And it’s true. I was filled with joy at the wedding, seeing him happier than he’d been since my mom was here with us. “
“And I know that mom would be glad that you’re happy, just like I am,” I tell him.
I adjust the boutonniere he’s wearing. It’s a daisy, my mom’s favorite flower, in her honor. There’s one in my hair, too. And I read a Pablo Neruda poem during the ceremony.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
It felt like an homage to the way the relationship started out between my dad and Taylor’s mom. And also the way that my relationship with Wesley started out. Now we can all have public relationships, but they began as something to be cherished privately.
As dad and I dance, I think about how happy I am that everything has turned out even better than I could possibly hope for. When the song ends, the DJ clears his throat.
“And now the groom’s daughter and the bride’s daughter would like to pay tribute to their parents,” he says. “So they’ve prepared a surprise.”
“What?” My dad asks, his mouth open.
“Come on,” I say, leading him over to a chair beside Sherry.
Taylor is already walking over to the DJ’s booth to collect the pom-poms we had hidden there prior to the reception starting. “
“You know that Taylor and I have a flair for the dramatic,” I tell him. “You had to be expecting this.”
“Ya’all ready for this?” blasts over the speakers, and Taylor and I begin the routine I’d choreographed, which is an Evolution of Dance sequence that goes through songs reminiscent of my dad and Sherry.
Taylor and I start with “My Girl,” and then our entire squad joins in for “Hooked on a Feeling,” “Treasure” and “The Way You Look Tonight.”
They do a fantastic job, but I’d expect nothing less. We ended up winning Nationals, and this year with a strong crop of new cheerleaders joining us— and the return of Mandy, who successfully completed physical therapy and rehab— we’re an even better squad that will undoubtedly win again.
Everyone was very supportive during Christian’s trial, and he’ll be locked up for a very long time. Testifying was difficult because it forced me to remember and re-live that awful day but I’m glad that all of that ended before my dad’s wedding, so that now I can just relax and enjoy it.
Finally, Taylor and I finish up with rewritten words to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air song that we rap while the rest of our squad members dance. At the end, we do the victory cheer we always perform after the Wildcats win, which is also switched up to be personalized for my dad and Sherry.
Let’s go Thompson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
He’s Coach Thompson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
And she’s Sherry Hudson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
Way to go Thompson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
Way to marry Hudson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
We’ll go to their wedding
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
They’ll live happy ever after
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
Let’s go Thompson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
Go on your honeymoon
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
And to your happy ever after
(Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap)
We kick our legs and throw our pom poms in the air, and Mandy does a back flip for the grand finale.
“Thank you, Sweetheart!” My dad says, as all the wedding guests join us in clapping.
“That was lovely,” Sherry agrees.
Later, after a fun night full of lots of dancing, toasting and celebrating, it’s indeed time for the newly married couple to leave for their honeymoon in the Caribbean.
“Wait,” says Sherry. “I have to throw my bouquet first!”
The DJ starts playing “All the Single Ladies,” and a bunch of us dutifully line up behind her.
“One, two, three…” she says, and then tosses it over her head.
As it arches perfectly straight in my direction, I know it’s meant to be, but I still feel rather nervous and embarrassed.
“Chelsea! You’re next!” Sherry says, as she turns around and doesn’t seem surprised at all that I caught it. She winks at me.
“No pressure,” she tells Wesley.
“Have a great honeymoon!” I tell her and my dad one last time, to change the subject.
Taylor says the same thing, and then my dad and Sherry run off to their limo.
“I still can’t believe your dad and my mom got married,” Taylor says, scrunching up her face in mock disgust, and looking like the little girl I knew when I was eight years old.
“Me neither,” I tell her. “But I love you. And I guess we really are sisters now.”
“I love you too,” she says, and hugs me.
Wesley’s standing beside me, still looking shell shocked by the fact that I caught the bouquet, I guess.
“How mortifying,” I tell Wesley. “Don’t worry. It’s just a silly wedding tradition.”
But then he’s down on one knee, looking up at me with an excited grin and I realize what his expression had been about.
He looks even more nervous and excited than right before we rode The Beast for the first time. We’ve been there quite a few times in the year we’ve been together since then.
“What?” I ask, but everyone around me begins to clap.
He pulls out a small box and opens it up.
It’s my mom’s engagement ring, which my dad had given her. I’d recognize it anywhere, as she’d worn it ever since I can remember and then I used to go into her top dresser drawer and look at it after she had passed away.
“If you want something different, of your own…” Wesley starts to say, as he sees me looking down at it.
“No, it’s perfect,” I tell him.
I bend down and hug him, not caring who can see me cry.
“Thank you!” I tell him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“So I guess that’s a yes?” he says, sincerely looking relieved.
“You haven’t even asked her yet, you moron,” one of the other football players shouts from the crowd, and everyone laughs.
“Oops.”
His brown eyes stare straight at me.
This is the bad boy I thought would never be mine.
Down on one knee, looking up at me.
“Chelsea Thompson, will you marry me?”
“Yes.”
He scoops me up and I wrap my legs around his waist. We kiss and kiss and kiss, until his teammates and my squad members are all groaning and telling us “Enough, already.”
“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” I repeat. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Chelsea. So fucking much. I’m so glad I’ll get to ride this ride called Life with you forever.”
THE END.
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Jensen: A Military Bad Boy Romance
(Bonus Book)
Standalone Novel #1 in The Bradford Brothers Series
Chapter 1
“Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”
An inmate in an orange jumpsuit presses himself up against the bars in front of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.
I try not to grimace as I recoil at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.
But the prisoner’s question is valid,
and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.
What am I doing here?
I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer.
Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty prison complex instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.
I’m supposedly an up and coming lawyer at the law firm of Holt, Mason and Davis. My goal has been to make partner within the next couple of years. And I think I’ve achieved my goal so far, since I’m not only on the partnership track but according to my bi-annual evaluations, I’m doing sprints around all my fellow associates.
Except for my fiancé Brian, of course. But he doesn’t have to make much of an effort, considering that he’s the son of the firm’s founding partner Jack Holt.
Brian doesn’t think I should be volunteering here, but he doesn’t understand what’s at stake if I don’t.
“Ms. Morrell, keep following me, this way please,” says Tim McDonald— or is it O’Donald?— as he leads me through the prison complex I’d never before entered. “We’re almost there.”
He must know that I’m strongly considering turning around and leaving. Maybe Brian was right— I don’t need to go to these lengths to impress the firm. There has to be something I can do that doesn’t involve trips to the local jail where I’m accosted by lecherous criminals.
But ever since my latest performance evaluation at the firm, Jack Holt’s words have been ringing in my memory.
“Your billable hours are great, your work is solid, your networking is as expected,” he’d told me. “But your pro bono hours are not on track with the other associates’, and the only misgivings expressed by any partner have related to your fit here with the firm.”
“My fit?” I’d asked, squirming in the oversized leather chair in the large conference room occupied only by Mr. Holt and myself.
I’d wanted to ask how I was supposed to find time to do pro bono hours— volunteering to represent clients for free— when I already billed more hours than any other associate, year after year. But I assumed he expected me to figure that out on my own.
And I was intrigued— if not dismayed— by his use of the word “fit.” I needed to fit in at the firm; I needed to make it work. My parents had spent a lot of money on law school and would be furious at me if they knew I didn’t make partner because I didn’t “fit in.”
“As you know, Riley, this firm has a strong and proud military tradition,” Mr. Holt had continued. “And you’re the only associate who doesn’t have some tie with the military.”
I’d thought about it and realized he was right: many of the partners had served in the military before going to law school, and many of the associates were in the Reserves. There were lawyers who had gone to West Point, the Air Force Academy, who had been in JAG before being hired by the firm, and who regularly volunteered at the VA, helping with disability cases or access to health care.
Except for your son, I wanted to point out to Mr. Holt, because Brian was the only other associate with absolutely no connection to the military. But, again, Brian doesn’t count. The normal rules and expectations don’t apply to him.
Mr. Holt rarely speaks of my relationship with Brian at work, but when he does, it’s to tell me that he’s glad his son hooked himself to a rising star: that I’m good for Brian and can keep him focused on the expectations at work.
But the only real expectation of Brian when it comes to work is to show up at the office once in a while. He’s expected to go to happy hours and golf tournaments with the partners, not slave away as a billable hour drone like the rest of us.
And apparently he doesn’t need to have any military connection, although everyone else, including me, has to meet that requirement. Which I’d only just recently learned was a requirement.
So it’s no wonder Brian doesn’t understand. When I began calling around to military legal service organizations where I could volunteer, the Veterans’ Legal Alliance was the only one that responded immediately. So I jumped on the opportunity to obtain a pro bono gig as quickly as possible.
Tim had explained to me that the VLA organization provides all types of legal services and representation to military veterans, including representation in criminal trials. It’s a totally different world than I’m used to, but I’m open to anything that will help me become partner at the firm.
Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. A handful of inmates stand around speaking in hushed tones to each other, while others sit quietly by themselves.
“These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim explains.
He sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.
One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.
His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off of a Día de los Muertos/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.
The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.
What in the world was that? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity curses through my veins. I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type.
I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos. And I’m engaged, I remind myself, almost as an after- thought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at this guy’s luscious brown hair, mysterious dark brown eyes, and seemingly constantly flexed muscles.
“It’s amazing how many military personnel are arrested while serving or shortly thereafter,” Tim is explaining, handing me a thick binder full of information.
Veterans’ Legal Alliance, Inc., it reads on the front cover, and then: How to represent a service member or veteran charged with a crime in state criminal court.
“I’m not really knowledgeable about…” I begin, but Tim holds up his hand and smiles kindly at me.
“We know you don’t have criminal law experience,” he says, easing my fears. “But since you routinely handle complex commercial litigation and white collar crime- type fraud suits between business partners and the like, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly. These kinds of cases are more difficult in some ways but the basic procedures will be a cakewalk for you. And we are here to train you and provide you with all the support and resources you need.”
“‘We’ being…?” I ask, looking around the room and noting the lack of any other lawyers.
I suddenly feel a presence immediately behind my right shoulder and jump, realizing that Mr. Not My Type is standing directly behind me. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. I feel goosebumps spring up all over my body, and it’s not because I’m cold.
It’s not even because I’m afraid. There’s something undeniably attractive— rather than repulsive— to me about this particular criminal.
“Myself, as director of the organization,” Tim continues, “and all other staff and attorneys. I must admit we run a slim ship, which is due to th E Dzrtggjij6gm[/o}Le lack of willing personnel, but those that do help are incredibly passionate and talented at what they do.”
“I see,” I say, trying not to blush and hoping that Mr. Not My Type can’t tell what an inexplicitly powerful effect his presence has on me.
The inmate clears his throat and says, “Mr. McDonald?” in a polite yet bold tone of voice.
There’s something about his voice that makes
me shiver. In a good way. It’s as if he’s whispering in my ear, even though he’s not even talking to me.
“Yes, Jensen?” Tim responds, with a smile. “Call me Tim. And this is Riley Morrell. She might be volunteering temporarily with our organization. Riley, this is Jensen Bradford.”
“Hello, Riley,” says Jensen, extending a well-built forearm in my direction. There’s something about the way he says my name that sounds so foreign and new, as if I’ve never been called it before in my life. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, reaching out to meet his grasp.
He shakes my hand like a lumberjack and I wonder how tall he is. Definitely quite tall. But his eyes remain focused on Tim’s.
“Mr. McDonald,” he continues, dropping my hand and leaving it to feel suddenly completely empty. “I’m wondering if Dylan is here? He said he’d talk to me about my arraignment hearing before it starts, and that’s relatively soon.”
“I believe he was held over in court,” Tim answers. “He has a busy docket today. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
“All right, thank you sir,” Jensen says. “I’m glad to hear it because I’d really like to talk to him.”
He returns to the table on the far side of the room without so much as glancing back at me, and I feel slighted, even though I have no idea why I want this prisoner to talk to me, as eloquent and polite of a prisoner as he may be.
Sure, he’s tall, athletic, muscular, and gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should have an instant crush on him, I remind myself.
I’m engaged, even if that fact is easy to forget these days. After protesting against my choice of pro bono work, Brian didn’t even bat an eye this morning when I told him I’d be late to the office because I was meeting Tim McDonald in the jail first.
In fact, I don’t know if he even heard me, even though I’d repeated myself. I have to admit that ours has always been a relationship built on politics and convenience more so than on passion or romance, but lately Brian has become more distant than ever.
I try to focus on Tim’s explanation of the process for representing veterans. But I can’t help sneaking glances at Jensen.
Yes Boss: A Bad Boy Office Romance Page 34
