by Dakota Gray
I really should talk her into letting me peel that dress off.
No.
I try to remind myself she's off-limits. She didn't give me the slightest go ahead. Hell, she's going on a date with someone else. I force myself to glance away but my gaze goes right back.
Maybe if Preston hadn't fucked me over all my safeguards would still be in place. I could swallow down the need trying to crawl up my throat and out of my mouth. I could do what I’ve done for three years.
Preston did knock down my walls by blindsiding me, and I can’t ignore the tingle in my palms or the buzz in my head as I watch her walk away.
I call after her, “If Colin steps out of line, call me.”
She waves her hand and keeps strutting.
I...feel better. I still want to kick over shit. I'm still going to have a nice long talk with myself about my next options if the firm doesn't pony up on their end of the deal. Anger isn't choking me blind anymore. I file it away to deal with later.
The first thing on my to-do list is to talk with a twenty-year old murderer.
CHAPTER THREE
I put my car in park and double check the address. My brows go up. Not that the neighborhood is rough, but apparently my boss is the rich one in the family. The house sits on the older side of town, and I can easily imagine the two-story home passed down back when only upper middle class families lived on the block.
I grab the folder, leaving behind my briefcase, and make my way to the door. The kid who answers comes to my chin and has the kind of hair that makes you want to hold him down and cut it. He's also wearing baggy clothes.
I offer my hand and smile. “I'm Duke Alexander.”
“Yeah. And?”
“Gabriel Lance?”
The kid first has to sling his bangs out of his face before he narrows his gaze on me. “Yeah.”
“I'm your attorney.”
“Uncle P sent you?”
I'm feeling my bedside manner slip. “Kid, let me in the house.”
He shrugs and opens the door. The inside is clean, which I find surprising. I remember being twenty. The guys and I saved up to get off campus. Let's just say we didn't get our security deposit back. I don't catch sight of anything that screams a woman will or has lived here.
He's watching me judge his space and apparently that's enough to make him frown at me.
I ask, “You live by yourself?”
“With my dad. Had my own place, then...”
“Then your girlfriend was murdered,” I finish for him to read his reaction.
He plops on the couch and rests his hands on his knees. “She was just a friend.”
His shoulders cave in, his fingers dig into his knees, and he's not meeting my eyes or pleading with me. Everything about his posture makes me believe that's the truth.
“Tell me what happened.”
I walk the room noting the worn but clean furniture. None of the family photos littered around has a woman that could be around Preston's age, much less the man I assume is Gabriel's father. His father appears ten years younger than Preston which makes him closer to fifty than sixty. What I do know for sure is that Preston cares for the kid. There are a lot of poses of the two them.
I should be listening to Pro Bono Boy, right? My career depends on how well I handle this case. I'm taking note of the cadence of his voice as he tells me how his friend ended up dead. I'm eyeing his body language as he gets to parts that should be heartbreaking for him to retell.
I stop and watch him when he gets choked up about finding his friend in his bed. He sticks to the facts and not once glances up. I'm not searching for tears or a catch in his voice. A sociopath covered in his victim's blood can squeeze out some onion tears if they need to. I'm listening to his word choice.
“I didn't know what to do. My roommate was at work. She wasn't breathing. I don't know CPR so I called 911. They took me down to the station when I told them what happened.”
They literally found him standing over a dead body, covered in her body’s blood. In his apartment. An apartment he didn't share with the victim nor did the victim have a key to the place. What were the police supposed to do? Pro Bono Boy might as well have been holding the murder weapon in his hand too.
“What is your roommate’s name? Where is he now?”
“Trevor Winter. He’s living with his cousin. Neither one of us could stay after...”
Looks like I’m going to need another favor from the Sec to check out his roommate. “I see your problem.”
He blinks at my glib reply. “Aren't you supposed to ask me if I know anyone who would want to hurt her? Ask for my alibi?”
“People rarely remember where they are at any given time of the day, and even fewer can provide proof.”
“You think I did it.” His shoulders fall.
This kid is a puppy. His every emotion shows in his eyes, his body. I can never put him on a stand. “Doesn't matter what I think about your innocence or guilt.”
His brows furrow. “Then how can you be my attorney?”
I settle onto the couch across from him. “I’m sure you’ve watched one of the thousands of crime shows out there. What do they do when they arrest someone?”
“They read you your Miranda Rights.”
“And what do they say?”
“I have the right to remain silent.”
“And a right to an attorney. Those rights aren't qualified with if you are innocent you have a right to an attorney.”
“Why did Uncle P send you? Does he think I did it?”
“That's a conversation you need to have with your uncle, but I can guess he wanted you to have the best.”
Pro Bono Boy scoffs at me. “You're modest.”
“You're an idiot. You should have called him after you phoned 911, but this isn't a perfect world.”
His face turns several shades of red. “What did you call me?”
“An idiot,” I repeat. “You willfully gave them your DNA, the clothes you had on, fingernail scrapings. Let them grill you for hours before the thought dawned on you that you should have an attorney present. That's dumb, at best, when your uncle is a phone call away. Idiotic when he has a department of attorneys at his beck and call.”
“I don't think my uncle will like you talking to me like this.”
“Probably not, but he still picked me to represent you. From what I can tell he likes you. So you can cry about what I said or grow a pair and deal with it.”
“No option for you to be nice to me? Or remotely professional?”
“Fuck nice. This is a murder charge you're looking at, and you are pegged as the suspect. For the record, I charge extra to change diapers, but I'm willing to do it if that is what my client needs.”
Gabriel laughs, and he looks about twelve. “Okay. I see why Uncle P sent you. He's the same way.”
At the moment I can't take that as a compliment. “Tomorrow I'm going to send a car to pick you up around noon. You'll meet me in the office. We'll go over every detail again. You'll likely want to fire me. Or get me fired. I'm still going to do my best to represent you.”
“Okay,” he says with no trace of the laughter.
“This all transpired a few days ago, so the police are still early in their investigation. They are likely building a case against you. It will be my job to poke holes in any theories or evidence they have and keep this from even getting on a DA's desk.”
His eyes widen. “Okay.”
“But first I'm going to need some things from you with little complaint. Wait. No.” I shake my head. “Without any complaint.”
“Like?”
“Cut your hair. You look like a dirty labradoodle. Buy a suit. Get a good suit. If you show up to the office in something cheap looking, I'm taking you to my guy. I'm a ray of sunshine compared to him. Do not talk to the press. Do not talk to anyone but me about what happened. That includes your uncle. Don't get into any trouble that would require you to go to jail again. Do you have a g
irlfriend?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Good. Don't get one until this matter is settled. Any questions?”
Gabriel drags his fingers through his hair, revealing softer features that make him appear younger. “Do you hate me or just people in general?”
I smile at him and tell him a cliched and inaccurate joke to smooth the feathers I ruffled. “I think it's a great time to learn about the importance of pleading the fifth.”
Gabriel chuckles and flings his hair out of his face again. I'm sure he's about to reply with something equally sarcastic, but my phone rings with an unidentified number. It's my personal phone not my work cell. I check the caller ID and don't recognize anything but the local area code. I hold up one finger and rise to put some distance between us.
“Duke Alexander.”
“I need you to pick me up,” the words are mumbled, but I know that voice. Every inch of me does.
My stomach locks. “Kennedy?”
“Can you get me? Please.”
There's a slur to the ‘s.’ My brain skips over anything logical and latches onto the worst scenarios. The truth of my world is that men like Colin, who owns two cats, are usually stalkers or flashers. “Did he drug you?”
“What?” The words seem to be dragged out of her in confusion. “Who did what?”
I'll get the details when I get to her. “Where are you?”
“Trelio. Can't miss me. Not in this dress. Damn shame really.”
“Be there. Don't move.” I end the call and think up ways to get rid of Colin's body. If he drugged Kennedy, I'm going to kill him. I know people who could give me tips on how to wipe him off the face of the earth never to be found.
Gabriel has pulled back his bangs and his brows are up. “Girlfriend?”
“It's complicated,” is the best and most accurate answer I can offer.
“Right.”
I narrow my gaze on him. “What? Never mind. Haircut. Suit. We’ll iron out all the details of what happens next. If the police come by for you, call me.”
For a second the smile drops away and his eyes widen. “Is she in trouble? Your friend?”
No. I didn't need him to be innocent to do my job. What jackass requires that to do their damn job? But the worry in his eyes, in the simple question tells me all I need to know. It reminds me he's just twenty. Still a damn kid, and he found a close friend dead in his home.
“I'm going to take care of her.”
The hair falls back down into his face as he bows his head then he shrugs. There's nothing more to say.
I leave his house and break a few laws to get to Trelio in record speed. Nope can't miss a redhead in a money green dress sitting at the bar in fuck-me black heels. The way the light plays over her hair I can catch the gold and brown strands as she pulls the mass over one shoulder.
I don't bother to say a greeting. I turn her, cup her face to force her to meet my gaze. Her eyes aren't dilated but her stare is too hazy for my taste. Her skin is warm against my fingertips.
I flex my jaw and try to breathe through my nose for a moment. I can't unleash the anger on her. That's not what she needs at the moment. “Did he drug you?”
Her eyes widen. “Is that what you think? I thought you looked murderous because you had to get me.” She brushes my hand away. “And no. I'm not drugged.”
The knot in my stomach loosens and I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Then you're just drunk?”
She smiles at me. “My head started to spin, and I realized I shouldn't drive.”
My concern is slowly turning into annoyance. “So you called me instead of a cab?”
She nods and grins at me. “Because you were right, and I needed to bitch at you.”
I give her my dead stare. I don't know how many traffic laws I broke to get to her, and she wants to talk about her date. “I'm calling you a cab.”
“Okay.” She laughs and grabs my sleeve to tug me back to her. “I didn't call you to bitch about Colin. I locked everything in the car, and I needed someone ruthlessly efficient to help me.”
I can’t argue with her description of me, but I can’t figure out why she’d call me of all people. She’s too personable to be without friends who would drop everything to come help her.
I want to know, but first I need to triage her problem. “What do you mean by everything is in your car?”
“My phone, my keys and my purse.”
The fuck? “How?”
She doesn’t flinch at my sharp tone. “My work purse didn't match my dress so I decided to leave it in the trunk. I forgot that's where I shoved my phone. While I was doing all that I forgot to grab my keys off the car's seat.”
I intensify my dead stare. “Then how are you drunk?”
She waves her finger in my face. “That's allegedly drunk to you, Esquire.”
I grab her finger and put her hand back in her lap. “Kennedy. Mclane.”
“It's not really my fault,” her voice raises an octave in her defense. “Colin was showing me all six-hundred and seventy-nine pictures he has of Trixie and Vixen on his phone and I needed wine to combat that.”
“How much did you drink?”
She squints as though that would help jog her memory. “About two glasses of wine.”
I open my mouth then close it. She might have slapped me if I said the first thing that came to mind. I try again. “You're blitzed on two glasses? Are you on medication?”
“He had some pictures of Vixen's leg surgery. They think a mole or something was cancerous or...something. I didn't have much of an appetite, and I only had a granola bar for breakfast. He was taking me to Trelio. I needed to save room for some surf and turf.”
Still, she shouldn't be this drunk, and that makes me think back to our sex. I remember downing three shots as we talked and flirted. She had a clear disposable cup with sparkly liquid. I assumed it was the champagne folks in the office had passed around. My own mouth was too full of the taste of liquor to catch it on hers when we had kissed. I'm starting to think it was sparkling cider if two drinks can turn her into this...cute, rambling, mess.
“Question,” I say.
“Shoot.”
“How drunk were you when we had sex?”
“I wasn't.” She grabs my tie and tugs on it. “You were, though. You were so adorable and relaxed. I don't think I'd ever seen you that...unguarded. You laughed.” She presses a finger to the corner of my mouth. “You don't laugh enough, and that's your problem. Or at least one of them.”
She's drunk enough to list all of my perceived faults in detail. I clasp her hand and pull her to her feet.
“I'm surprised it didn't work out between you and Colin,” I tell her. “Clearly he loves pussy.” I grab her arm to keep her steady. “They have services you can call. I'll get you the number, and you can use my phone.”
She directs a drunken huff at me. “You told me to call you if I got into trouble. So I borrowed the bartender's cell and phoned you. Well, I called Gwen to get your number then I called you.”
Gwen is going to be insufferable, and I'm not done being pissed at her. “I said to only call me if Colin stepped out of line. Did he?”
“I'm wearing a dress that begs to be taken off, and he's showing me his cat's post-surgery pictures. Yellow flag on the damn field.”
I break then and laugh. “I told you that you could do better. Next time listen to me.”
“Like you listen to me?”
“I didn’t fuck Sheila, and I don’t plan to. You didn’t have to give me a warning about her.”
She sort collides into my side and sighs when I straighten her. “I know now you didn’t. She bitched about it all night after you walked away. And I told Sheila her eyes were too big for her stomach.”
Interesting. I frown down at her. “What does that mean?”
She gestures wildly with her free hand. “You’re Mt. Everest. One doesn’t climb that mountain without
practice or being mentally ready.”
Huh.
“Kennedy—”
“You made me forget my train of thought.”
“Which one?”
She laughs then twirls in front of me to walk backwards. This could end badly. I tuck my hand into the front of her dress, fist the material, then guide her.
Kennedy doesn’t blink at that. “I thought you were doing that jealous thing you do when you were warning me about Colin.”
I'm going to regret this. “What jealous thing?”
She presses her fingers to both corners of my mouth this time. “You frown and get growly when I talk about other men. You tell me what's wrong with them, even if you haven't met them. I assumed it's because you still want to fuck me, and you hate that, and you deny yourself what you want.” She pauses for a breath. “Do you know how to break into a Dodge Intrepid?”
I never tried to hide the fact I wanted to fuck her, but the fact she knows it annoys me is something else. But all I say is, “No.”
“Really? I’ve always imagined you had all these criminal skills.”
“I hire out.” My tone is flat.
“Oh, well. Then I need a locksmith.” She turns away from me, and I drop my hand from her dress.
My fingers are still warm. I wrap my arm around her waist and lead her the rest of the way out of the restaurant. “You need to eat and get some water into you. I don't think anyone reputable will give you your keys in your current condition. I sure as hell won't.”
“Fine, but no more nice restaurants. I want a fat, greasy burger. And fries.”
I get her settled into my car, and by the time I'm halfway to a burger joint, she's out. I pick up some food anyway, and at least three bottles of water. After that, I head back to the restaurant to deal with her car. She remains in a small coma during all of this. I leave the passenger door open in case the liquor wants to make a comeback. The less obstacles for her, the better for me.
An hour and a half later I have her purse, phone, and car keys, but she's in no shape to catch a cab. I have a couple of options and don't like a single one.
I lean against the passenger door and tap her shoulder. “Kennedy, I need you to wake up and tell me where to drop you off. Your place? A friend's...” Her eyes crack open then close again. “A friend who will have to hold your hair when you no doubt throw up, you damn lightweight.”