by Lane Hart
As soon as we arrive in Atlantic City, I take Page to the courthouse and wait for her in the car while she goes inside to file shit and talk to the prosecutor. I don't care anything for stepping foot into that terrifying place until I have to. When she returns, she's smiling triumphantly with a manila folder in her hand.
"Good news," she says, fastening her seatbelt. "I talked to the District Attorney Franklin, who seems like a decent guy. He went ahead and gave me a copy of the discovery."
"What's discovery?" I ask.
"The evidence. Mostly police reports, the victim's statement… that sort of thing."
"About that. You keep saying, 'the victim', but she's not a fucking victim," I point out in aggravation. Every time I hear that word I want to hit someone.
Page's expression blanks and she finally nods. "Sorry, does 'alleged victim' sound better?"
"Can't we just call her ‘the bitch’? Or cunt? Whore. Slut. Any of those would work," I tell her. Her soft laughter hits me in the chest harder than a battering ram. I rub my palm over the strange, unfamiliar ache.
"Fine, we'll call her ‘the bitch,'" she agrees, even though I can tell she has to force the profanity from her prim and proper lips.
"Good. So what did the bitch say?" I ask as I pull out of the courthouse parking lot and head to the hotel a few blocks over.
"I've only skimmed through it," she says, pulling out the three-inch stack of documents. "You drive, and I'll read, then we can go through everything together when we get to the room." The room, where the alleged rape and strangulation occurred.
I hear Page shuffling through the papers while I drive. "Oh no," she says solemnly when we come to a stop under the hotel's canopy.
"What?" I ask.
She shows me a close-up photo of a woman's neck. Not just any neck, but one with black bruises resembling fingertips on the side.
Fuck!
"I didn’t do that shit!" I tell her.
"Are you sure? Could you…could you have been a little rough with her…during—"
"Fuck no! I might like it rough, but I'd remember putting my hands around a woman's neck. I wasn't even rough with her at all that night. My hands never once touched her neck when she was on top, fucking me. All I touched were her hips. And maybe her tit…breasts."
"This is not good," Page mutters, continuing to thumb through more photos that I can't make out.
I jump out of the car, give the valet my keys, and take the offered ticket. I open Page's door since she's still immersed in her reading.
"Come on," I tell her. "Let's go somewhere, so I can read that shit, too."
She finally climbs out with her bag and handful of documents. After we stop by the front desk and give the security manager a subpoena for the surveillance video, he goes to check on making a copy for us while the front desk clerk gives us a key to the same room I'd stayed in less than two weeks ago.
The oceanfront king suite on the eleventh floor looks just like I remember. I stand in the kitchen out of the way while Page takes a few pictures with her phone.
When she sits down on the red leather couch across from the bed, I sit beside her, so we can both see what all they've given her at the courthouse. I don't understand some of the shit I scan as she passes the sheets to me, but then we get to the reports.
"She said you tore her blouse and shoved her onto the bed before forcing her to perform oral sex…"
I bark out a laugh. "How do you force a woman to suck a dick? Because I can tell you right now, my dick's not going anywhere near the teeth of an unwilling participant."
Page's cheeks redden, apparently offended by my crassness. Too bad, she needs to get used to dealing with this sort of shit before trial.
"That is sort of a preposterous accusation," she admits.
"You think? And I didn't tear her shirt. She was wearing a button down and yanked it open herself."
"She doesn't say anything about you removing her skirt or panties."
"Because she wasn't wearing any. Panties that is."
"Oh-kay. Let's see. Then she ends by saying you grabbed her by her throat to hold her down before penetrating her vaginally, so rough that it caused tearing..."
"If she tore something that's her own damn fault for riding my dick five seconds after walking through the door."
"Uh-oh. You said you used a condom right?" she asks.
"I did use a condom. I always use condoms."
"Well, this lab report from the rape kit shows that semen matching the DNA sample you gave them was found inside her vagina. The exam nurse gave her Plan B, to prevent the chance of pregnancy."
"No! No fucking way!" I say, jumping to my feet. "That is bullshit! I used a condom. I came in the goddamn condom!"
"Maybe…maybe it leaked," Page offers softly.
"Trojans don't leak!"
"Calm down and stop yelling at the messenger," she says, offering me the stack of documents. "Here, you take them."
I yank the reports from her hand, probably harder than necessary, and sit on the bed so I can spread them out to look through them again. I re-read the lying sack of shit statement one more time, wondering how I can prove I didn't do any of the things she accuses.
"What about if I do one of those lie detecting things?" I ask Page, who's standing in front of the sliding glass doors, looking out at the ocean. She's a breathtakingly beautiful woman when she's not wrinkling her nose like an elitist bitch.
"A polygraph?" she turns around and asks.
"Yes! One of those things."
She shakes her head. "They're not admissible in court."
"Then how the hell do I prove I didn't do something?"
She blows out a breath and gnaws on her bottom lip in thought. "I might be able to get you an appointment with a retired FBI polygrapher, but it's going to cost about a grand."
"But I thought you just said they aren't admissible or whatever."
"Not as evidence in a trial, but if you pass…I could use it as leverage with the prosecutor."
"I will pass."
"Well, we can just shred the report if you don’t."
"I will pass it," I repeat, and she looks back out toward the ocean. "What? You don't think I will? You thought I was guilty this whole damn time, so will this finally prove to you that I'm innocent?"
She finally faces me again. "It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what twelve jurors believe, and I'm telling you, one look at those pictures, and you're going to get convicted."
"Your job is to make sure I don't!"
"I'm just an attorney, not a freaking miracle worker," she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
"You're really starting to piss me off," I warn her.
"Then maybe you should hire someone else to represent you," she replies, her jaw tight, face blood red, looking as angry as I am at the moment. "Because if you get convicted, I don't want you blaming me for the fact that you were too stupid to take a plea!"
"You are such a stuck-up bitch, you know that?"
She scoffs at the insult. "Well, you're an arrogant, rude, overcompensating…" she sputters.
"Yeah, so what? That doesn't mean I'm guilty!"
"You know what, I'll just take the train home, so you can go on back without me," she says.
"Hell no, you won't! I'm not leaving you in this city by yourself. You're going back with me, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you to my car."
She huffs out a breath, and her blue eyes narrow when she puts her clenched fists prissily on her hips. Damn if that doesn’t make her even sexier. It's also pretty funny to see her wound up like a feisty, aggravated kitten. The ones you can't help but keep teasing, trying to get them all riled up until they arch their backs and hop around on all four feet like they're little badasses.
"What's the smirk for?" she asks in a huff.
"You're kind of cute when you're trying to look pissed off."
"You're not taking this seriously."
"I'm
as serious as a motherfucking heart attack. This is my life at stake here!"
"Then listen to me when I tell you that those pictures are going to get you convicted, whether you're guilty or innocent. That's why a plea might really be the best thing-"
That does it. I throw the papers down and stand up to get in her face. "I'm not pleading guilty! Maybe you should try listening to me for once!"
"I'll be committing malpractice if I let you go to trial and get twenty or more years active when you could've taken a plea and gotten out in just a handful!" she yells.
"Seriously, woman, I don't want to have this discussion with you again. No fucking plea is going to happen! So don't you lose another single wink of sleep worrying your pretty little head about malpractice nonsense."
She blows out another breath, and I'm so close I can smell the peppermint scent. "Fine. Then you won't mind signing something stating that I advised you to take a plea, and you refused?"
"I'll sign any fucking thing you want as long as you quit talking about that shit."
"Fine."
"Good. Glad we could clear that up," I say, taking a step back to put some space between us.
"I'm going back down to the security desk to see if the video is ready and if so, try to get them to print a few pictures of her. I think I can pick her out from her Facebook photos. Then I'll find out who in the hotel was working that night based on the other people visible on the camera. I'll show those people her picture and see if anyone remembers seeing her."
"Great. I'll be at the pool when you're ready to go," I tell her.
Of course she scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is not a vacation, Mr. I'm-Serious-as-a-Heart-Attack."
"I’m serious, but there's nothing else for me to do while you do that shit, is there? And since I had to pay for this room for us to come look at, that makes me a guest here, and I'm going to the fucking pool."
"But you don't have a swimsuit."
"I'm not going skinny dipping for Christ's sakes. They have like three huge ass clothing stores downstairs."
"Fine," she says in a huff, gathering all the paperwork and shoving it into her briefcase.
"And you better not fucking leave without me," I warn her. Then I have no choice but to watch her ass as she storms out the door. That incredible ass has me thinking all sorts of things I shouldn't.
Chapter Four
Page
What a jerk. I'm working my ass off while my client lounges by the pool. After sweet talking the security officers I was able to get a copy of video surveillance from that night on all the relevant cameras, and even a few printed photos. I also found a valet who remembered Christina Loftis asking him to call her a cab. He said her appearance had been disheveled, but she'd seemed calm, and even smiled and thanked him before climbing into a taxi.
Finished for the day and ready to head home, I throw my briefcase over my shoulder and go in search of Mr. Personality. We definitely need to work on his attitude before cross-examination.
I consider taking the train home like I had threatened earlier, but I wanted to share my success with someone. I'm even starting to believe Jackson may have a better chance of getting a not guilty than I originally thought. Small, but better than zero chance at least.
I follow the signs to the hotel pool, weaving my way through the slot machines and restaurants, along with the choking cigarette smoke. Finally, I walk out the double glass sliding doors to head outside. Since it's a warm late May day, the rows and rows of lounge chairs around the pool are all occupied. It'll take me forever to find the arrogant man in this crowd.
Not having my sunglasses, I raise my hand to shade my eyes as I glance around. After several minutes I spot him. Hard to miss the one man in a sea of scantily clad sluts, I mean women. Moving closer, I notice they've formed a circle around him, and several are even sitting on the same lounge chair with him, practically draped over him. Does he not remember our conversation about staying away from females? Idiot.
When I reach the outer perimeter, Jackson looks up and notices me, giving a head nod in my direction. "Ready?" he yells.
"Yes."
A chorus of disappointment sounds around us, making me groan.
"We love you, Jax!" A woman exclaims. Her fangirl support is followed up by the sounds of many others.
"There's no way you did that shit!"
"Call me if you need anything!"
I roll my eyes at the comments until Jackson finally breaches their skanky barrier and appears in front of me.
Holy ravioli!
Wearing nothing but black sunglasses and low, very low, black boardshorts, the man's golden muscles glisten from water or tanning oil, making him look like a walking wet dream. His biceps are like small boulders, his waist narrow, stomach and pecs chiseled from stone and begging to be licked. I snap my mouth closed when I realize it's fallen open. I need to look deep inside my professionalism and find some dignity here before I embarrass myself even further.
Of course, Jackson is smiling at me when I look back up at his face. No wait...the man is actually smiling, not smirking for the very first time. The effect of that expression on his gorgeous face, along with his near nakedness is too much for me to handle.
"I'll, ah, just wait for you in the lobby," I say, spinning on my heel to quickly get away from him. Only instead of actually retreating, one of my black Stilettos loses traction on the slick patio when it lands in a puddle of pool water. My arms start wind-milling as I struggle to find my balance, but it's futile. The weight of my heavy shoulder bag throws me off kilter, and I'm going down.
Or I was going down, until a steel band knocks the air out of me when it hits my stomach, squishing me against a brick wall. No, wait, that's just Jackson's big, hard body behind me and his arm wrapped around my waist, standing me back up.
"Careful," his deep voice whispers beside my ear. His lips are so close I can feel his warm breath. That, along with his yummy tropical smell and the hardness of his body pressed intimately against mine, causes a shiver to run down my spine. "Can't have you busting that pretty little head of yours. It would be a real pain in the ass to have to find another attorney."
"Thanks," I mutter, trying to slow my racing heart. The racing caused by imagining what it'd feel like to have those lips brush against my skin. Idiotic thoughts, but I don't seem to have any control over them or the goosebumps they cause.
"You good?" Jackson asks.
I nod, steadying myself, and he releases his hold on me. Slowly, putting one foot carefully in front of the other, I walk back into the hotel, not stopping until I reach the front lobby. I fall backward onto one of the plush couches and groan in embarrassment. The egotistical jerk will never let me live it down, neither the part about how I looked at him nor how I almost pulled a Humpty Dumpty. My cheeks burn hotter thinking about the replay.
I get my laptop out and check my emails as a distraction while I wait for him. Finally, Jackson strolls out from the casino and heads straight to the valet. Thankfully he's back in his jeans and a gray tee, all that gorgeousness covered back up.
After handing over the ticket for his car, he returns to the lobby, pulls off his sunglasses, and starts looking around. When his dark eyes finally land on me, I expect his cocky smirk to be back in place. I can handle his cocky smirk better than the intense, hungry gaze fixated on me now, taking my breath away. Bastard. I lower my eyes and busy myself with packing up my bag.
"Did you get the video?" Jackson asks a minute later, right from above me.
"Yeah. This is her, right?" I ask, pulling out a photo to show him.
"That's the bitch."
"Notice anything significant?" I ask, standing up and having to get on my tiptoes to look at the zoomed in picture in his hands
"Ah, what do you mean?"
"I don't see any redness or bruises on her neck."
"Holy shit! You're a fucking genius, Page!" he exclaims.
"Nah, this was an obvious piece of eviden
ce anyone would've known to get," I respond, taking the picture carefully from his hands and putting it away in my bag.
"Give yourself a little credit. The video could've been gone or taped over if we'd waited much longer."
I can't help but smile at his very correct assessment. "Yeah, and it would've been two days from now. They only save them for fourteen days."
"Holy fuck! I knew you were worth the fortune I paid!" he laughs as he lifts me off my feet in a bone crushing, spine popping bear hug.
"Put me down!" I squirm to get out of his hold. He smells too damn edible, like coconuts and sweat mixed with a woodsy, masculine cologne. I'm terrified I might accidentally lick him. Right up the inside of his neck and along the dark scruffy jawline. "Seriously, Jackson, people are looking at us." And I might bite you if you don't let me go.
"You called me Jackson," he says, finally loosening his hold and letting me slide down the front of his big, warm, sun-kissed body.
"Oh, um, s-sorry," I stutter, staring at his broad chest, swallowing back the uncalled for and extremely unprofessional flare of desire.
"No, I mean, you don't have to be all formal and shit with me. Just Jax is fine, too."
"We should probably start heading back," I say, stepping out of his thick arms. I really need to stop ending up in them.
"Car's out front. I'm just waiting on you, princess," he says, and when I look up at his face, he's smirking at me yet again.
Glad to be back on solid ground, I walk past him, heading out the sliding glass doors to his ridiculous black and green car.
"Why do you hate my car so much?" Jackson asks over the hood when he walks around to the driver side.
"I don't hate it," I say, taking a seat and putting on my seat belt while he does the same. "It just looks sort of ridiculous and reminds me of the Batmobile."
"Let me guess. You drive a Mercedes?" he asks, expertly shifting the gears to pull away from the curb.
"Maybe."
"Ha! I knew it. That's what all the spoiled little rich girls drive." The stereotype stings, but I can't really complain since it's true.