Dirty Rich One Night Stand

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  That’s when I realize that we’re pulling beneath the Walker building and into one of the few attached garages in the city. “Lauren is expecting you, Cat,” Royce adds, halting the Escalade in front of the elevator. “I took the liberty of assuming you’d be joining her, and told her as much, when I found out you were back with Reese tonight.”

  I don’t comment. He’s being a mischief maker, like his brothers. Reese opens the door and exits, taking my bag with him. I follow, and he helps me out of the car, like a perfectly, well-mannered gentleman. “I’ll walk you up to Royce’s apartment,” he says, holding my bag.

  “No,” I say. “You won’t. Thank you, but go deal with your case. I’m going to pick Lauren’s brain for ideas, too. We were good at solving cases together at the DA’s office.” I push to my toes and press my lips to his.

  He sets down my bag, and the next thing I know, he’s tangling his fingers in my hair and staring down at me with a wicked-hot look. “I’m going to need to fuck this hell out of my system when I get home. Be ready.” He kisses me, and it’s short, but fierce, and then he’s gone, leaving me breathless and weak in the knees, as he climbs back into the Escalade and shuts the door.

  I watch them drive away, and according to the ache between my legs: I’m already ready for that fuck session, while according to the flutter in my belly, I’m falling hard for Reese Summer.

  Lauren is hanging over the toilet about three minutes after she answers the door, and I grab a clip from a drawer and pull her brown hair back from her face. Finally, she calms and lies down on a big, fluffy cream-colored rug. “How often are you doing this?” I ask, sinking down on my knees beside her.

  “I should just camp out here in the bathroom,” she murmurs. “That’s how often.”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “That sickness is a sign of a healthy baby. Which sounds ridiculous, except for the fact that I wasn’t sick before my miscarriage at all.”

  “You’re miserable. Can they give you anything?”

  “I have random drugs that he’s prescribed. But the options are limited, and none that are approved for pregnancy seem to work for me. Do you know how hard it is for me to do my job like this?”

  “I’m surprised you’re even able to try.”

  “I have people counting on me,” she says, “but Julie helps me a lot.”

  “Isn’t she a divorce attorney?”

  “She’s burned out and working with me on criminal cases more and more.”

  “Divorce isn’t pretty,” I say, “but neither is crime. Are you eating at all?”

  “Yes. Häagen-Dazs ice cream. It’s all I can keep down. I’m going to be the size of a ship when this is over.”

  “You barely have a belly,” I say, eyeing her flat stomach through her T-shirt and sweats.

  “Right,” she says. “I have four months of baby in my butt right now.”

  I laugh. “You do not. I checked out your ass already. It’s as cute and perky as ever. Are you any better?”

  “Yes. I need ice cream.”

  I laugh again. “Do you have some?”

  “Royce bought, like, twenty pints. And I’m not kidding. He really did.”

  “I’ve met him,” I say. “I believe you.” I stand up and help her do the same.

  A few minutes later, we are on the couch in the living room, the television on mute, the fireplace crackling in the corner, with a selection of six ice cream pints on the table in front of us. “I told you he bought twenty pints,” Lauren says, finishing a bite of ice cream. “Did you know that one of these pints is, like, seventy percent of the calories we’re allowed to have in a day?”

  “Thank you for that,” I say, as I try a spoonful of some kind of chocolate ice cream that is incredible. “Thankfully, I haven’t eaten much today, and neither have you.”

  “I ate a pint,” she says. “Maybe I ate two. For some reason, after I eat one of these, I’m not sick for a while.”

  “The baby wants what the baby wants,” I say. “Eat the ice cream.”

  She grabs a stack of files sitting on the coffee table and sets them between us on the couch. “Has Reese talked to you about the trial, or is that off-limits since you’re press?”

  “I’m not press. You know I hate being called press as much as Reese hates being called Mr. Hotness. And I was with him and his team all day, working on the questions and closing for next week.”

  “Really? He trusts you already, then.”

  “I— Well, yes. I guess he does.”

  “How’s trust working on your end?” she asks, giving me a knowing look, considering she weathered the Mitch storm with me.

  “Better than expected,” I say, “and for now, that’s all you’re getting.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “You didn’t hear what I just said, did you?”

  “I heard and chose to ignore what you said.”

  “Fine. He cut in line at the coffee shop and accused me of playing games on my phone while holding up the line. When I was, in fact, reading a Mr. Hotness blog without even knowing it was him.”

  She laughs and scoops a spoonful of ice cream. “That’s priceless,” she says, taking a bite. “Then what?”

  “I checked his bad manners and told him he’d be single the rest of his life if he didn’t.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s the Cat I know.”

  “And I called him an arrogant asshole.”

  She presses fingers to her forehead. “Oh God. You just gave me brain freeze.” She scrunches up her eyes and face for a minute and then refocuses. “Okay. It’s gone. Back to you and Reese. All the women pining for that man, and you figured out the secret code. Just call him a manner-less, arrogant asshole. It’s your charm, Cat. I’ve always admired your charm.”

  “Men want what they can’t have.”

  “But he has you.”

  “Maybe he thinks he really doesn’t.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes, actually, he does.”

  She squeezes my hand. “I’m glad. You really shut down after Mitch.”

  “I didn’t shut down. I focused on doing me my way, instead of my father’s. That meant getting to know who I am. I needed time and space to do that.”

  “And now, Cat? Do you know yourself now?”

  “Okay, let me backtrack. I knew me. I just didn’t allow myself the freedom to be me. That’s still a work in progress.”

  “Has your father come around at all?”

  “No. I haven’t spoken to him in months. You know that.”

  “I hoped it had changed.”

  “It hasn’t. We fight when we communicate and we both needed a break. But oddly, Gabe came by to see me and told me he’s proud of me.”

  “Wow. That’s huge. He should be proud. They make me so angry.”

  “It is what it is,” I say.

  We talk about Reese, my family, and her plans for the baby’s room, and after I’ve returned what is left of the ice cream to the freezer, we move to a work session. “I changed my vote to the wife being guilty,” Lauren says.

  “I heard, and I’m curious as to what changed your mind.”

  “This morning, Walker Security had someone watching Nelson Ward’s house when she left. She and her husband were fighting and he didn’t want her to go. He tried to stop her.” She grabs a folder and hands it to me. “Look at that while I go pee for the hundredth time today.” She stands up and walks away.

  I flip through the file and see many shots of the Ward house, as well as shots of the couple this morning. They were fighting, all right. “Royce is on his way back already,” Lauren says as she returns. “Reese just got on a plane with Blake and Kara. One way or another, Reese will have his man back here by early tomorrow.”

  “Unless he had a new identity waiting on him in Vermont and he and his wife have now left the country.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t have men on the ground in Vermont, so we can’t st
op them without alerting the police. And that would be best avoided. Did you look at those photos? The two of them fighting and her leaving—it all reads to me like manipulation. Like she wanted to make him break his travel rules, which implies he’s running from his guilt.”

  “Or she was trying to convince him not to run,” I say. “Or she could have found out that he really did it, and she left him.”

  “You think he did it?”

  “No,” I say. “I think she did it, too, but I’m playing devil’s advocate. And I hope like hell he’s innocent. Reese won’t just take a hit to his reputation. He’ll start to question his instincts.”

  “Spoken like a woman who has seen inside his mind,” she says. “What’s happening with you two?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. “But it feels kind of wonderful.”

  “So you like him.”

  “He’s nothing that I expected and different from anything I’ve ever known.”

  She narrows her eyes on me. “You just walked around that question.”

  “It wasn’t a question. It was a statement: So you like him. That’s a statement. But yes. I like him, but it’s new. Don’t go marrying me off just yet.”

  “Just yet. That’s an open door, so I’ll take that answer. Just don’t let Mitch’s actions get in front of you with Reese, Cat.”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “Reese trusts you or he wouldn’t have you helping with this case. Trust him, too. And before you say anything, let me add this. I know it’s scary, but if you don’t take the risk, you will never know what might have been.”

  “I do. I trust Reese. And I’m a bit stunned by how much I mean those words.”

  Lauren swallows hard. “Oh God.”

  “What? What is it?”

  “It’s happening again,” she says, covering her face. “Make this stop.”

  I go down on my knee beside her. “What can I do? Do you have crackers or soda?”

  “No thank you. Those things are from the devil. They make me sick. Apparently now the ice cream does, too.”

  I get her crackers, soda, and more ice cream anyway, and my efforts fail. We land in the bathroom again, and when Royce finally gets home, we are both on the floor on our backs, talking about the trial. But I don’t think Royce even knows I’m there. I stand up and he is quick to sit down on the floor and pull Lauren against him. They’re talking and he’s fretting over her, and my heart squeezes as I watch them together. They are so in love, and suddenly I’m thinking of me and Reese, reliving moments in my head with him: The coffee shop, the food-truck stops. The sex. The man knows how to get the job done, for sure. And that kiss goodbye…

  I suddenly can’t breathe, and it’s already eleven o’clock anyway. I sneak to the door and leave, calling an Uber that I wait for in the parking garage. And too soon it seems, that car arrives and delivers me to the front of my building, which is not a thought I’m used to having. I like my apartment. I like being in my space. But tonight, it feels like this isn’t where I belong. Nevertheless, a few minutes later, I walk into my apartment, flip on the light, and then lock the door. Leaning against the wooden surface, I stare down the hallway, when I would be normally racing to my sanctuary tub or bed. But tonight, it just feels empty.

  I blame Reese, who’s filled up my life too easily and too quickly. Reese, who I already know could hurt me, and yet the idea of walking away from him guts me. I can’t do it. It’s too late to turn back.

  “Asshole,” I murmur under my breath, but I remind myself that he’s innocent until proven guilty.

  He trusts you, Lauren said.

  He tried to leave me at his apartment. He cleared me with security. He told me things that a member of the press would expose and knew that I would not. He does trust me, and I trust him. We’re also at that sweet spot in a relationship: Untarnished, a diamond in the rough with endless possibilities.

  I push off of the door and walk across the hardwood floors, before cutting left and up the stairs to my bedroom. I’ve just flipped on the light and walked to my sleigh bed, setting my bag and purse beside it, when my phone rings. I quickly retrieve it from my purse, and there is no denying the punch of disappointment I experience to see Lauren’s number, not Reese’s. “Hey,” I say, walking toward my bathroom. “How are you?”

  “You left.”

  “Yes,” I say, flipping on the bathroom light. “I left you with your hot, doting husband.”

  “You’re home safe?”

  “I am. Thank you for checking. Are you doing okay?”

  “There is a reward at the end of this, so I’m okay. Thank you for staying with me. And, Cat? He’ll call.”

  “What?”

  “If Reese feels what you feel, he’ll call. I promise.” She disconnects, and I want to throttle her.

  Now if he doesn’t call, it will mess with my head.

  I walk to the bathroom, strip down, and take a long, hot bath in my massive tub, which is the best feature in any bathroom. I sit there in the hot, bubbly water, with my phone on the ledge, of course, because now I’m obsessed over the call I might miss. I hate that I’m obsessed. Once I’m in my Victoria’s Secret pajamas, I grab my MacBook and take it to bed with me, where I work on my column that is due tomorrow. My closing statement reads:

  If this trial ends in a guilty verdict, it won’t be based on evidence. If the trial ends in an acquittal, don’t blame the system. The system didn’t do this. The prosecution did, by charging too soon. They should have taken the time to back up their case. We all want justice for a woman and her child, but deep down, we all want to believe the monster who did this is no longer free to do it again. If nothing changes, I for one will not leave this trial with the comfort of knowing a killer is behind bars. Until then, —Cat.

  I study the page and have second thoughts about the content. If I point the finger at new suspects, as I did in the first part of this column, what happens? I believe that, yes, it puts attention on suspects other than Reese’s client. Maybe it puts those suspects on edge. But after tonight, Reese may prefer to sideswipe those people on the stand. I need to find out or just write another version of my column in the morning to have options.

  I glance at the clock. It’s two in the morning. Reese isn’t going to call tonight. I shut my computer and lie in bed, in the darkness. Alone. He might not be able to call. He might be in hell right now. God, I want to know what is happening. I want to hear Reese’s voice. I want to know he’s safe. But I don’t need Reese to call for some kind of validation, and he has no obligation to call. It’s not like I’m married to the man.

  I just wish he would call.

  As if I’ve willed him to do just that, my phone starts to buzz. I register Reese’s number. I grab it with a relief that says I wanted this call more than I want to admit. “Hello,” I answer.

  “Hey, sweetheart. Were you asleep?”

  “No. I’ve been too worried about what was happening there.”

  “You were worried?”

  “Yes. Very much. What’s happening?”

  “Well, he was at his house, as we hoped, and so was his wife, Kelli. I’m calling you from the rental car, while Blake and his wife each question the husband and wife one on one. I’ve spent the last hour talking to them myself.”

  “And?” I prod.

  “Kelli supposedly got spooked by the press, or rather ‘suffocated,’ as she called it. She needed out of town. He followed.”

  “She was suffocating, so she left her husband to fend for himself the weekend before he learns his fate? That doesn’t sound like a loving wife who believes her husband is innocent.”

  “No, it does not, but then, we all think she did it.”

  “Lauren showed me the images they took of the two of them fighting.”

  “Yes, there is trouble in paradise for sure. The question is, did that trouble originate from the trial pressure, or is it long term?”

  “I know you stated in your opening sta
tement that the baby is not his and he adamantly denies ever sleeping with the victim. Do you still feel that is a truthful statement?”

  “I do. I was afraid I wouldn’t after tonight, but nothing has changed.”

  “Why didn’t he call you before he did this?”

  “He knew I’d tell him not to go and he wanted me to have deniability,” he says.

  “Does his wife believe him?”

  “Yes, which she says she will state in court.”

  “Is it safe to let her testify? What if she sets him up?”

  “It’s a risk that I have to take to try to get a confession from her, because I damn sure don’t have any evidence. Hell, it might be the boyfriend. I am flying blind.”

  “The prosecution has no evidence either,” I say. “You’re going to create reasonable doubt. You have already. When are you coming back?”

  “As soon at Blake and Kara finish up, we’ll all fly back, including Nelson and Kelli, in the Walker plane.”

  “You’ll get back here early in the morning, without any sleep, and you have to be fresh for court Monday.”

  “I have to be prepared Monday, which means sleep is a luxury I can’t afford. Call me when you wake up and I’ll come pick you up.”

  “No. You have to sleep and focus on your Monday game plan.”

  “I’ll do those things with you, Cat. I’ll see you soon.” He hangs up.

  I let the phone drop to the bed, and I’m back to staring into the darkness, but this time, I am not fretting. Lauren was right. That call means something. It tells me that I am a part of his life now, and it’s terrifyingly wonderful.

  By the time Blake, Kara, and I follow my client and his wife back to their house, it’s seven. I leave them with two of Royce’s men watching the house. I walk them to their door and Kelli goes inside, while Nelson and I stand on the porch. “You’re paying for the plane, and the services I found necessary today. That’s non-negotiable.”

  “Understood,” he says. “I know I fucked up. Are you telling the judge that I left?”

  “No, but I should,” I say. “Just like I should ask to be recused from this case, but it’s too late in an expensive trial. The judge won’t let me. But be clear: If you give me one more reason to doubt you, my closing statement will get the job done, and nothing more.”