The Trial of the Century
I wake up exhausted and in need of caffeine, which is Reese's fault. He
was on my mind last night, keeping me awake, which is unacceptable
unless we're naked and together. Thinking means I'm getting too involved
with him emotionally, and I'm not doing that now or ever. Deciding my
coffee stop is safe today, or rather necessary for everyone else's safety, I
pull myself out of bed and hurry to the shower, then put my Keurig to use to
make a cup of coffee, which I drink while drying my hair, then flatiron it to
a sleek shine. I don't tie it back, and tell myself that has nothing to do with
Reese. It's the tired thing motivating this decision. I need the attention off
my puffy-ass face.
I dress in a favorite outfit, a burgundy pantsuit with pants that hit at the
ankle. I pair it with stilettos, and the shirt beneath the jacket is white; I then
head to the coffee shop, where I read my newly posted column, as is my
routine, and I do like my routines. The fact that I'm pleased with what I've
written helps take the edge off my crankiness. And the fact that every other
headline is about a baby killer, and headlines make my fact-based
commentary stand out. Finally, it's my turn in line, and I order my white
mocha, while trying not to admit that I'm a tiny bit disappointed that Reese
has not shown up.
Once I'm at the courthouse, I wade through the gaggle out front. Once
inside, I discover that I'm seated near Reese again, and when he enters, his
eyes find mine and his words are in the air between us: Challenge accepted.
At the moment, they're about him and me and me and him, not this case.
But as he takes the courtroom reins, it becomes clear that he's up to that
challenge as well. He calls the family and friends of the victim to the stand,
and one by one, proves that no one knew his client was someone involved
with the deceased. His client knew her, but he wasn't sleeping with her. He
was trying to help her out of an abusive situation with her boyfriend.
Come lunchtime, I head back to the same food trucks I'd visited
yesterday, and I've just gotten my nuts again when Reese reappears. "You
have to eat something other than nuts."
"My nuts are healthier than your hotdog."
"Yeah, well, I only do hotdogs during trials," he says as we step to the
hotdog truck.
He orders, and a few minutes later we're sitting on the same bench as
yesterday.
"Why only during trials?" I ask, finishing off a handful of nuts. "Is it like
a superstition thing?"
"It is," he confirms. "I ate a hotdog at lunch the day I got my first jury
win. It's superstitious, but in this line of work, you take any advantage you
can get."
"You're winning," I say.
"Juries are unpredictable," he says. "You know that."
"I do. I worked for the DA for several years, and even when you believed
you should win, you didn't always win."
"The DA with a Harvard law degree," he says. "You could have been
banking and you chose public service."
"I come from money," I admit. "I make my own living, but I inherited my
apartment, and that gives me the freedom to do what I want. I can't say I'd
be different or the same in my choices if that wasn't the case."
"I came from nothing," he says. "You should know that about me."
He says those words with a hint of that arrogance that I don't read the
same way I have in the past. It's as if the arrogance is a wall to protect him
from those who might judge him unworthy. "You seem to be doing pretty
well now. And you know that what you do have, you created."
"And you don't?"
"I do now. I walked away from law. I embraced what works for me and
I'm better at what I do now because of how I started. So I can't regret it."
"Why the DA? Why public service?"
"I thought I was helping those who needed help. Instead, decisions are
politics, and then pregnant dead women don't get justice served on their
behalf. And innocent people end up with a stigma attached to them that they
don't deserve. I don't like it. Not one bit."
"You underestimate me if you believe that's how this ends."
"You'll have to hand over a damning case against someone else to end it
differently."
"And I will. If my client lets me keep going. He wants this to be over."
He balls up his wrapper and tosses it before taking my hand in his again.
"Until tomorrow, Cat," he says, using my little goodbye in each of my
columns before standing and walking away. Leaving me with that spicy
scent of him lingering in the air, and a date for lunch tomorrow.
I could no-show.
But I don't want to.
Later that night, I am in bed with a pizza and no man. Just me. I've been
alone like this for years, really. I mean, yes, there was the artist, but we had
sex. The conversation was convoluted at best. Maybe that's why I chose
him, and stayed with him way too long. He'd never really known me. He'd
never threatened my heart. But I got to have an orgasm. I got to feel a body
next to mine. It had seemed like enough. Which brings me to my column,
which I write carefully on this day, because I dare to talk about domestic
abuse. My closing statement reads like this:
Who killed Jennifer Wright and her unborn child?
That is the question in the courtroom now, and as the defense presents
their case, more and more the answer doesn't sound as simple as who has
been charged. Interestingly, I believe the defense could ask for a dismissal
again at any time, and based on evidence, he should be granted that
request. But I find myself wanting this trial to continue. I want to know who
the killer is, and I want to see that killer brought to justice. Tomorrow is
Friday. My assessment is that as much as I want this case to continue, it's
expensive financially and emotionally. If the defense plans to ask for that
dismissal, Friday is the day. Until then, —Cat.
I shut my computer and stare up at the ceiling. If the trial is over, then
what?
Do I dare my one night, followed by a goodbye with Reese Summer?
Or do I just say goodbye?
Or is it really hello?
No.
What am I thinking?
Day 5: The Trial of the Century
I have trouble sleeping again, and I wake up with butterflies in my
stomach as if I'm the one who has a high-profile case to close today. With
the potential dismissal of the case, today feels like it should be more formal.
I dress in a light blue suit dress that I pair with a black jacket, tights, and
stilettos again, and despite drinking coffee at home, my white mocha has to
happen. I reach the coffee shop and the line is predictably out of the door,
but I'll get my white mocha and a better mood with it. I'm reading my own
column on my phone while standing in line when I receive a text from my
literary agent: Loving your coverage of the trial. So is your editor. She
wants to contract your coverage as a new book. Are you in?
My mood is instantly better, and I type: Yes, x 1000
My agent answers with: I'll email you the offer when I get it.
Smiling now, the rest of the line is short, and I wonder if yet another book
deal will finally win my family's support instead of their ire over my career
choices. I'll share the news once I sign the contract. I'm already thinking
about how to structure a book, and how today's happenings might impact
my choices, when I finally get to the register. I head to the end of the bar
and spy broad, perfect shoulders in an expensive suit: Reese. Reese is here.
And I know he's here for me. I stop walking, and that's when everything
changes. The woman next to him, a pretty blonde, is flirting with him. He
looks down at her and laughs that charming laugh of his. Apparently, he
likes blondes. Just how many is he pursuing? Asshole. Why did I even think
all this interaction we had was about me, rather than the obvious—him
getting laid?
Suddenly, Reese and the woman turn in my direction, and the woman is
still looking up at Reese as his attention lands on me. The woman starts
walking, and her destination is: Into me. Her iced coffee explodes all over
me. I gasp with the shock of the cold beverage, and I'm pretty sure some of
it just drained down my pant leg. "Holy hell," Reese murmurs, while the
woman panics.
"Oh God. Oh God. I'm sorry."
Reese hands me napkins while he starts wiping my dress. I grab his hand.
"Stop."
"Cat—"
"Don't say my name."
He frowns. "What?"
"Deal with your other woman. She's upset." I rotate away from him and
into her. "Please move."
"I—Yes." She backs up, and I charge past her and down a set of steps that
lead to the lower-level bathroom, and there is no question that I have ice
between my damn boobs.
I reach the bottom of the steps, and luckily the bathroom is empty. I open
the door, step inside, and shut myself in there. I'm a mess. A complete,
sticky, horrible mess. I dig the ice from my bra and try to dry off enough to
just get me out of here and back home.
I take a step to follow Cat, but the woman who was talking my ear off
while I waited on my coffee steps in front of me. "I'm so sorry," she
proclaims. "Obviously you know her. I want to make this right."
"It was an accident," I say. "And I'll handle it." I step around her, weave
between bodies at the crowded bar, and head down the stairs that Cat had
been rushing toward.
At the bottom level, I find the bathroom and knock on the door. "Cat."
The door flies open and she points at her coffee-stained dress, while I try
to focus on the stains, not the curve of her breasts and her discreet but lush
cleavage. "You did this," she accuses, pulling my gaze back to hers, while
her verbal attack reminds me that she is hard to get in every way but a good
fight.
"I didn't do this," I say. "I—"
"You were flirting with that woman and she was staring at you with her
panties melting, and she just walked right into me. You did this. Move. I
need to go home and change."
She's jealous, and I can't help but be a little pleased about this, but I bite
back a smile and a laugh sure to get me hurt. "Panties melting?" I rest my
arm on the doorframe above her. "Sweetheart, since I met you, the only
panties I want to melt for me are yours."
"Really?" she demands. "Prove it."
"Name the time and place."
Her cheeks huff. "Forget I said that."
"No. I won't forget that you said that. Challenge once again accepted."
"Move. I need to go home and change because you ruined my dress."
I decide not to point out the inaccuracy of that statement yet again, and
settle on a peace offering. "I'll buy you a new dress."
"Seriously? You'll buy me a new dress? Is that supposed to melt my
panties? You think you can buy your way past your bad behavior? First you
cut in line and want to buy my coffee, and now this. You really are an
arrogant ass, and I can't be bought."
I grab her and pull her to me, my hand at the side of her face, the other on
her hip, when I want my hands everywhere, all over her. "I was not flirting
with that woman, but you are another story." I close my mouth down on
hers, my tongue licking into her mouth. At first, she resists, but I deepen the
kiss and she moans a sexy little moan, and then she's melting into me,
kissing me back. The taste of her is chocolate and coffee. Temptation burns
through me, thickening my cock.
But she suddenly pushes on my chest, tearing her mouth from mine.
"Like I said," she pants out, "I can't be bought."
"You think that kiss was bribery?" I ask.
"Yes," she says. "I do."
"Did it work?"
"A little, but once you let go of me, I'll get over it."
"If I give you the chance, but I won't."
"I told you—"
I kiss her again, this time a long, drugging, deep kiss before I say, "If I
had time," I say, finishing the sentence in my head with multiple choices: I
would fuck you, lick you, punish you with an orgasm you want but can't
have until you see me again. "I have to get to court."
"If you had time," she says, "I still wouldn't let you do any of the things
you're thinking about doing."
"Like I said: Challenge accepted." I release her and start up the stairs,
turning back to add, "You taste as good as I knew you would," before I turn
away and head back up the stairs.
"Reese," she says from behind me just before I reach the top level.
I turn to find her standing at the bottom of the step. "Yes, Cat?" I say, and
holy fuck, she's gorgeous with her hair down like this.
"You have my lipstick all over your mouth and face."
I reach up and run my finger over my mouth to find a shade of pink on
my finger. "Is it at least your lucky shade?"
"I just had coffee spilled all over me while wearing it."
"And I kissed you."
"Yes, actually, there is that."
I have a brief moment in which I contemplate charging down the steps
and pulling her back into the bathroom, where I would set her on the
counter. Next her skirt would go up her gorgeous legs, and I would settle a
knee in between her thighs, and rip off her panties rather than melt them. I
would then lick her until she moans, tugs on my hair, and begs for more.
But I have fucking court.
Instead, I simply say, "See you in court, Cat," before I turn away and
head into the coffee shop again, where I stop for napkins, and head for the
door, motivated to win my case, and Cat. And I am going to win with Cat.
One lick at a time, if that's what it takes.