Four hours later, the courtroom of jurors, press and observers, has
endured the tedious cross-examination of the victim's boyfriend and the
tears of her mother. The testimony drags onward, and the day does not end
early because it's Friday. But ultimately Reese tries to give us all an ending
to the trial. Come nearly six o'clock, he stands and addresses the court.
"Judge," he says, "the defense respectfully requests the dismissal of all
charges. There has been no evidence presented to support charging my
client. At this point, I think we can all question why my client was charged
at all. With the obvious lack of evidence against my client, and a number of
suspects, did the prosecution simply pick the one that gets them the biggest
book deals?"
The courtroom erupts in murmurs and chaos, while I cringe at the
personal note this has hit for me. I've been flirting with Reese. I've all but
promised to get naked with Reese. I have a meeting about writing a book
with the prosecutor, this very hour, perhaps. Turns out I know the answer to
my earlier question: Yes. It can get more complicated.
The judge bangs his gavel and shouts, "Order!" pulling me back into the
moment as he looks directly at Reese. "Unless you get me a confession by
someone other than your client, the jury will decide this case, not me. Don't
argue. You won't like the results. Court adjourned."
And just like that, the trial will continue on Monday, and I have drinks
with the prosecutor instead of coffee followed by sex with Reese Summer.
This day needs a do-over.
I don't wait to find out if there are press conferences after court. I analyze
and opine on crimes. I don't push and shove. I don't hide in bushes or
around corners to get stories. In other words, I don't wait to find out if there
is a press conference after court that will include nothing more than more of
the same huff and puff I listened to all day. A short walk later, I arrive at the
Johnnie Walker bar, on the ground level of the Johnnie Walker Hotel, before
the clusters of tables are filled. I glance around the spacious bar, the décor
all brown leather and wooden masculinity, the lights dim.
I cross the room and settle into a seat by a window, away from any other
tables, allowing for a private conversation with Dan that could include
sensitive and confidential information, if we can get past our dislike for one
another. It also allows me to see the door, at least at the moment, before the
crowds erupt. For the time being, I ignore the entrance, and the menu on the
table that I know from previous visits sports a wide variety of Johnnie
Walker scotch. I'm not a scotch girl. I'm not a drinker at all—at least, not
when I need my head on straight. Which means I will never drink with
Reese Summer.
I'll order coffee.
It's safe.
Or not.
It's not safe, but it is lucky. Coffee is how I met Reese. Coffee is how I
ended up kissing Reese. I'm not writing a book with the prosecutor. If I'm
going to write a book with anyone, I'll write it with Reese. I'll propose that
idea to him and the publisher. I just need to do the obligatory meeting I
have set tonight.
Instead I order a White Russian with a half pour, which ensures I drink
more cream than alcohol. While I wait for it and Dan, a television nearby
has been tuned to the news and a familiar broadcaster is standing in front of
the courthouse, where there is nothing but picketers being reported. I get
one look at a "kill the baby killer sign" and I think I need the rest of that
pour. But too late. My drink is here, and so is Dan Miller, and he looks as
angry tonight as he does pretty much always.
Dan locates me quickly, proving once again that this day needs a reset
button. He crosses the room: Tall, lanky, and in his forties, with a hint of
gray in his brown hair. Too soon, he sits down by the window opposite me.
"I assume you chose this location to be seen. The reporter that scooped the
prosecution."
My anger is instant, but my legal training and debate skills remind me to
clamp it down. "First," I say, biting out a controlled reply, "I didn't choose
this location. My publisher did. Second, I don't scoop stories. Ever. I write
expert analyses and true crime novels."
"Right," he says. "And I gave in and agreed to meet you. No more need
to stalk me at coffee shops. Now what?"
I give an incredulous shake of my head. First Reese with the stalker thing.
Now him. "I live by that coffee shop, so perhaps you were stalking me to
get a true crime book deal."
"I don't need you for a book deal."
"And yet you're sitting with me. Have you ever written a book?"
"No, but—"
"It was a yes or no question, counselor. And now we both know why
you're here. The publisher believes you need a skilled co-writer to write a
decent book. I don't want to be your co-writer. Now we can say we met, we
did this, and we won't work together."
He studies me several beats. "Who wins this case?"
"No one, because justice is not going to be served. You acted rashly. You
didn't wait for the evidence to tell a convincing story."
"You don't think he's guilty."
"I'm an attorney. I honor the court system, and he's innocent until proven
guilty. As for the book, this meeting is over. We can say we did it. We can
say we aren't compatible."
"But you're writing a book anyway."
"Yes."
"You'll need my input."
"If you choose to let Reese Summer speak out while you do not," I
counter, "I'll deal with that fact in my book and you'll have to as well."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's a statement of fact."
"This meeting was a joke from the get go."
He says something else, but I tune him out with the sensation of being
watched I'd felt at the courthouse repeating all over again. My gaze pulls
wide and lands on a table across the room, where Reese sits with his cocounsels, and my eyes connect with his, his narrowing, a question in their
depths. He isn't sure what to think. I'm not either. My palms are sweaty. I
feel guilty. This is crazy. I did nothing wrong. He really is making me crazy.
My fingers curl into my palms. Why did I agree to a meeting at a courtroom
hotspot? I've tried to be discreet with Reese, but I happily meet with his
opposition in public?
"Look," Dan says, "I don't need or want—"
"I get it," I say, looking at him. "I'm not writing a book with you. And
frankly, I hope you decide to spend your time finding the right person to
prosecute, rather than writing a book about the wrong one." I grab my bag,
stand up, and head for the door without looking in Reese's direction. I'll
text him when I get out of here and explain, or not. This is my job.
I start walking, and I swear Reese's gaze burns through me. I weave
through the now-occupied tables and the group of people that enter as I'm
trying to exit the bar, pushing past them to travel through the lobby. Once I
step outside, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees, while I feel
downright hot. "Wait one moment."
At the sound of Dan's voice, I cringe and turn to face him. "The publisher
wants this to happen," he says, standing in front of me, crowding me now.
"We need to be on the same page when addressing them."
"I'll talk to them," I say. "I'll move this in the direction we both
obviously want it to go." Which is nowhere, I silently add.
"When?"
"They'll contact me tonight. I'll let them know our decision."
He glares at me for several seconds and then scrubs his jaw and walks
away. And that is when I realize that Reese is standing just outside the hotel
door, close enough that had Dan turned just right, he'd have seen him.
Close enough to have heard everything. For several beats, neither of us
move, speak, even breathe, it seems, the overhang attached to the building
shadows his face. But I don't need to see his expression to feel the anger in
him. He thinks he knows something he does not know.
"Whatever you think you saw, you didn't," I say, and my voice seems to
set him into action.
He walks toward me, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Angry at the moment, a man of
power and control, but that anger is palpable. He stops in front of me, so
damn tall and broad, a chilly breeze lifting that spicy scent of him, which
wraps around me. Everything about him in this moment is overwhelmingly
large.
"What I saw isn't what pisses me off," he says. "You have a job to do.
You have interviews to do. I get that. It's what I heard that pisses me off. A
book deal with that man? Were you feeding your book partner
information?"
"No," I say quickly. "God. No. Reese, this isn't—"
"Were you going to fuck me for information?"
"That's not what this is. Why would I wait, if that's what I wanted?"
"You got me talking. And I admit it. You were good, sweetheart. You
look good. You taste good. You fuck people over real damn good."
"Don't be an asshole because you think I'm an asshole. Because I'm not
an asshole, and that makes you a really big asshole. And the very fact that
you're going off the deep end like this tells a story. You've been burned,
and guess what? Whoever she was is not me."
"Maybe you can put that in your book with Danny boy. Maybe you can
even turn me into a monster defending a monster."
"No," I breathe out, hit hard by those words, and I don't even know why.
"I don't think you're a monster."
"But you need to sell books. However you can sell them, right?"
"That's not who I am. I know you know that."
His voice softens ever so slightly. "I barely know you, Cat."
"Then don't judge me. My publisher set this up, and—"
"You should have warned me."
"This is my job. We aren't dating."
"Right. Just fucking. No. Wrong. We aren't even fucking. We were
waiting while you milked me for more than an orgasm. And now I know
where I went wrong with you. The minute I heard you were a reporter, I
should have pulled your skirt up and had my one and done, and got you the
fuck out of my system."
"Stop being an asshole."
"It's who I am, per you."
"You're reading this all wrong, and you're—"
"I don't want more information," he bites out. "Let's keep this simple but
not sweet. Hard and fast. Hard and long. As long as it ends. I'm in. If you
want to fuck. Let's fuck."
"You ruined the joy of that little adventure."
"Fine," he says. "If you change your mind, if you want your one and
done, call me. Otherwise, don't." He turns and walks away, leaving me on
the sidewalk, staring after him as he re-enters the building.
I take a step to follow him and quite possibly punch him, but several
high-profile lawyers walk into the hotel behind him. And I amend my
earlier statement. Meeting here wasn't stupid. I have nothing to hide with
Dan. With Reese, it's different. We're one big, combustible ball of angry,
sex-driven tension that's hard to miss if you're in the same room with us.
Rotating, I start an angry walk toward my apartment, and with every step
I take, that anger vibrates through me. Being pissed off morphs into images
of my ex screwing his secretary and a playlist of his lies. Reese didn't deny
being burned. He didn't deny that it was driving his reactions to me now.
Damn it, I've seen beneath the asshole. It's a wall. I get it. I have my own.
My anger plummets.
I make it one block and I dial Reese's number. He doesn't answer. I walk
another block and try again. He doesn't answer. I start getting angry all over
again. This emotional rollercoaster and attempts to contact him repeat for
seven blocks until I stop walking. At which point I realize that he must
think that I'm actually calling for sex. Now he's toying with me the way he
thinks I've toyed with him.
I turn around and start walking back toward him.
This ends tonight, one way or the other.