Indicted (Bad Judgment #1)

by Leigh James

  “I’m completely clueless about them,” I said.

  “People get excited about my car. That guy was drooling over it this morning when I came in. If I’m friendly with him, he’ll keep an eye on it for me. Plus, it’s just nice to share when you have stuff like that. They don’t make a lot of my model of BMW. So that kid’s probably never seen one before.” I nodded at him, mutely, surprised that he was so thoughtful. And how he made it sound so normal, like all hot billionaire-CEOs let young security guards test-drive their insanely expensive cars for fun.

  “You seem nice enough,” he said. “I’m sure you shared with the other kids in the sandbox.” He smiled at me and I sensed that he was trying to figure me out. I wasn’t ever in the sandbox, I wanted to tell him, because I was either studying or taking care of my family. And I didn’t have anything to share. But he didn’t need to know that.

  “I am friendly, Mr. Walker. Being serious isn’t necessarily exclusive of being friendly.”

  Walker smiled at me again, with humor, and I realized he was just teasing me. “I know, Nicole, I know. And it’s Miss Nicole Reynolds, correct? Or Ms.? Or Mrs.?” he asked, looking down at my left hand. I promptly curled it into a fist and held it behind my back.

  “Ms. Reynolds is acceptable,” I said, keeping my fist behind my back. “But please just call me Nicole.” His grinned at me, reaching around my back and gently pulling my hand to the front. I was shocked at his touch; how gentle it was, what his big hands felt like on me. I was appalled, and confused, at the heat that radiated through my body because his big hands were on me. I looked up at him, trying to keep my face composed, praying he couldn’t feel the electric shock that was going through my body.

  He dropped my hand and smiled at me. “You’re too young to be married. Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said, holding up his left hand and wiggling his fingers, devoid of any rings. “You’re in good company. They’re safety in numbers, Nicole. And by the way,” he said, leaning in towards me, “you can call me Walker. That’s what all my high-end babysitters call me.”

  I wished desperately that there was a chair nearby so that I could collapse into it.

  “Okay,” I mumbled. I smiled at him bravely while I simultaneously tried to collect myself; I was going to have to work around him. He was charming — in fact, he was practically charming the pants off me right now, without even trying — but I was almost positive that he did that to all the girls. So I wasn’t special, and I needed to know it. In addition, he was my client, so for reals, I just needed to snap the hell out of it. Massive shoulders and sexy black hair or no massive shoulders and sexy black hair.

  “You were saying, Walker,” I said, trying out this version of his name. “People get excited about your car? Because…?” I asked. I knew nothing about cars. I’d never owned one, and my dad drove an old Buick.

  “Because it’s expensive and there are only a few of them,” he said, and shrugged. “People get excited about exclusive things, things that are outside of their experience. It’s different, so it’s exciting. Right?”

  I didn’t even want to admit to him that I could get excited. It seemed dangerous, although I couldn’t say why. “I guess so,” I said, neutrally. “But it’s so outside my experience, I can’t tell if it’s exciting.”

  He laughed and I relaxed: it seemed as though I’d passed his personality test, i.e., he now believed that I had a personality. “My car isn’t actually that exciting,” Walker said. “But it is expensive. It’s ridiculous, really, when you think about it. $130,000 for a car. Some people in this country buy a house for that amount.”

  I’d spent over $200,000 on law school, and the weight of the debt almost crushed me, every month, when I made the payment on my loan. I was bewildered at the idea of how much money Walker really must have; I couldn’t imagine spending that much money on a car.

  We watched as the sleek black sedan pulled back up to the curb. The young guard jumped out from behind the wheel and beamed at us. You could read it on his face: the car was awesome. “Thank you,” he said to Walker, as he came in through the door. “It’s an incredible ride.”

  “Next time I come in, I’ll let you park it,” Walker said, smiling. I watched as the guard’s face lit up; Walker had yet another fan.

  “Yes sir. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Ms. Reynolds,” Walker said to me, and held out his arm. “Let’s get this over with.” I took his arm and noticed, against my better judgment, that his forearm was incredibly muscular and strong. Of course it was! I could feel him beneath his suit coat, tendons straining. My arm sizzled where it was touching his: contact heat. I felt myself clench again, deep inside, and I wished that I was alone so that I could smack myself right across the face. This was no time to find my inner whore.

  I wanted to ask Walker if he was flexing for my enjoyment, but that would only lead to trouble. And trouble really was the last thing I needed right now. He walked me around the back of the car, black, gleaming and opulent in the late-afternoon light, and opened the door for me. He hopped in the driver’s seat, put on aviator sunglasses and loosened his tie further. It was almost too much — I felt like I was in a high-end cologne commercial. “I live in Back Bay, so we’ll be there in a minute,” he said, checking the rearview mirror and deftly maneuvering in and out of traffic. His car interior was buttery leather, immaculate. If this was what his car was like, I couldn’t even imagine his house.

  “I live in Somerville,” I said, trying to make normal conversation.

  “I had a feeling you lived over the bridge,” Walker said. “You seem like a bit of a rebel. I’m sure you fit in great with all the troubled youth in Harvard Square.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said. “Just because I dress conservatively doesn’t mean I can’t skateboard,” I said, thinking of the kids who were always hanging out around the square, with turquoise hair, multiple piercings, and cool skateboard tricks. “You have no idea what I’m like on the weekends.” I mentally slapped my hand over my mouth. This was why I shouldn’t be conversational. Something about Walker — actually, lots of things about Walker — made me say things that I just…Should…Not…Say. Like things about me being wild. On the weekends.

  I was so not wild on the weekends. But it would be nice if he thought I was…

  He laughed again, and he sounded like he was relaxing, which in turn made me tense up. “So you’re a weekend warrior. We should hang out sometime. Get tattoos. Go for burritos.”

  He shouldn’t be this handsome and this fun to be around, on the eve of his arraignment. “Sounds good to me,” I said, anyway, having fun in spite of myself. My favorite burrito place of all time was located very close to Harvard Square. My stomach rumbled loudly at the thought of it. “Sorry,” I mumbled, embarrassed.

  “No, I’m starving, too,” Walker said. “It’s been a long day. Let’s skip the tattoos and just get burritos. I know a great place.” He took a sharp left, changing direction.

  “Actually, I know a great place,” I said.

  “Mine’s better,” Walker said, and I could tell he wasn’t going to bend. Bossy, bossy, I thought, but I didn’t really mind, as long as there was a burrito at the end of the journey. I realized that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday and my stomach started growling again.

  “You have my standing apology,” I said, motioning to my stomach. “It’s been so busy I’ve been on an all-caffeine diet.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” he said, “I’m fucking starving, too.” Hearing him swear made me shiver; it was like I was doing something naughty, being with a sunglass-clad, speeding Walker in his luxury sedan, listening to him say the word ‘fucking.’ There was something totally wrong with me — why did I think this was hot? Why was I ignoring everything I knew and grinning at him like a ‘fucking’ idiot?

  He pulled up outside of a small Taqueria in the South End. There was a chalkboard menu on the outside; I wiped the stupid smile off, put on my game face, and scrutinized it.


  “What do you normally get?” I asked as we walked into the tiny restaurant.

  “Shredded beef,” Walker said. “Extra guacamole and hot sauce.”

  “I’ll have the same,” I told the guy behind the counter.

  “Can we have beer?” Walker asked. He almost sounded like he was pleading.

  “You can,” I said. “I’ll just fall asleep if I do.”

  “That’d go over well with David,” Walker said, grabbing two beers out of the fridge and selecting a small table for us in the corner. He opened one of the beers and put in front of me.

  “I said no,” I said, and took a sip from it anyway.

  “Apparently, no doesn’t always mean no with you tricky lawyer types,” Walker said. As if anyone in the whole history of the world had said no to him before.

  “Yes it does,” I said, and drank some more.

  He scoffed at me. “Stop playing games, Nicole,” he said, “or I’ll start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

  “Rest assured, I’m not flirting,” I said, even though I totally was. “I’m pretty sure I’m the only female you’ve ever met who hasn’t. I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to.” He smiled darkly at me and my insides twisted. Easy girl, I thought. He’s too hot for you to handle. Plus, he’s so totally your client.

  Just then the waiter brought over our burritos, and I worried briefly about how I was going to eat something so enormous in front of such a hot guy. But he started eating his meal unselfconsciously — of course he did, what on earth does he have to feel self-conscious about? — And my stomach growled again, viciously, so I went ahead and dug in.

  “I’d talk to you, and argue that you were clearly flirting with me, but my mouth is too full,” Walker said, from behind a large bite.

  “Eating something this messy in front of you is the opposite of flirting,” I said, my mouth full. We both laughed and kept eating. “This is freakin’ delicious,” I said, grabbing some chips and eating them, too. “My burrito place is better, but this deserves a silver medal.”

  “There is no way your’s is better,” Walker said, through a full mouth. “This is it. Burrito nirvana.”

  “Mine’s in Cambridge. And it’s the bomb.”

  “We’ll go later this week, if I’m not in jail. I’ll treat my hot babysitter to a taste test,” Walker said, and my stomach fluttered in spite of all my better instincts and all the food weighing it down. Broden Walker just called me hot, I thought, dreamily.

  I was appropriately inappropriately excited.

  “How long is this going to take tonight?” he asked.

  I sat back for a second, taking an unwelcome break from my plate. “We don’t need anything substantive for the arraignment tomorrow. We just need your plea, which is going to be not guilty to all counts, right?” I asked, taking another unladylike swig of beer. He nodded.

  “So, we don’t have to do much tonight. Just tell me about you and your company. With respect to the amount of discovery we’re going to have to do as we move forward, I know it’s going to be a lot, but other than that I don’t know what to expect at this point. We’re just going to take it one day at a time.”

  “I’m the one who doesn’t know what to fucking expect,” Walker said, and the playful tone was gone from his voice. He looked tired and beaten again all of a sudden, like the tiredness and sadness had just been crouching inside, waiting to take over. “I actually can’t believe that this is happening to me. I can’t believe they’re doing this to me.” He looked around the empty restaurant, back over his shoulder, probably wary of reporters. “I haven’t accepted it. I think I might be in shock, or something.”

  I looked at him with sympathy. His flirting, his playfulness this afternoon...of course he was in shock. There was no way he’d be so cavalier if he’d fully accepted his situation. “It’s probably normal that you feel that way,” I said, gently. “It’ll be easier to deal with if you accept it in stages.”

  I paused for a second, wanting to know more but not wanting to make him upset. “It’s a lot to take in all at once…but I’m curious…were you expecting anything like this? Had the SEC given you any indication about an investigation? Any sort of a warning?”

  Walker sighed and rubbed his face. I could almost feel the stubble beneath his palm and I indulged in all sorts of inappropriate, but luckily invisible, clenching again. “Let’s finish eating, first. I have a lot to tell you.”

  I nodded at him and went back to my burrito, which unfortunately had lost some of its charm due to the seriousness of the conversation. I pushed the chips around on my plate, fidgeting. “Nicole,” Walker said. “Finish your food. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lied. “You have the best lawyers money can buy.”

  “Are you the best?” he asked. “And is it possible to actually buy you?” He managed to sound playful again, and also a little excited, which didn’t help at all with the clenching.

  “I have very keen powers of observation,” I said, “and they tell me that I am, in fact, the best. Sadly, you can’t buy me. You may, however, pay my exorbitant legal fee. I’m worth every penny.”

  “I love a woman who’s not afraid to brag. And earn money,” he said.

  “Then we should get along just fine,” I said, wondering how he’d so seamlessly put me at ease. And then I realized it: I was being managed. Walker was the CEO of a billion-dollar company, and he was used to people doing what he wanted. He was an expert, and he was in control. He wanted me to like him, to be on his side.

  He was an excellent manager. I’d forgotten all about the orange debacle of this morning, and all I cared about right now was liking him. And being on his side.

  * * *

  WE PULLED HIS RIDICULOUSLY EXPENSIVE — and awfully fun — car into Back Bay, home of professional athletes, professional models, and probably some of the Proctor partners. I had no experience with the neighborhood, aside from a cheap Chinese restaurant on Commonwealth Ave that Mike and I used to go to sometimes. The gorgeous Victorian brownstones glowed in the early evening light; the on-street parking was jam-packed with the newest Audis, BMWs and Mercedes.

  I sighed inwardly. Whenever I was in a ritzy neighborhood like this, it just made me feel bad. You’re ridiculous, I scolded myself. I was an attorney; I’d gone to a top law school; I worked for one of the most prestigious law firms in the city and I made well over one hundred thousand dollars a year.

  Still, I knew I would never live in a neighborhood like this. Not ever, even if I made partner. Just like I knew there were some stores in Boston that I would never dare go into. I’d stood outside one recently, on Newbury Street, wanting to try on a dress I saw in the window. But as crazy as it was, I was worried I’d walk in and they’d think I was a shoplifter. It was ridiculous and I knew it — but when you grow up poor, you grow up class-conscious. At least I did. As a kid I was always aware of my cheap jacket, my mother’s crap station-wagon. And now that I was a grown woman, I was uncomfortably aware of the fact that most of my suits cost a fraction of what the other women at my office wore. Having grown up without expensive clothes, jewelry and handbags, I didn’t think of them as necessary. I liked them as much as anybody else, but they weren’t necessary. I seemed to be the only one at my office, and certainly the only one on Newbury Street, who seemed to feel that way.

  Maybe most people in my office and on Newbury weren’t coming from where I came from. A walk-up in Somerville, one parent with a small income, one parent who was now dead, who’d left thousands of dollars in medical bills I still needed to pay. Law school loans. Undergraduate loans. Two little brothers who needed food, new clothes, sports equipment and college funds.

  This was why I shopped at Bargain Basement. And why most of the time I didn’t think twice about it.

  The gorgeous, tasteful homes blurred into each other. I wouldn’t have any idea how to live in a house like one of these, in a posh neighborhood like this. I’d never be able to relax.
I’d always have to dress up, get plastic surgery, and wear enormous sunglasses just to take the trash out. I looked over at Walker, with his thick, tousled black hair and his thousand-dollar suit. He looked over at me and smiled, the lines on his face only increasing his attractiveness. My heart plummeted to my stomach. Why was this man so gorgeous, smart, rich and nice? It was one of those days when it was brutally clear to me: life wasn’t fair. I wanted to be Minky Lucca, the Hollywood starlet in the yellow ruffled bikini, splashing water at his gorgeous abs. Instead, I had to use all my considerable brain power just to keep him out of jail.

  And I’d never get to sleep with him.

  “You’re being quiet,” he said. “Are you plotting Introverted Barbie’s next move?”

  I pushed my glasses up on my nose and pouted at him. In the back of my mind I knew I desperately wished my pout was sexy — but the front of my mind knew that it was not. “Yes. Yes I am, Walker,” I said.

  He pulled the car, suddenly and expertly, into a garage next to one of the brownstones. My mouth dropped open. “You have a garage?” I asked, incredulous. “I thought garages in Boston were an urban myth.”

  “Yes, I have a garage,” he said, and laughed at me. “Don’t get too excited. It’s only a two-car. The Patriots linebacker has a four-car garage. He got into all sorts of trouble with the Zoning Board, but then he and his gorgeous wife both signed some autographs and signed on to all sorts of charitable events, so…”

  “So?”

  “So apparently everybody on the zoning board thought they were great, and they got whatever the hell they wanted,” he laughed. “Would you say no to his wife? She’s a lingerie model. I freaking wouldn’t.” His eyes had the faraway, lustful look of a red-blooded male considering a tall, gorgeous lingerie model. Against my will, my face scrunched into a pout again. I was on the short side and I was no lingerie model. I pouted some more.

  He looked at me, searching my face as we sat in the car. “Nicole, are you one of those girls...that think if I say someone else is pretty...that I don’t think you’re pretty?” he asked. “You’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”