Seconds: A Salvation Society Novel

by Freya Barker

  “Good point,” I mumble, my mouth full with my first delicious bite.

  For a while we eat in silence, the cake deserving every last ounce of our attention.

  “So tell me,” Sally finally says, using her finger to scrape the last of the icing off her plate. “How did that flatulent shitweasel react?”

  I snort at her creative description for my ex. She never thought much of him to start with and, after she stood by me through my rather ugly divorce, came to hate his guts. Not that I disagree, Neil Tory absolutely is a shitweasel. Too bad it took me years to figure that out.

  When I met him he was with the public defender’s office and I’d just started with Thatcher, Cleaver, and Associates. He was an idealist then. He’d defied his father, who was the Richmond City Commonwealth Attorney, and wanted his son to follow in his footsteps, but Neil believed in defending the underdog, the vulnerable. At least he did back then, but that changed when I was making a little headway at the firm and started bringing home more money. Something his father never failed to rub in Neil’s face.

  That had been the beginning of the end. Our marriage crumbled and he switched sides; went from the Norfolk Public Defender’s Office to his father’s in Richmond two years ago. Neil, who hadn’t set foot in his father’s country club in years, was suddenly a member, hobnobbing with the big boys. Including my bosses. Suddenly my rise to associate came grinding to a halt and after a year of being relegated to second at the defense table, I’d had enough and handed in my resignation. I pulled up stakes in Norfolk as well and moved to smaller Suffolk to start in private practice.

  The kicker was, when I took on Sean Davies’ case and at the pretrial saw Neil take a seat at the prosecutor’s table. That’s how I discovered he’d transferred to the Suffolk Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office. For the life of me I can’t figure why he’s followed me here, but he seems determined to cut me down to size.

  Except this time it blew up in his face.

  “He looked murderous.” I can still see the purple veins stand out on his forehead as he stormed out of the courtroom after the verdict was read, avoiding all eye contact.

  “I bet he did,” Sally cackles, and I can’t help but laugh with her. “Next time I want to sit in.”

  “We’ll see,” I tell her, shaking my head as I pick up the empty plates and carry them to the kitchen. Sally follows me with the cake.

  “By the way, I think they have a new guy next door.” She waves herself and bats her eyelashes. “Hawt, in capital letters. Built like a Mack truck and looking like a mountain man. Did you see him?”

  “That’s Callum McGregor.”

  Her eyes widen. “McGregor? As in McGregor Bail Bonds? That McGregor?”

  “That’s the one,” I confirm with a smile, as I slip past her to my desk where I start pulling the files from my accordion folder. “I bumped into him Friday night when I left.”

  Sally, who followed me, perches on the edge of my desk.

  “Pray tell.”

  It takes me all of a minute to fill her in on the brief interaction I had with the man. I don’t share I’ve spent a lot of my weekend playing those few minutes over and over in my head, or that I can still feel the rasp of his calloused hand against my palm. I don’t subscribe to flights of fancy and can’t remember the last time I fantasized about a man, if ever. Still, something must’ve conveyed in my voice because Sally raises her eyebrow, a smug look on her face.

  “Interesting,” she drawls and I recognize the tease.

  “Hardly. I exchanged barely two words with the man.”

  “But you liked those two words,” she persists, eyeing me with a keen scrutiny, reminiscent of my mother trying to poke holes in my teenage excuses.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting home?” I ask in an attempt to distract, looking pointedly at my watch. Lame, but it works.

  “Oh, shit. What time is it? I have to take Matt to soccer practice.”

  “Five fifteen.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth when she’s suddenly a flurry of activity, grabbing her belongings before running for the door.

  “Later!” she yells on her way out.

  The cake took care of the hunger pangs I suffered all afternoon while waiting for the jury to return a verdict, so instead of heading out for a celebratory meal for one, I sit down at my desk and sort through notes Sally left for me.

  No urgent messages, but I do see she had a few calls inquiring about my services. Those I’ll tackle tomorrow. I quickly jot down my billable hours for today, so she can process them into my final bill for Sean in the morning, and leave the pad with my scribbles on her desk. Then I slip into the kitchen, cut myself another slice of cake, and put it in a container to take home. In case I get hungry later.

  I’m locking up behind me when the door of the bail bonds office opens and Cal McGregor is led out in handcuffs.

  I hadn’t even noticed the police cars.

  Cal

  “Call your brother. Please.”

  I tack the plea on when I see confusion in her eyes. The next moment I’m stuffed into the back of a police cruiser. Jackson will know to get in touch with Mark Phillips, one of my guys, who will get the ball rolling to get me out.

  Sexual battery; that’s all they said. Jesus fucking Christ.

  Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure someone didn’t take too kindly to being hauled to jail. It had been a mistake to drag her back by myself. Shit, it had been a mistake to take up with her years ago, but there’s nothing I can do about either of those things now.

  I lay my head back on the seat and consider myself lucky I’d had the weekend to catch up on some sleep. At least I have a clear mind to deal with this.

  The ride to the police station isn’t long, and all too soon I find myself hustled into the familiar building.

  “Sorry, Cal,” Jim Shaughnessy says sympathetically when I’m led to the front desk. Jim is one of the desk sergeants I deal with on a regular basis. A friendly guy, who currently looks uncomfortable as he directs the officers down the hall to an empty interrogation room.

  “Am I under arrest?” I ask again. The first time I asked, when they were slapping cuffs on me, I didn’t get an answer. This time I do as they undo my cuffs and indicate for me to sit down at the small table.

  “Detained for questioning. For now,” the older cop, who looks vaguely familiar, finally clarifies before he and his partner leave me alone in the room.

  Other than a few run-ins when I was an angry adolescent, I haven’t been on this side of law enforcement and it’s a little unnerving. Especially when I’m not sure my tenant will follow through on my request.

  I don’t have to wait long before the door opens and a detective walks in, drops a file on the table, and takes the seat across from me.

  “My name is Detective Walker and I have a few questions regarding time you spent recently with Ms. Krista Hardee.” He seems to be waiting for an answer, but since he hasn’t really asked a question yet, I remain silent. “You are familiar with Ms. Hardee?”

  “I am. As I’m sure you’re aware, I dropped her off at the jail Friday night.”

  He nods and starts flipping through the notes in his file, occasionally humming. I know what he’s doing; it’s a well-known technique to make me uneasy and get me to start rambling. I’m not about to fall for it, so I cross my arms and lean back in my chair as relaxed as I can force my body to be.

  “Could you unbutton your shirt for me?”

  Shit. That came out of left field.

  Pisses me right off but I try to keep myself under control as I slowly undo my buttons. As expected, Walker’s focus is on my chest where I know the marks are still visible from when the bitch bit my pec.

  “Care to tell me where you got that mark?”

  I really don’t and wonder if it’s perhaps time to call for a lawyer when a timely knock on the door interrupts us.

  Walker gets up and walks to the door, opening it a crack before he
slips outside and I hear voices raised in the hallway. A minute later he comes back in.

  “Your lawyer is here,” he announces.

  I’m confused. Even if Mark had been contacted and he’d been able to get hold of my lawyer, Milt Arenberg, it would’ve taken the man a while to get here from Norfolk. I have no idea who Walker is talking about until he steps out of the way, revealing Reagan Cole entering behind him.

  “I’m going to need some time with my client,” she says with an authority that surprises me. Her quick glance in my direction is enough for me to hold my tongue, despite the need to know what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.

  “We’re merely looking to clarify a few things with Mr. McGregor at this point,” Walker shares.

  “And you’re welcome to do so after I’ve had some time to confer with my client,” she insists, standing her ground.

  I bite my lip seeing the annoyed flare of the detective’s nostrils. Reagan, on the other hand, looks calm and very composed. Jackson’s little sister is clearly much more than a pretty face.

  “Fine,” Walker grumbles. “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

  Reagan doesn’t hesitate to take the upper hand.

  “I will let you know when we’re done.”

  The moment the door closes behind him, she turns on me.

  “How do you know Jackson?” she fires off right away.

  “We did our BUD/S training together.”

  “You’re a SEAL?”

  “No.”

  I don’t add that her brother went on to finish his training, while I ended up in the hospital twenty-two weeks into the twenty-four week program with an artificial knee. The result of a training accident shattering my knee joint beyond repair. Just like that, my dreams gone up in air. It had taken me some time to get over.

  She looks at me quizzically before apparently deciding there are more pressing matters at hand.

  “Right, let’s get to business.”

  But I’d like some clarifications of my own first.

  “What are you doing here? Where is Milt?”

  “I followed you here, and who’s Milt?”

  “My lawyer, Milt Arenberg.”

  “Oh. I got a call from Mark—Jackson must’ve given him my number—asking me to jump in. Apparently Arenberg is out of the country. Something about a safari in Kenya, not sure. Anyway, I’m here. All the desk sergeant would tell me was they’re questioning you in relation to a sexual battery case. Tell me what that has to do with you.” She looks at me sharply. “I need to know everything.”

  The last thing I want to do is explain my history with Krista to this woman, but it looks like I have little choice.

  Chapter Three

  Reagan

  Holy shit.

  I glance at the man beside me. I have to give it to him; he makes no effort to avoid my scrutiny as he buttons up his shirt. That fading bite mark looked pretty damning.

  “You had a relationship with this woman.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I saw her for a brief period a long time ago, and then it ended. Didn’t hear from her in years until she called me out of the blue, six months or so ago. She’d been arrested and charged with drug trafficking.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “Which one? That she called me or that she was peddling drugs?” His retort is sharp: a challenge.

  “Her call,” I clarify calmly.

  Don’t ask me why, but I sense he’s not one who’d knowingly associate with anyone involved with drugs. After fourteen years as a defense lawyer, my instincts are well honed and they tell me Callum McGregor is a straight shooter.

  “To be honest, both surprised me.”

  “But you bailed her out.” I look up from the yellow pad I’ve been scribbling notes on.

  “I did. Her father paid the bond and given his status in this community, I felt she was a safe bet. No other reason than that,” he adds, looking at me pointedly.

  “Go on,” I prompt him.

  “She checked in on her assigned dates and then one day, a little over a month ago, she didn’t. She’d bailed.” His eyes drift to the wall as he rubs his chin, and I note that sometime during the weekend he’d had time to get his hair and beard trimmed. “Daddy claimed not to know where she went and I was inclined to believe him. He stood to lose a whack of money if she couldn’t be found.”

  “But you did find her.”

  “Eventually. In Texas; South Padre Island.”

  I hum and scribble some more notes down before looking up at him.

  “How did you get her back here?”

  “Drove.”

  “All the way through?”

  I get another glare, but that doesn’t bother me. He’ll eventually get asked about that. We’re not exactly talking about a few hours’ drive.

  “Stopped at a motel both Wednesday and Thursday night. And before you ask, she was cuffed to the bed and I sat up in a chair.”

  I nod, jotting down some details and without looking up, I shoot off my next question, “So how’d you get the bite?”

  “Krista. She wasn’t too keen on coming with me. The bite was her last ditch effort when I was getting her out of the car at the jail.”

  Again he meets my eyes straight on and there is no sign of deceit in his. I believe him.

  “Okay.” I put down my pen and fold my hands in front of me on the table. “Why do you think she’d make a claim like this?”

  “Got no clue. She’s pissed at me?”

  Could be, but I get the sense that’s not all there is to it.

  “Let’s find out,” I suggest, as I get up and walk to the door. “Keep your answers short and to the point. Don’t elaborate. Make them ask the questions,” I instruct him before opening the door to Detective Walker. “Ask your questions, Detective.”

  With a displeased scowl on his face, Walker enters the room.

  It’s after ten by the time we walk out of the police station, my stomach rumbling again. I have a tendency to forget about eating when I’m busy, only to binge eat when I get home or pick up unhealthy food on the way. The container with the slice of cake I took from the office will have to wait until I get home, though, since I offered to give the big man lumbering beside me a ride before my brain was able to engage.

  I’ve decided I’m not a fan of Detective Walker, who just spent almost three hours grilling my client. An interview I tried to call to a halt several times, but my new client insisted he wanted to ‘get it over with.’ Walker had been especially interested in the bite mark on Cal’s chest, even taking some pictures for his file.

  “This is us,” I tell Cal when I use the remote key to unlock the doors to my Kia Soul.

  Cal stops in his tracks and stares at my vehicle.

  “That’s your car?”

  By way of answer, I open the driver’s side door and slide inside, clearing off the passenger seat and waiting for him to get in the other side. I have to keep myself from snickering when he folds himself into what I always considered to be a surprisingly roomy car. It suddenly feels cramped in here.

  “So that was a good catch,” I compliment him, in an effort to distract myself and him from the close quarters. I look at him as I start the engine. “The security cameras at the jail, I mean.”

  Cal pointed out as the detective was taking pictures there were bound to be cameras aimed at the parking lot that would show what actually went down when the woman latched onto him with her teeth.

  “Don’t think Walker was too impressed,” he grumbles.

  “Detective Walker appears to have his own agenda,” I agree, “but he can’t ignore the lead.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to him and find him looking at me. “For stepping in,” he adds.

  “No problem. So, I assume your vehicle is back at the office?”

  Before he can answer, my empty stomach loudly announces its displeasure and Cal starts laughing.

  “Do you ever eat?” he asks, studying my mortified express
ion with amused interest.

  “On occasion,” I respond primly.

  “Good. I’m starving too. Hope you like Mexican, because I’ve been craving Joe’s for weeks.”

  “Oh, I don’t think—”

  “Take the next right,” he interrupts.

  I open my mouth to object but think better of it when another embarrassing hungry rumble sounds. What can I say; I’m a sucker for Mexican.

  Cal

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  Reagan smiles at the waitress as she sits back and pats her stomach.

  “I couldn’t if I tried.”

  “Just the bill, please,” I jump in.

  We made it here just in time. Joe’s kitchen usually stays open until eleven to cater to the patrons of some of the surrounding bars. We ordered finger food instead of individual meals, and I was surprised to see Reagan managed to wolf down her fair share. I’d much rather see that than sit across from a woman who plays around with a few lettuce leaves. She also likes beer, which I consider to be another bonus.

  Heck, if she weren’t Jackson’s sister, she’d be fucking perfection. Not too short or too tall; a spectacular ass; that long, shiny, dark hair, and not to mention those eyes. Add to that a sense of humor, keen intelligence, and considerable confidence, and you have my dream woman.

  Shit.

  I intercept the bill the moment I see her grabbing for her purse when the waitress returns. I ignore her pointed look as I tuck a few bills under my glass, leaving a healthy tip for the waitress.

  “Consider it a retainer.” I get up and grin when I catch her shaking her head.

  Putting a hand in the small of her back, I lead her through the maze of empty tables to the door.

  “I would’ve pegged you for a luxury vehicle,” I point out when we get to the parking lot.

  “When I started up on my own it was the Lexus or Sally—she’s my paralegal,” she explains.

  “I see Sally won.”

  “She did and for the record, I actually like my little Soul.”