by Lane Hart
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 clinched 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 bad asses.
"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 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 weigh
t 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 backwards 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 evidence 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 to 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.
"You're one to talk. Aren't you the highest paid MMA fighter of all time?" I counter.
Jackson chuckles, and it's obvious he's in a much better mood than earlier. "Have you been Googling me?" he asks, glancing over and raising one dark, sexy eyebrow in question. Just like that he makes something so common sound sexual. Boy would I like to...Google him. I bet it'd be the best Google of my life, and afterwards Googling would never be the same.
Stop that! I yell at my hormones in disgust.
"No. It's just a rumor I've heard." I have actually searched him, but his salary didn't show up in Google images.
"Are you trying to get a bigger fee out of me? If so, I'll gladly pay it after you just saved my ass with that video."
"I don't want a bigger fee, rich boy. It's not like I'd see a dime of it anyway."
"Why not?" he asks.
"I work for my father. He pays me the same salary every month, regardless of what I do."
"That sucks."
"I'm a brand new attorney, so I have to slowly make my way up the ladder."
The two of us fall silent as we drive down the highway and the sun begins to set. It's been a long day, but at least it's been productive. I don’t even mind most of Jackson's punk rock and hip hop song choices as we roll along. The peacefulness of the drive is broken when my phone rings. Sheesh. Elliott.
"Hey," I answer.
"Where the hell are you?" he yells, and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear.
"On my way back from Atlantic City."
"Yeah, I know where you've been. With Jackson fucking Malone."
"Elliott, you know I can't talk about my clients."
"You don't have to. The picture of the two of you is all over the Internet," he snaps.
"What picture?" I ask.
"The one showing you crossing the attorney-client line."
"What?" I exclaim. "I haven't-"
"How long have you been fucking him, Page?" Elliott yells the unexpected question.
Is Elliott actually jealous over some picture? It shouldn't make me happy that he's upset thinking I've been with another man, but it does. He never shows any sort of emotion when it comes to me, so it's a nice change of pace.
"What are you talking about? You know I wouldn't cheat on you, and I'd never sleep with a client," I respond, even though I still have no idea what the heck he's so pissed about. I could lose my law license for having any sort of sexual relationship with a client. Not that I've ever thought about doing…that with a client, and especially not with the man next to me. Okay, maybe such an inappropriate idea has filtered through my mind once or twice since I met Jax. Sometimes that often in an hour.
"Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to have my fiancée seen with another man? Especially that maniac! The media is going to make me look like a cuckold loser!"
Oh, so he's only worried about his precious reputation. I should've known better than to think he'd actually express some sort of feeling with regards to me. "I haven't done anything like that with him, and you can't technically be a cuckold since we're not married," I point out, just to piss him off.
"You better watch it, Page," Elliott warns. "As soon as you walk through this door I'm going to wear your smartass out to remind you who you belong to. When I get done, you won't be able to sit tomorrow, and my palm will burn for days."
"I think I'm just going to go home tonight."
The
idea of him getting off on his fetish while my poor bottom suffers the consequences doesn't sound all that appealing at the moment…not that it ever has.
"Fine, I'll meet you there," he barks, then hangs up.
Son of a mother...trucker!
Jackson clears his throat from the driver seat. I cringe, wondering how much of that conversation he heard since he's less than a foot away in the cramped car.
"He's a really loud man," he remarks, telling me he’d likely heard it all.
"Yeah, he is."
"Do you want to go home?" Jackson asks without taking his eyes off the road.
"Not anymore." I laugh as much as I can given the situation. I'd just been yelled at and accused of sleeping with the man sitting next to me, who probably heard my wonderful fiancé treating me like a piece of crap.
"Then let's go to my dad's house."
"What?" I ask.
"You need Jude's statement, right?"
"Well, yeah, but we don't have to do it tonight."
"Why not?"
I can't actually think of any more reasons not to, and I did want to go ahead and get his affidavit. Being able to avoid Elliot is an added bonus.
"Do they have a printer?" I ask Jackson.
"Yeah."
"Then okay. If you're sure he'll be home."
Jackson snickers. "Jude's always home unless he's at the gym, which is within walking distance from the house."
"Oh, so unlike you, he doesn't spend all his time with hordes of woman at his beck and call?" I joke.
"He probably could, but he doesn't date, like ever."
"Why not?"
"He says women are a distraction from his training." He chuckles, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I swear I think he's a fucking twenty-year-old virgin."
"The anti-Jackson?" I tease.
"Yeah, I guess. The two of us are pretty much opposites."
"But he fights, too?"
"Uh-huh. Jude's had a string of bad luck lately, losing his last three to submissions. He thinks he's not good enough to beat these guys, but he is. In the cage he's the fastest SOB I know. But ever since he dislocated his shoulder a while back, as soon as he thinks he's trapped in a hold he taps out."
Jackson's affection and pride for his younger brother is obvious, and it's...sweet. This is definitely a strange side of him to see, so contrary to his image.