I arrive to the courthouse an hour before start time, but, frustratingly, the
picketers and crowds are pure insanity. I push through it all and by the time
I make my way to the courtroom, I end up in the same back row as
yesterday. Then again, I think, as I try to get comfortable in the hard seat,
maybe I need to keep a low profile until I deal with the Reese Summer
situation. Situation. There's a way to describe what's happening between
me and that man.
Pulling my journal from my briefcase, I open it to my writing from
yesterday, and grimace at my scribbled note about women who fall in love
with convicted killers. Mr. Hotness isn't the defendant, but the story idea is
still a good one. Setting that aside for now, I start jotting down notes related
to Lauren's comments, with a focus on who might be guilty of the murders,
if not the defendant. I'm pages into my thoughts when the action in the
courtroom begins, and it's not long before Reese is at his table, and I find
myself remembering his words, spoken all gravelly and low: You came for
me. Come for me again. There had been a glint in his eye, I realize. Cocky
bastard knew exactly what he was implying about me and my, well…
orgasm. And holy hell, as he walks to the bench to greet the judge, I'm
fairly certain a number of women sigh for no reason other than that he is in
the same room. I really hate that I'm one of them, but I'm not going to deny
that he's a good-looking man. That isn't the point in all of this. His attitude
and my job are.
The trial begins, and the prosecution claims the reins, continuing its
opening statement narrative, painting a picture of a selfish billionaire who
wanted his cake and to eat it too, a.k.a. a wife and a mistress. It's dirty,
gritty, nasty legal work. It's also delivered clumsily, filled with empty
spaces, and theories that have no factual support. And from where I sit,
Reese does an incredible job of tearing down every witness that is
presented.
So much so that by lunchtime I set aside Lauren's praise for Reese and
decide that my original assessment of the man is correct: He is most
definitely the kind of man who will fuck you and fuck you over, unless you
fuck him and fuck him over first. Professionally speaking, of course, and as
a general observation, made objectively by a woman who has not gotten
naked with him. Which brings me to who is actually naked and exposed
right now, and it's not me or Reese, but rather everyone else in the
courtroom.
As if proving every mental point I've just made, he approaches a witness
for the prosecution and proceeds to turn the woman into a silly schoolgirl,
who fidgets, smiles nervously, and bats her eyes at him. She also proceeds
to look like a liar when she can't keep her story straight. It seems that her
claim to have seen the defendant with his "alleged" mistress, as Reese calls
her, proves less than reliable. Apparently, she's not sure what she saw after
all.
Unsurprisingly, once she's off the stand, the prosecution asks for an early,
and long, lunch break. "One hour," the judge allots, giving nothing but the
standard break, which to me says that he believes the witness list is not only
long, but destined to be drawn out.
The gavel is clunked on the wooden block on top of the judge's desk, and
the courtroom becomes a gaggle of people standing and moving toward the
door. I don't get up. I can't. The walkway is packed and I'm trapped. I try to
make good use of my captive position, watching the front of the courtroom
for a story. The prosecution scrambles to a back room while Reese lingers
at his table, conversing with his client and co-counsels. Interestingly, Reese
stands close to the accused. He leans toward him. Lauren is right. This is a
man who believes his client is innocent. Or Reese simply loves everyone
who pays him and pays him well.
The courtroom doesn't just begin to thin out, it empties out like a suction
draining a swamp, and suddenly, I'm out in the open, exposed, a woman
watching Reese Summer in a sea of empty seats. It's in that moment that he
leans in close to his client to say something in his ear. In doing so, he faces
the courtroom, and me, and his gaze seems to fall on me: The woman who
almost stood him up for coffee, who is now sitting in his courtroom, staring
at him. This feels like a scene out of a stalker movie, and I'm the stalker.
He doesn't react to my presence. Maybe he doesn't recognize me. Maybe
his mind is elsewhere. Whatever the case, he continues to stare at me with
no external reaction before pulling back to look at his client, his attention
back where it belongs: Not on me.
"Miss," a security guard greets me, suddenly towering above me. "We
need you to exit the courtroom."
I frown and look at grandpa in blue, wondering if the man is serious.
How was I supposed to leave when I was blocked in? My walkway is clear
now, and I leave my comment in my head. "Of course," I say, as he steps
into the aisle in a fashion that prevents me from walking in any direction
but the door. Maybe he thinks I'm a stalker, too.
I move in front of him and exit the courtroom. And that is how my thirtysecond encounter with the man of the hour, Mr. Arrogant Asshole, Mr.
Hotness, ends: With me escorted to the door by an armed guard. So much
for professionalism and discretion.
I exit the side door of the courtroom, Nelson Ward walking in front of
me, Elsa and Richard, my co-counsels, beside me, while I have one thing,
the wrong thing in the middle of a trial, on my mind: A woman. They reach
the private room where we'll have lunch and talk strategy, and I watch them
enter before turning on my heel and heading the other direction.
"Reese."
I turn to find Elsa, who is a stunning older version of Cat by fifteen years,
standing at the door. Only I don't want to fuck Elsa. I've never wanted to
fuck Elsa, and not because of a ten-year age difference between us. Because
the woman has the personality of cardboard, despite her brilliant mind. But
I have wanted to fuck Cat. From the moment she tugged on my sleeve and
cast me in an irritated, green-eyed stare that told me at least ten things about
her personality, all of which became: I want to fuck her.
Instead, she was already fucking me.
Fucking reporters, and that has to be her story. It's the only thing that
makes sense.
"I'll be back in ten minutes," I say to Elsa, already giving her my back
and walking down the hallway.
I exit to the main corridor, happy as hell that the press has rules to follow
that don't include accosting me and security has a tight handle on the
boundaries. Of course, some of them might decide that equates to a
challenge, I think, with Cat in my mind. I scan the corridor and get lucky. I
spy my little blonde game player headed down the hallway to my left. I
don't need encouragement to follow. I'm already making tracks in her
direction, and when she turns right, I step up the pace. Her path leads me to
a set of stairs, in a less-populated part of the courthouse. The sound of her
footsteps leads me up the stairs, and I reach the top just in time to see her
enter a room to my right.
I pursue her, and when I discover that room is a bathroom, I don't care.
This woman played me, and I don't like to be played. She finds out now
that it ends now. I follow her inside.