AVA

 

Goddammit, why can’t Luke Page communicate more?

Luke is my boss, technically. Page & Sons is a local law firm that mostly handles pro bono work for charities and also covers some civil cases when the legal aid offices are slammed. As far as I know, this case is just another one of Page & Sons’ clients being sued for a misdemeanor. As a first year, I’m mainly responsible for keeping abreast of cases, helping with the research, and trying to keep Page’s idiot sons from doing anything too stupid.

At first, I’d only taken the job because I wanted to get my foot in the door somewhere, then pay my dues before moving on to somewhere better once I’d proven my worth. But now, I’m kind of invested in it. Page & Sons only has about a fifteen percent success rate, which has gone up a bit since I joined. Not only that but as one of the few competent people on staff, I’ve become more and more adept at things I wouldn’t have been expected to master until well into my third or fourth year out of law school. I can advance here, I think, and learn more than I could have anywhere else.

Of course, I still would have liked to have someone at my back today.

Luke might just be faking his illness, or he might legitimately have whooping cough, but at the moment it doesn’t matter. What matters is his secretary, Joanne, handed me a stack of case notes when I came into work this morning.

“What’s this?” I’d asked.

“Mr Page can’t make it in today,” Joanna said, looking apologetic. “He needs you to fill in on the Morgenstern case.”

“But I haven’t had anything to do with that!” I’d squeaked.

After that conversation there had been nothing else for it. In the almost year I’d been working with Page & Sons, I’d never once been asked to do something so ad hoc. Normally, I’d spend weeks planning my arguments, and come into the courtroom knowing everything about who were defending and who our opposition was. Even then, there would be a very, very slim chance of me actually having to present.

I’m only a first year, after all. Usually, I’m not handed a case file that somebody else has put together and told that my court date is in twenty minutes, on the other side of town.

Goddammit, I’m seriously going to kill Luke.

I met my client, Jennifer, at the courthouse. Inside, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Judge Hastings behind the gavel. She’s a fair woman, though fearsome when she’s pushed, and I’ve seen cases pled in front of her before.

To say I'd been brought up short when I saw the man I’d be arguing against is an understatement.

I knew of him by his reputation, but I’d never seen him before. He’s well-known in Vegas–Christopher Cole, the shark of Benson & Cole. They have an almost one hundred percent success rate and Christopher Cole is a big part of those successes.

I’d felt my heart sinking the minute I saw him ride into the courthouse parking lot astride his black motorcycle. He’s tall and broad-shouldered from what I could see beneath the motorcycle jacket he’d been wearing. There’s a light salt and pepper color to his black beard. There’s a slight tan on his face which makes my pale skin look even paler by comparison, and his body moves like there’s a lot of raw power beneath the surface. He probably has muscles hidden beneath that suit jacket he’s now wearing.

He took his time sizing me up as he’d passed me on the way inside the courthouse, but I could have sworn there was an intense feeling shared.

Get a grip, Ava.

I’ll admit I’ve been admiring him from afar. I respect him as a lawyer, but I also admire him as a sexy specimen of manhood that feels extremely out of my reach.

I’d drawn Jennifer toward me the moment I saw her, helping run a comb through her hair and make herself presentable. Though nothing could help her ill-fitting jacket look more tailored. The woman made a drunken attempt to break into her ex’s house, and he’s enough of an asshole to take her to court for the cost of the alarm and the doorknob.

Waste of public funds, I think, even though I’m benefitting from it.

Inside, Christopher Cole had zeroed in on me. I’d tried to stare him down, assuming he’d be more interested in intimidating me than my client. His presence filled the room as though he owned it—as if the room had been waiting for his arrival to fill it—and now he’s here it’s finally doing its job.

After a while I realized his stares weren’t entirely professional, and that only made me feel more nervous. He was glaring at me almost hungrily. I’ve seen looks like that on men’s faces before but somehow this was different. I can’t explain it. The moment he laid his eyes on me I wanted to throw myself on the desk and do whatever he asked.

I’ve never in my life been affected like that by a man.

When he came over in a prowl-like walk, he spoke to me with the deepest voice that ignited my want for him even more. Sitting under the gaze of this man with his dark eyes shining down on me, I felt like the most inexperienced girl on the planet. The gray at his temples hinted at years of experience and practice, and the way he looked at me like he was thinking of a dozen things he could do to me only supported that theory.

I wonder how many women he’s been with.

I made the mistake of looking at his crotch and he’d smiled at me like a shark who smelled blood in the water.

I’d panicked when he discussed Luke, so I lied and stated he was on his way. After our brief discussion Christopher left to join his client, and Jennifer had leaned over and whispered, “I thought you said Mr Page can’t make it?”

“He can’t,” I told her. Thinking quickly, I added, “But if Mr Cole thinks that I’m flustered or nervous because I’m not prepared, then he’ll probably make some mistakes. This is all part of my strategy.”

Jennifer nodded like I was the smartest woman she’d ever met and I quickly stacked my case notes up so they were easily accessible, before quickly flicking through them to try and get my head around what the case is about. The longer I read, the more I feel my heart sinking.

It seems like my client’s entirely at fault. How the hell was I going to argue against Christopher fucking Cole when it was pretty clear that his client was in the right?

“Take your seats,” Judge Hastings says. She’s got her long hair hidden up under a purple hijab that looks like a Chanel.

Crap, it’s time.

I watch as the rest of the room scrambles to obey Judge Hastings.

Christopher takes his time to sit down next to his client, glancing over at me with that shark smile again.

It makes me suddenly angry.

Why the hell is he so sure of himself? Why does he think that, just because he looks me up and down and I briefly forget myself, it means he’s going to win this case? Goddammit, I’m the best first-year associate Page & Sons has ever seen, I can handle this. I will handle this.

Corbyn Dale is an asshole. An entitled, selfish asshole. I’m chomping at the bit to cross-examine him from the moment Christopher Cole introduces the son of a bitch to the courtroom.

There’s a smattering of people in the audience. Some are friends of Corbyn’s who came to see him own the crazy bitch who trashed his house. Jennifer doesn’t have anyone at all, and that makes me deeply sad for her. I try to channel that energy into my arguments, but I can feel myself losing. I can feel Judge Hastings leaning more toward Corbyn’s argument.

“The fact is, Your Honor, the young lady in the defense chair wilfully damaged my client’s property,” Christopher Cole says, his voice as smooth and thick as honey, which in turn makes me tremble in ways that are entirely different to what I’m sure he’s used to. “My client is generously not pursuing criminal charges. We only ask that the defendant pay for the damages she incurred when she broke into his property.”

Which would be fine, I think, if Jennifer weren’t living on food stamps, practically homeless, and between jobs. Corbyn knows that hitting her wallet will do far more damage than if he has her thrown in jail, where she’ll have three square meals a day and a roof over her head.

Judge Hastings listens to Christopher’s final comments before nodding for me to start. I take a breath to steady myself, ignoring the physical contact I can feel coming from Christopher’s eyes, before running a reassuring hand over Jennifer’s shoulder and walking around to speak directly to Corbyn and his counsel.

“Mr Dale,” I say, ignoring the slimy way he runs his eyes over me. Thank God for the hours at Fever where I’ve learned to shrug this shit off. I’m less able to ignore the way Christopher’s eyes seem to be boring into my soul, though. “Just to be clear… the damage to your door lock was some scratches?”

“It wasn’t just scratches,” he replies, discretely sliding his phone away from him which he’d been playing with through Christopher’s monolog. He looks annoyed that he even has to be here. “The idiot ran her key all over it. Totally messed it up.”

“Her key,” I repeat.

Corbyn shrugs. “Yeah.”

He leans back with his hands folded over his chest. He seems almost amused like he’s wondering where I’m going with this line of questioning. Christopher, on the other hand, seems to know exactly where I’m going because he’s narrows his eyes.

“So you gave my client a key to your home?”

“I’d like to object to this line of questioning, Your Honor,” Christopher says, standing up so we are eye-to-eye. “Giving a key to one’s home does not imply continued access when the relationship is terminated.”

Judge Hastings considers that for a moment. “I agree,” she says while I chew on my lip to hide my disappointment. “Tread carefully here, Miss Rose.”

I’m going to kill Luke Page, I think.

It’s one thing to join a tiny law firm and make it better. It’s another to embarrass myself in trial, and wind up never getting anything better because no one will hire me.

A part of me wishes I had Garth at my back in this. Or even just the girls for support. I usually enjoy both of my jobs, but right now I miss the exhilaration and support I get from Fever. I feel very alone in this courtroom.

“You’re quite right, Mr Cole,” I say. “But I’m more interested in why he gave her the key in the first place.”

“They were romantically involved.”

“That’s certainly part of it.” I walk back to my briefcase, feeling Christopher’s eyes on my ass as I go. Of course, everyone’s eyes are on me right now. The whole room is waiting to see where I’m heading with this.

I take some pictures out of my briefcase. They came with the file but they hadn’t had any notes with them, so I got the impression that Luke Page wasn’t planning to use them. But I saw something that I’d run past Jennifer the moment I saw her. It had struck me odd that throughout Luke’s notes nowhere had she actually explained why she’d broken into Corbyn’s house. After a couple of minutes of intense questioning, she’d confessed everything to me.

And that picture is my slam dunk.

“I would like to submit this… exhibit 19B… for your consideration,” I say, taking the photo and showing it to Judge Hastings. I see Christopher quickly riffling through his own case file to find the same picture. “In particular, I would like you to focus on the bottom right-hand corner.”

Christopher squints at the corner of the picture at the same time the judge does.

“A sock?” Judge Hastings asks.

“A bootie,” I reply. “For a baby.”

Corbyn’s reaction is immediate, though subdued. He clenches his jaw and turns his head to glare at Jennifer, who’s staring at her hands.

“Miss Jennifer Laurens was not in a relationship with Mr Dale,” I say. “Miss Stephanie Laurens was. Stephanie is Miss Laurens’ fifteen-year-old sister. She and Mr Dale had a child together, a boy, and Miss Laurens agreed to pretend to be Mr Dale’s girlfriend, so Mr Dale could spend time with the baby without drawing suspicion from law enforcement. It is, of course, statutory rape to impregnate a fifteen-year-old.”

Judge Hastings is frowning at the picture. Christopher Cole is frowning at his client, with a look in his eye that says he would dearly love to smack the guy over the head.

“That may be so,” Christopher says, trying to salvage the situation and drawing the attention of the room back to him. He has a way of doing it that makes me want to listen to him, even though he’s my opposition. “But Mr Dale is not the one on trial here. Miss Laurens may have had a relationship with him previously, but whatever the nature of the relationship she did significant damage to Mr Dale’s home in her attempts to illegally enter.”

“Miss Laurens was, to use Mr Dale’s words, drunk. Intoxicated. She argues that in her inebriated state she believed her nephew was with Mr Dale, and that she was required to go to his home and assist him with his care while her sister was at home… asleep.” I give Corbyn a hard look. “It was a school night, and she had a test the next day.”

Christopher looks like he would love nothing better than to throw his client out the window.

Our eyes lock and I feel a shot of something similar to electricity run through me. He looks me up and down and there’s a begrudging respect in his gaze, but not only that there’s a warm, hungry look as well. I know, because I have a terrible feeling that I’m returning it with one of my own.