underneath her thighs. “What unnecessary bullshit do you want to talk about today?”
“It’s not unnecessary,” she said. “It’s about your family.”
“What about my family?”
“Are they still in New York?”
I prevented myself from clenching my jaw. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” She raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t know? Are you estranged from them?”
“No…” I sighed. “I just don’t have any parents.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Then why do I remember you telling me a story about your mom the first month that we met?”
“What story?”
“The story about Central Park and ice cream.” She looked into my eyes, as if she were expecting me to say something. “You said she took you to some children’s fair, I think? It was something that happened every Saturday. But the one you remembered most happened when it was raining and she still took you, and you stood in line for an hour just to get a scoop of vanilla.”
I blinked.
“Is that story not right? Am I mixing it up with something else?”
“No,” I said. “That’s right…But I haven’t seen her since.”
“Oh…” She looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I trailed a finger across her lips. “I turned out just fine.”
“Can I ask you a few more things?”
“You have a daily question quota starting today.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do all the “E” and “H” pictures in your hallway stand for?”
I felt a sudden ache in my chest. “Nothing.”
“If you hate New York so much and you don’t like talking about your past or what you lost six years ago, why do you have so many mementos hanging on your walls?”
“Aubrey…”
“Okay, forget that question. And the Latin quote across your heart? What does it mean?”
“Lie about one thing, lie about it all.” I kissed her lips before she could ask me anything else. I was starting to wonder why she hadn’t wanted to be a damn journalist instead of a ballerina.
“It’s your turn,” she said softly. “You can ask me questions now.”
“I’d rather fuck you again.” I lifted her with me as I stood up and helped her out of the bath tub.
We both dried off and went into my bedroom. Just as I was pulling her against me, my doorbell rang.
I sighed. “Dinner’s early.” I slipped into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt and headed to the door with my credit card.
The second I opened it, I was confronted with the sight of the last person on earth I wanted to see. Ava.
“Don’t you dare fucking slam it on me this time,” she hissed. “We need to talk.”
“We don’t need to talk about shit.” I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not wanted here?’
“As many times as it’ll take you to actually believe it, which you don’t.” She scoffed. “Ask me why I came to Durham to see you, Mr. Hamilton. Appease me and I’ll finally go the hell away.”
“You’re going the hell away regardless,” I said flatly. “I really don’t give a fuck why you came here.”
“Not even if it’s to sign the divorce papers?”
“You could’ve sent that shit in the mail.” I gritted my teeth. “And since I’m sure you’re running out of loopholes for contesting it, I’m willing to wait until all your options run out. I’m sure your lawyers will drop you as soon as they find out what type of client you are.”
“All I’m asking for is ten thousand a month.”
“Go ask the man who was fucking you in our bedroom while I was at work.” I glared at her, livid. “Or better yet, ask the judge you only “fucked for a favor,” or hey, if you’re up to it, fuck my former best friend. Sleeping with him always seemed to make you feel better, right?”
“You weren’t Mr. Perfect either.”
“I never fucking cheated on you, and I never lied to you.”
Silence.
“Five thousand a month,” she said.
“Go fuck yourself, Ava.”
“You know I never give up,” she said, her eyes widened as I stepped back inside my apartment. “I always get what I want.”
“So do I.” I slammed the door in her face, feeling my heart palpitating, feeling the onset of ugly memories all over again.
Rain. New York. Heartbreak.
Complete and utter heartbreak.
Seeing Ava in person again—hearing her manipulative voice and feeling those familiar pangs in my chest, immediately made me realize that I couldn’t make the same mistake
again.
Aubrey was already asking questions, trying to dig her way into my life as much as she could—thinking that if she stayed around long enough that we would work out together. But I knew that would never happen, not after seeing Ava and knowing just how far she would go to ruin me all over again.
I was officially done with this monogamous game we’d been playing for the past couple weeks. It was quite fun—different, but since Aubrey could never be mine and I could never be hers, it was quite fucking pointless, too.
I headed back into my bedroom and saw Aubrey smiling as she settled into the bed.
“Where’s the dinner?” she asked tilting her head to the side. “Did you leave it at the door?”
“No.” I shook my head and started packing up her things, stuffing them all into her purse.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“You can’t stay the night.”
“Okay…” She stood up. “Did something just happen? Do you want to talk about—”
“I don’t want to talk about anything else with you.” I hissed. “I just want to take you the hell home.”
“What?” She looked confused. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you—”
“Make sure you get all of your shit out of my bathroom. You won’t be coming back here again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need to start fucking someone else.” I picked up her headband. “I think I’ve spent more than enough time with you, don’t you think?”
“Andrew…” Her face fell. “Where is all of this coming from?”
“The same place it was always coming from. You lied to me once, you’ll lie again.”
“I thought we were over that.”
“Maybe you were, but I wasn’t.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that you need to get all of your things so I can take you home, and from here on out, you are my intern and I am your boss. You will forever be Miss Everhart to me, and to you I’ll be Mr. Hamilton.”
“Andrew…”
“Mr. Fucking. Hamilton.”
She rushed over to me and snatched her things, letting a few tears escape her eyes. “Fuck you. FUCK. YOU. This is the last time you’ll ever pull this hot and cold shit on me.” She stormed out of my apartment, slamming the door behind her.
I sighed and felt an immediate pang of guilt in my chest, but I knew it was the right thing to do. It was either cut this bullshit off now, or be responsible for breaking her heart later.
I stepped onto the balcony and lit a cigar—looking up at the moonless sky. Even though I felt bad for ending things so abruptly, for putting her out with no explanation, I needed to get back to who the hell I was and fast before I fucked up and put my heart on the line again…
For my BFF/ultimate beta-reader/amazing assistant/shoulder to cry on whenever I’m acting crazy/ “person” like they say on ‘Grey’s Anatomy’… Tamisha Draper. ( My books would suck without you…)
To Tiffany Neal. Thank you for being the balance. You’ll always be the perfect balance…
To Natasha Gentile…How did you become my friend? LOL
And for the F.L.Y. crew: I fucking love you more than you’ll ever know…
Prologue
Several months ago…
Andrew
It was all there in black and white, front and center, no filler.
Although the facts were skewed and The New York Times had once again neglected to post my photo, the damage to my firm—Henderson & Hart, was now done. And I knew exactly what was about to occur, step by step.
I’d seen it happen in this city too many times before.
First, the top clients who’d sworn to always stay by my side would call and say that they “suddenly” found new representation. Then the employees would file letters of resignation—knowing that having a tainted firm on their resumes would hinder their careers. Next, the investors would call—pretending to sympathize as they publicly denounced me in the media and promptly pulled all funding.
Last, and most unfortunately, I was sure to become another hotshot lawyer who ruined his career before it could even begin.
“How much longer do you think you’ll be able to get away with stalking Emma?” The private investigator I hired stepped beside me.
“She’s my fucking daughter. I’m not stalking her.”
“Five hundred feet.” He lit a cigarette. “That’s how far you’re supposed to be.”
“Are they treating her right during the week?”
He sighed and handed me a stack of photos. “Private preschool, early tap-dance lessons, and weekends at the park as you can clearly see. She’s fine.”
“Does she still cry at night?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does she still beg to see me? Does she—”
I stopped talking once Emma’s blue eyes met mine from the swings. Squealing, she jumped off her seat and ran towards me.
“Daddyyyy! Dadddyyy!” She shouted, but she was picked up before she made it any closer. She was taken away and put inside a car just as she started to cry.
Fuck…
I immediately sat up in bed, realizing that I wasn’t in New York City’s Central Park. I was in Durham, North Carolina, and I was having another nightmare.
Glancing at the clock on my wall, I saw that it was just past one o’clock. The calendar hanging directly above it only confirmed that I’d been living here for far too long.
All the research I’d done six years ago—weighing the pros and cons, checking the records of all the top firms, and scouring the make-up of women on Date-Match, was now seemingly invalid: The condo I purchased was a mere remnant of what had been advertised, there was only one firm worthy of my time, and the pool of fuck-worthy women was dwindling by the day.
Just hours ago, I’d gone on a date with a woman who told me she was a kindergarten teacher with a penchant for the color red and history books. In reality, she was twice my age, color blind, and she just wanted to “remember what some good cock felt like.”
Frustrated, I slipped out of bed and walked down the hallway—straightening the “E” and “H” frames that hung on the wall while trying not to look too hard.
I was going to need more than my usual few shots to get through tonight, and I was starting to become extremely annoyed that I hadn’t fucked someone in what felt like forever.
I poured two shots of bourbon and tossed them down back to back. Before I could pour another, my phone vibrated. An email.
Alyssa.
Subject: Performance Quality.
Dear Thoreau,
I’m sure that right now you’re in the middle of fucking yet another conquest, and are seconds away from giving her your infamous “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” line, but I was just thinking about something and HAD to email you…
If you enjoy sex as much as you claim you do, why do you only insist on one night? Why not a strictly friends with benefits relationship so you won’t have so many dry spells? (I mean, this is day thirty of “Operation: Still No Pussy” for you, correct?)
I’m actually starting to wonder if the only reason you give one night is because you already know that your performance won’t be good enough to warrant another...
Having a subpar dick isn’t the end of the world.
—Alyssa.
I shook my head and typed a response.
Subject: Re: Performance Quality.
Dear Alyssa,
Unfortunately, I am not in the middle of fucking another conquest. Instead I’m busy typing a response to your latest ridiculous email.
This is indeed day thirty of your appropriately named, “Operation: Still No Pussy,” but since I’ve fucked you over the phone and made you cum, it hasn’t been a complete failure…
I do in fact enjoy sex—my cock has an insatiable appetite for it, but I’ve told you countless times that I don’t do relationships. Ever.
I refuse to even address your last
paragraph, as I’ve never received a single complaint about my “performance” and my cock is far from being subpar.
You are quite correct in your closing statement though: Having a subpar dick really isn’t the end of the world.
Having an un-fucked pussy is.
—Thoreau.
My phone rang immediately.
“Seriously?” Alyssa blurted out when I answered. “Does your message really say what I think it says?”
“Have you suddenly forgotten how to read?”
“You are ridiculous!” She laughed. “What happened to your date tonight?”
“It was another fucking liar…”
“Aww. Poor Thoreau. I was really hoping the thirtieth day would be the charm.”
I rolled my eyes and made another drink. “Is living vicariously through my sex life your newfound hobby?”
“Of course not.” Her light laughter drifted over the line, and I could hear the sound of papers shuffling in the background. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: Where are you from?”
“What do you mean, where am I from?”
“Exactly what I asked,” she said. “You can’t be from the South. There’s no drawl or even a hint of an accent in your voice.”
I hesitated. “I’m from New York City.”
“New York?” Her voice rose an octave. “Why would you ever leave there to come to Durham?”
“It’s personal.”
“I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave New York. It seems so perfect. And there’s just something about the lights and the lives of people who stay there, how they all must have these huge dreams and…”
I tuned her out and tossed back my shot. Her poetical waxing about that desolate place needed to be put to a stop. Fast.
“And wouldn’t the law firms in New York be far more alluring than the ones here?” She was still talking. “Like, one of my favorite—”
“What’s the name of that ballet you’re auditioning for this year?” I cut her off.
“Swan Lake.” She always dropped the subject if I said anything about ballet. “Why?”
“Just wondering. When is the audition?”
“A few months from now. I’m trying as hard as I can to balance my classes—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I’m trying really hard to balance my case loads with my practice time.”
Reasonable Doubt 3 Page 1