Indiscretion: A Standalone Forbidden Romance

by Lane Hart

  I head for the lobby of the big, fancy law office to wait for my dad to finish up in his meeting. Sitting down, I pull out my phone to type a list of all the shit the uptight, elitist bitch lawyer asked me to bring her. Her disgust and instant judgment had pissed me off, but I have to admit, she does seem to be really damn smart. And she's hot as fuck.

  With her long, lean legs and light blonde hair pulled back in a neat little bun, she looks like a Playboy pinup or a Victoria's Secret model dressed up to do a naughty attorney photo-shoot. In my fantasy of her as a centerfold, she'd be unbuttoning the professional suit jacket to reveal thin pieces of black lace that barely cover her perfect tits.

  Okay, so maybe I'm a little horny after going four days without getting laid. That had to be a record for me. While I was locked up, it was hard to think about fucking when I feared for my life every goddamn second.

  I'd thought the local jail was bad until they threw me in general population in Atlantic City. Both smelled like dirty, sweaty men, shit, and piss, but in AC the floors of the crowded cell actually contained dirt, piss, and shit. There were only two bunks for four dudes, so the unlucky two of us won the lottery to receive roll out mats. I leaned against the wall last night rather than risk floating away in the river of filth. Also, I didn't want to close my eyes and get attacked or shanked. The crackhead trapped in the cell with us couldn't stop scratching himself or fidgeting. He said all kinds of delusional shit, like the cops hid cameras in his apartment, and he knew for a fact that one of us had snitched on him. After that, he alternated staring at me and our other two cellmates with his unblinking crazy-eyes and a goofy-ass smile that had me convinced that he'd kill us in our sleep just for shits and giggles.

  Thank God I was only in AC for one night. I never want to see the inside of that type of cage again in any district. I'll probably have nightmares from the trauma of the last four days.

  I'm a badass motherfucker, spending the last seventeen years training to fight. It's not that I'm worried about taking on any of the punks in there, or even three or four of them at a time. But the feeling of suffocating because it was so goddamn hot, with the air rank and stale in such a small box? That's some scary shit.

  I swear there was a lack of oxygen, and more carbon dioxide than can possibly be healthy in that bitch. I'll probably have to sleep with all my doors and windows open with the air conditioning on full blast for the next few weeks.

  So despite how much this whole situation sucks, I'll do whatever it takes to avoid going back to that hell hole. I’ll even follow the orders of the blonde, bitchy lawyer.

  Finally, after what seems like forever, my dad and the father of the prude ice princess come out of one of the offices.

  I hate seeing my dad so upset, and I'm still not sure if he and Jude believe I'm innocent or not. They both know my battle with rage better than most. The anger I've been struggling with since I was ten years old, beating and bloodying anyone and everyone who said a wrong word to me. That's the reason I got into legitimate fighting in the first place. The classes were a bribe to motivate me to stop getting suspended from school. So it's probably not a stretch for them to think I'd do this type of thing.

  As a newly single father raising us on one income, my dad scraped up money we didn't have in order to give me some type of outlet to constantly grapple with my demons. And Jude, well, he's taken the most punishment over the years. The fucked up part is he always kept coming back for more, no matter how many times I knocked him down or out.

  I'd like to think that in some way I've been helping Jude get his fighting career to where mine is today or more like where it was a week ago. But for the first few years when he started training with me, that thought never crossed my mind while I was repeatedly beating the shit out of my younger brother. I'm not sure which is worse; being angry at him or feeling guilty for taking my jealousy out on him.

  I can't say I'm real happy about the loss of income while this shit drags out, or the dent I just made in my bank account either. A huge chunk of my hard earned money flushed down the toilet all because some cage cunt decided it'd be fun to ruin my life.

  Before my dad posted my bond and my feet even hit the ground, Mack Miller, the President of the IFC, the International Fighting Championship, had left me a voicemail saying that my contract with him at the largest and best MMA promotion company has been put on hold until the disposition of the case. When I talked to Coach Briggs on the way here, he told me that just like the IFC, all of my sponsors have dropped me until this nightmare ends.

  I'm not worried about making ends meet, just pissed I'm throwing money away. As the reigning middleweight champion of the world for the past five years, between promotion purses and advertisers, my bank account sits comfortably with seven figures, even after this unexpected hit. I'm worried that I might not ever be able to get in the cage again, and I have to admit that the idea of ending up behind bars for the long haul is scary as fuck.

  "Jackson, did Page get your statement?" the arrogant, white-haired attorney asks. I'm pretty sure the old man's scared of me. I'm an expert at reading people's fear in and out of the cage. He avoided eye contact with me and ran out of the conference room like his ass was on fire. His daughter's got more balls than him. Even though she was practically shaking with nervousness being alone with me, she held her ground and didn't run scared.

  I stand up when they approach and nod in response before taking a few steps toward the old man to test my theory. "Yeah, pretty much."

  Retreating a step, Davenport says, "Don't worry about her inexperience or timidity. Ryan Warburton may technically be the second chair in the courtroom, but he'll be running the show behind the scenes. He's got over a hundred trials under his belt. Page will just add a nice, feminine touch for media purposes."

  Wow, so this pussy doesn't think his own daughter is capable of handling my case. He sounds like he just wants her to basically be arm candy for photo-ops. What a sexist prick. I might fuck more women than I can count, but I do know that just because someone has nice tits and a fine ass doesn't mean they can't do any job just as well as any man, maybe even better.

  "Page already has some great ideas on how to go forward and gave me a list of receipts and things to get her. She seems to really know her shit," I tell him. Why I feel defensive on her behalf, I have no fucking idea. Especially when my first thought seeing her was that she's just a snotty, spoiled, dumb blonde getting by on her daddy's coattails. I can occasionally admit when I'm wrong.

  "Right. Well, I'm sure you need to get some rest after the hellish weekend you've had. Here's my card and Ryan's. Call either of us if you need anything." Davenport hands over two business cards, not bothering to offer me his daughter's, and then after a polite handshake, he's gone.

  "So how do you feel about them?" my dad asks when we sit down in his Explorer in the parking garage.

  "Davenport is an arrogant asshole who’s terrified of me, and his daughter thinks I'm a piece of shit rapist. But she seems like she's going to actually put in the effort."

  "Don't worry about her. Miles assured me that Warburton is a top-notch defense attorney. As soon as he gets out of his murder trial in a few weeks, he'll take over your case."

  So Davenport had also convinced my dad that his daughter isn't capable of handling me. No wonder the girl comes across as such a frigid bitch if she has to deal with her own father's shit every day.

  ...

  Page

  I'm surprised the day after our first meeting when Jamie buzzes me around eleven a.m. to say Jackson Malone's up front and wants to see me. I tidy up my office so I can bring him in here and leave the door open instead of having to close us in a conference room together, then go to the lobby to get him.

  "Mr. Malone?" I ask when I get to the waiting area. He rises from the chair with a bizarre masculine fluidity I've never witnessed before. Today he's dressed even more casually, in a pair of black nylon workout pants and a white tee stretched tight over his broad che
st that says Havoc in large bold letters, with Fight Club underneath. The "V" of the word Havoc is actually a detailed bird or griffin of some sort, and it looks like his wings are spread out and flexing like a man would flex his biceps. How cute.

  I don't miss Malone's dark eyes drifting down my gray pants suit before they eventually come up and meet mine.

  "I've got all that shit you wanted," he says, holding out a stack of papers and a thumb drive that I accept.

  "Um, that was quick. Thanks."

  I slip the thumb drive into my pocket so I can flip through the pages to see what all he's rounded up. There are plane tickets, fight promotional flyers, hotel receipts, his own social media posts, and phone records with yellow highlights on a certain number, which I assume belongs to the accuser.

  "Just for future reference, don't mark on any original documents," I warn him.

  "Excuse the fuck out of me. I spent two goddamn hours going through this stack of shit, picking out her number from hundreds of other calls, trying to save you some time."

  I jerk back from his hostility and fire back with my own, even though we're standing in the front lobby with onlookers. "Don't worry. I'm not hourly since you paid a flat fee, so even if it takes me hours, it won't cost you another penny."

  "I don't give a shit about the fucking money," he snarls, his black eyes fiery like liquid lava. "Despite what you instantly judged and assumed from looking at me, I actually have plenty."

  Based on the way our conversation is growing rather inflamed, I decide we both need a cooling down period, but I still can't help taking another shot at him.

  "Why don't I give you a few minutes to extract those wadded up panties that seem to be causing you some discomfort, and when you're ready to talk to me without the attitude Jamie will show you to my office," I tell him, pointing to the cowering receptionist behind her window before turning on my heel and storming back to my office. I pretend to ignore the muttered "itch" with a capital "B" that follows me down the hall.

  That man is so freaking infuriating! Instead of going back in my office I march right on past it and don't stop until I get to the break room. I toss the papers down on the lunch table and then grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, quickly twisting off the cap.

  My brother, of course, chooses that moment to stroll in. "What's all the shouting about?" he asks before I can swallow my first sip. "You need some help?"

  I roll my eyes and let out an annoyed huff, taking my time sipping my water, so he's forced to wait in silence for my response.

  "I've got everything under control, Logie." I tack on the hated childhood nickname I gifted him and smile to myself when he winces.

  "Didn't sound like it," he says, leaning back against the countertop in front of me while crossing his arms over the front of his crisp white dress shirt. "Are you going to cry? Do you want me to take over the case for you?"

  My jaw drops and my back straightens, bristling at his insinuation. "I am perfectly capable of handling that cocky jerk all on my own, thank you very much!" I can't help the screech caused when my teeth grind against each other. "Why do you even care? You don't practice criminal law, either. You're just a weeny patent lawyer."

  He raises a light blond eyebrow at my assertion before flashing both rows of his perfect white teeth. "I'm the best damn patent lawyer in the country, beanpole. And there's an office pool running on you."

  "Are you kidding?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips. "For what exactly?"

  "A variety of things." He laughs before he begins ticking them off on his fingers. "One, for how long it'll be before he makes you cry. Another is for how long before you fuck up. When you'll actually give up and quit. Oh, and one for how long before he fires the firm because you piss him off. So yeah, I think that's all of them."

  I try really hard not to let the hurt show on my face, knowing he'll use it against me. The whole office doesn't think I can handle the angry criminal, or probably any other case, for that matter.

  "So what are the bets?" I ask. I'm going to make sure I surpass them all.

  "For crying, anywhere from today until Friday at the latest. Fucking up in the next forty-eight hours. On quitting, the bets range from today until next Monday. And on him firing us, well, we all give it less than a week."

  Now I'm no longer hurt, I'm angry. I work with an office full of jerks. No wonder female attorneys haven't lasted longer than a year, two at the max, in this place. The men are dicks, and the assistants are all gossiping hens…well, except for Jamie. I'm by God going to prove them all wrong, and I don't care what it takes. This jerk of a client is no different than the men I work with. I'll just have to finally show them that I'm actually tougher and smarter than I look.

  My whole life it's always been, "Oh, Page made the honor roll? Well, Logan got a perfect score on his SAT." And "Page got into Georgetown? Well, Logan was offered a full scholarship when he got accepted." I'm so freaking tired of it!

  Turning my back on my brother without another word, I pick up the stack of documents and glance through them while heading back to my office. That's when I notice the screen shot of Christina Loftis's Facebook page.

  He'd actually found it.

  I have to admit that he's done a good job gathering everything he could in less than a day's time.

  I pause in the middle of the hallway to close my eyes and replay our most recent conversation. Malone had flipped out on me after my criticism for marking on potential exhibits. There was no way he'd know that, having never done this sort of thing before now. He was probably pissed that after all the time and hard work he'd put in that the first thing I did was snap at him. Of course he got all defensive. That's what he does for a living. Okay, so now that I understand that I'll try not to be so quick to attack him again.

  My eyes are still on the paperwork in my hand when I get back to my office. I'm lowering my bottom down into my computer chair before I realize I'm not alone.

  "Ah!" I squeal, fumbling to hold on to the stack of documents.

  "About time," Malone grumbles from the chair he's currently slouching in across from my desk.

  "Geez Louise, you scared me," I say, holding the papers to my galloping heart.

  "Everything okay in here?" Mark, our federal criminal attorney, asks from my open doorway. He purses his lips like he's trying not to grin but epically fails when a snicker escapes.

  "Perfectly fine. Now run along, imp," I mutter, getting back up from my chair to go slam the door in the annoying dwarf's face. I swear the man's only a few inches taller than Peter Dinklage and tells more dirty offensive jokes than Daniel Tosh.

  "Listen," I say to Malone when I take my seat again. "There's an office pool going that I don't intend for anyone to win."

  "A pool?" he asks, slanting his thick black eyebrows together. Somehow they're actually sexy as all get out, and nothing like Bert's on Sesame Street.

  "Yeah, my lovely coworkers are betting on me. You, too, actually."

  Malone leans back in his chair, both hands behind his head with his elbows out. Can the man do anything without making it look sexy? "Really? What's the bet?" He asks.

  "How soon before you make me cry, how soon before I screw up, how soon I'll quit your case, and how soon you fire me."

  "Well damn," he mutters. "You a crier or something?"

  "No, I'm not a crier! I've never shed a tear in this office, and can’t recall the last time I shed one at all."

  Although, it was most likely when I was around ten or eleven years old. I'd found a litter of newborn kittens near the dumpster behind our Methodist Church. After my parents and I had dropped them off at a local vet because they wouldn't let me keep them, I told them I wanted to save puppies and kittens when I grew up. In response, my mom said, "No, Page. You're too smart and pretty to shovel shit for strays. You're going to marry a rich man." And my dad followed up her statement with, "Or you can go to law school just like your brother." That had been it, my only two options, end of discussion
. It was the first time I realized my life would never actually be my own if I didn't want to disappoint them. Any variation from their decree, and to them I'd be a failure. That pressure's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.

  "But all your coworkers think I'm going to make you cry?" Malone asks.

  "Yep."

  "That's pretty fucked up."

  "Tell me about it," I agree with a burst of laughter. "So, here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to cry, and I'm going to try to be nicer to you. You're going to stop yelling at me, and we're going to work together on your case so that everyone else in this building can go screw themselves. Deal?" I ask.

  He looks at me a second before he finally nods. "Deal."

  "So," I say with a deep calming breath. "You found her on Facebook?"

  "Yeah, I tracked her down from her liking my fan page. She apparently doesn't know how to make her shit private since I could see all her posts and pictures. There were several photos of me on there, before last weekend. I printed them out, along with her comments."

  "This is good stuff," I tell him honestly. I start spreading everything out into piles based on separate categories. One for receipts, one for phone records, and one for Facebook.

  I read each page before putting it in the appropriate stack, closely reviewing the victim's Facebook profile and posts for anything that might be helpful. I do a double take when I get to a picture of Jackson. My cheeks warm, looking at such a revealing photo while actually sitting in front of the man.

  The black and white photo is...breathtaking. Every single line of his smooth, sculpted chest, arms, stomach and… legs are clearly shown. Feet shoulder width apart, only his two hands cupping himself block his privates from the camera. His head is hung, chin to his chest like there's an enormous invisible weight on his lethal shoulders.

  Under the photo is a comment by Christina Loftis, "Even yummier in person and tastes divine."