“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 engaged, even if that fact is easy to forget these days. After protesting against my choice of pro bono work, Brian didn’t even bat an eye this morning when I told him I’d be late to the office because I was meeting Tim McDonald in the jail first.
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 Brian 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 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 a client who seems unpredictable if not dangerous.
I’m really not sure this pro bono gig is for me. I guess Brian 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 burrowed together in concern. “Is your silence an indication that you have to think about it?”
I can only assume he had asked me if I was ready to sign on as a pro bono lawyer volunteering for the VLA. 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.
Although I do need the relevant military representation experience for my firm, and so far no other 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.
“Take all the time you need to think about it,” Tim continues, not letting me speak. “I understand that right now you just want to volunteer a few hours a week to meet your firm’s pro bono requirements. 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 hippy from California or Vermont.
He doesn’t have fire-breathing dragons for parents, always standing over his shoulder harping on him about his career choices and salary and opportunities for professional advancement.
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.
I bet he’d know how to rough me up in ways that Brian’s never thought of. And I bet I’d enjoy every second of the new and different experience.
Too bad my life is 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.
Chapter 2
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 jail, for the first time in my life, over some stupid fist fight. I’ve had so many in the past, but I’ve never been ratted out by my opponent like this loser 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 in the Air Force that skirted the line of “appropriate airman 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 that bastard all over again if given the chance, no matter the punishment. 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 dude’s 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 legal 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 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 smoke a blunt with. Share a beer or whiskey with. Have a threesome
with.
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. Out of nowhere she surveys the room and locks eyes with me. She has gorgeous blue 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 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 decide to make a move. I’ve never been known for my patience.
I approach the table and make up a dumbass excuse to talk to Tim. Of course I do have a valid reason— I’m waiting on my perpetually late attorney— but I know Tim can’t make him appear any faster than I can. I just want an excuse to be closer to this mystery woman.
Tim’s in the middle of telling her that even though she doesn’t have criminal law experience, he can quickly train her.
Great, I think. She’s a lawyer. And a newbie at that. I hope they’re not wanting to assign her to my case.
I’ll just stick with Dylan— as awful as I’m starting to think he is— or pay some private attorney out of pocket. Money talks, and a new attorney will have to do what I want, not what the VLA has trained him to do.
But damn is she hot, I think, as Tim introduces us and I shake her hand firmly, the same way I’d like to grab her ass if I weren’t impeded by this orange jumpsuit and my temporary lack of freedom.
I return to the table to continue waiting for Dylan, all the while thinking, What is she doing here?, instead of only What am I doing here?
I clearly bashed a guy’s skull in to end up here. But she’s like a fish out of water. Why would she want to represent someone like me?
When Dylan finally arrives and I jump to the front of the line to meet him, he takes me back to the attorney/ client conference room and I can’t help but look back at Riley one more time. My curiosity gets the better of me and I wink at her. She looks pleased.
If I weren’t in jail I’d have her in bed by tonight, I think, as I reluctantly enter the room with Dylan and kiss all hopes of fucking Fancy Lawyer Lady goodbye.
“It’s nice to see you again, Jensen,” says Dylan, as he sits down at the small wooden table in the conference room.
“You too,” I tell him, although I want to add, I was beginning to think you’d never show up.
Instead, I say, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”
“I know you’re nervous about your arraignment. Everyone always is,” Dylan says. “But don’t worry. I have full faith that you’ll be out of here as soon as that hearing is over.”
“It’s not that. I’ve been needing to talk to you about my case.”
Again, I let unspoken thoughts remain unspoken. Unspoken thoughts like: You’ve said some things I’m not too fond of, and I want to set you straight.
Even though Dylan has been assigned to represent me for free, I know that doesn’t mean I have to go along with everything he says. I’m free to fire him and have another lawyer assigned, or to hire one out of my own pocket.
Which is fine because it’s not like I’m hurting for money. I just want to make sure my lawyer listens to me and defends my case the way I want it to be defended.
“Jensen, we don’t have a lot of time. We need to go out there and tell the judge we’re ready for your arraignment hearing to be called…”
“I understand,” I tell him, and stop there instead of finishing with that you’re in a rush and you’re shuffling through my case as one of many. “But this is important to me. When we first met you mentioned using a PTSD defense and I said I wasn’t that into it.”
“Uh huh,” Dylan says absent- mindedly as he flips through my file, highlighting something.
“But what I should have said is that I really do not want you to use that defense. The more I’ve had time to think about it— and thinking is about the only thing I get to do in here— the more certain I am. I don’t have PTSD. I’m not crazy.”
“Jensen,” Dylan says, looking straight into my eyes. “A PTSD diagnosis does not mean ‘crazy.’”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I sigh, frustrated.
Crazy is burning everything my dad ever owned in front of me, simply because I mentioned his name. Simply because I was mad at her for leaving him— for leaving us. My mom is crazy. I’m not crazy. But any kind of official diagnosis is too close for comfort for me. I’m not anything like my mom, and I never will be.
“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” I try to explain to Dylan. “I just mean that everyone thinks that anyone who has been to war has PTSD, and that’s just not always the case—”
“Jensen, you haven’t only been to war. You’ve seen traumatic and life- altering things there. You’ve experienced very bad things.”
“So has everyone who has been to war,” I say, exacerbated beyond belief at this point. “But it doesn’t mean I have PTSD.”
“It’s the best defense anyway,” Dylan says, perplexed. “If it helps you, you should use it. Not resist it.”
“Dylan. I’m serious. I want you to just defend the case and please don’t give me some PTSD diagnosis along with a potential criminal record.”
“Fine. Okay Jensen.” But he doesn’t say it very convincingly. “But today’s hearing has nothing to do with any of that. You’re just pleading guilty and bail is being set, or not. In your case, as I’ve said, I highly suspect it won’t be. You’ll walk out free until your next hearing date. And then we’ll have plenty of time to talk defense strategy.”
He signals the guard to let the judge know we’re ready.
“All right.” Just like we had plenty of time to talk today. “I just wanted to make sure I clarified my position with you.”
“Understood.”
We enter the small courtroom where the judge holds arraignment and bail hearings in the jail. She reads my charges and Dylan introduces himself, as does an assistant district attorney.
“How does the defendant plead?” asks the judge.
“My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Dylan says.
“And as for bail?”
“Mr. Bradford committed a heinous battery,” says the assistant district attorney. “He mercifully pummeled an innocent man. As you can tell by his size, and I’d also note that he has specialized military training during the course of his Special Operations work in the Air Force, it was not at all what you could characterize as an ‘even fight’…”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interjects. “Mr. Bradford is not on trial today. And of course he has defenses to this charge, which was unfairly brought and of which he is innocent. He should be released on his own recognizance. He’s never been convicted of any crime. And he’s an upstanding member of the community.”
That part makes me have to try hard to refrain from snorting out loud. Apparently someone who kills for a living is considered an upstanding member of the community when it comes time to set bail on their assault and battery charge. But if that’s what being conferred “veterans’ status” brings with it, I guess I’ll take it.
“Excuse me, Your Honor,” interrupts the assistant district attorney, “but Mr. Bradford is not the angel that the defense is painting him as. He’s had criminal arrests stemming from being a runaway teenager with truancy issues and some minor breaking and entering charges, and he’s gotten into some trouble while he was in the military…”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interrupts right ba
ck. “Those are juvenile records that have been sealed. And Mr. Bradford’s military history has nothing to do with civil court. He was honorably discharged after years of faithful service, in hostile war zones. The prosecution is just trying to fling mud and see what sticks, but none of this is relevant here.”
“I agree,” says the judge. “Move along to the bail portion of this hearing, please.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that my past hasn’t truly caught up with me. I’m still getting away with things. I’m still coming out on top, although this is the most “upside down” I’ve ever been.
“Mr. Bradford was born and raised in Albuquerque and he has family in the area,” Dylan continues. He looks down at the part of my file he had highlighted earlier. “A mother and two brothers.” She’s not much of a mother. “And he works for a private contractor training new recruits at Kirtland Air Force Base, to do the same kind of pararescue work that he himself did while in the military. If he is forced to remain behind bars, the military will suffer. It needs Mr. Bradford’s skill and expertise.”
“Then perhaps he shouldn’t have beat up a…” begins the assistant district attorney, but the judge cuts him off.
“That’s enough, counsel. Mr. Bradford, you are free to go on your own recognizance but you must report back for a pre-trial conference and for all other hearings in this case. Your terms of release are as follows. Until this case is tried you are to avoid alcohol and establishments that sell liquor; you are to avoid illegal drugs; you are to avoid all contact with the alleged victim; you are not to use any firearms or weapons; you are to seek or maintain employment; and you are not to travel outside of the state without prior permission of this Court. Do you understand?”
“Your Honor, we have a clarification question,” says Dylan. “With regard to maintaining employment, and not using firearms or weapons.”
“Yes?”
“As I mentioned previously, my client works for a military contractor and his job involves training new recruits…”
Sold on St. Patrick's Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance Page 6