by Lane Hart
Wow.
So maybe his ego isn't as inflated as I first thought, or at least not without merit. Hell, if this is what he looks like naked then I'm surprised a stampede of women isn't currently running through our building to get to him.
"Find something you like?" the arrogant jerk asks.
I shuffle on through to the next few pages. "I'm just…reviewing them, you know…to see if ah, there's anything helpful," I stutter.
"If you need me to undress for you to confirm that those are, in fact, pictures of me, well, I'm happy to oblige," he says. I can practically hear his smirk.
"That won't be necessary," I assure him even though my body completely disagrees.
"I don't have to take advantage of anyone to get some ass. If I posted, 'I'm horny' and listed this address on Twitter to my more than two million followers, plenty of women would show up, ready to fuck me anyway and as many times as I want. Faster service than a Domino's Pizza delivery. So why would I do something as stupid as rape a woman?"
Holy guacamole. After seeing that picture, I knew he wasn't bluffing. He's probably the one responsible for the sudden influx of female fans to MMA over the last few years. That doesn't mean he didn't overpower this woman against her will this time or choke her during.
"That brings up something important we need to discuss. While this case is pending, you shouldn't be seen with any women in public, and you certainly shouldn't…engage in intercourse with anyone," I tell him.
He scoffs. "You can't be serious." When I don't respond, he eventually asks, "How long are we talking?"
Looking up, I quickly run the timeline in my head. “Depending on when we get all the discovery from the district attorney, how soon he goes to the grand jury, and when the judge decides to put the case on the trial calendar, a few months at least."
"Months!" he exclaims, his dark eyebrows reaching for the ceiling.
"Yes, months. Do you really want copycats coming forward with more accusations? Preparing for a trial takes time. We'll get ready as soon as we can, but we have to get your direct testimony and cross-examination ready and practiced. You'll need to decide on a few character witnesses. I may need to hire a medical expert to review the victim's records and injuries, and have you mentally evaluated. I'll want to interview the officers involved. There's a ton to do."
"How do you expect me to go for months without getting laid? My dick has high expectations and demands. He's a hardheaded, overeager bastard that gets angry when he's denied servicing for longer than a day."
I try not to smile at his way too detailed description.
"I'm sure you and your…dick will survive the famine. Also, do I really have to tell you not to use any drugs or get drunk in public?"
"For Christ's sake, woman, I'm a professional athlete! I don't ever touch any of that shit," he replies.
"Well, good for you," I say, surprised by his statement. "But don't start now because of the stress of all that's going on."
"If I can't fuck and I can't fight, then I guess I'll be doing a shitload of training."
"That should be fine," I agree. "As long as you're available when I call and need information from you, or for you to come in to do some trial prep work. This case has to be the most important thing in your life for the next few months."
"I get that. If we lose, I'm out of the cage for good."
"Not only that, but these are very serious offenses. If you get convicted, you could get an active sentence of up to three hundred months …"
"Three hundred months! What the fuck!?!" he yells, practically coming out of his seat.
"That's just for the rape charge. Add another maximum of twenty months if you're convicted on the assault by strangulation charge."
"Goddamn! What the hell is three hundred and twenty months?" he asks, his forehead so furrowed trying to do the math that he looks like he's in pain.
"A little less than twenty-seven years."
Malone’s face goes slack, his tan skin turns pale white, and then he really is out of his chair, scrambling for the small black trash can beside my desk.
In that moment I feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. He's known for being a tough, badass fighter, and at the moment he's on his knees losing all the contents of his stomach. He almost looks…vulnerable.
I grab a few tissues from the dispenser on my desk and hand them to him when it sounds like he's finished. He eventually accepts my offering, looking up at me with dark, watery eyes, seeming more like a scared boy than a violent criminal.
"You can't let them convict me," he pleads. "I swear I didn't do it."
I have to look away from his sad, pitiful, puppy dog eyes before they suck me in. I'm still a sucker for strays. "Those are just the maximum sentences. You know the worst case scenario sentences. With a clean record and a decent judge, you might only get the minimum of a hundred and fifty-four months. A little less than thirteen years," I say, doing the math for him.
"Thirteen…fuck! I wouldn't get out until I'm forty fucking years old," he mutters, hanging his head while wiping off his mouth.
Eventually, he rises gracefully to his feet and sits back down in his chair with hunched shoulders. I go around my desk and pick up the smelly trash can, taking it out in the hallway for my fellow coworkers to enjoy. Ha! Take that you bastards.
"It's important for you to understand what you're facing upon conviction,” I tell Jackson as I return to my seat. “Because if the prosecutor offers a plea deal to a lesser offense like assault on a female with just a few years active, it's worth considering."
"I'm not pleading guilty," he says gruffly.
"Even though serving three or four years is a heck of a lot better than twenty-seven or thirteen years?" I ask in disbelief.
"I’m not. Pleading. Guilty. I didn't rape that bitch, and I'll take the risk of doing the extra time before I fucking say I did it."
He may think that now, but when the evidence starts coming in, he'll probably change his mind.
"All right, so let's get ready for trial."
"My head coach wants to know if we're going to do a press conference anytime soon, you know...to calm things down with the media?"
"Your coach wants to know?" I ask curiously.
"Don Briggs. He's like my coach, manager, and agent all rolled into one."
"Oh. Well, there are rules of professionalism that limit what attorneys can say about pending trials. We have to be careful, or the prosecutor will argue that we're trying to influence the jury pool. Why don't I work on drafting something up, and then email it to you for approval? Just one that’s short and sweet like, "Mr. Malone adamantly denies all of the charges against him and intends to plead not guilty and go to trial to prove his innocence. He appreciates the support of his fans during this difficult and stressful time."
"That works." Malone nods. "I probably shouldn't say that I've never choked the bitch, but I'd really like to do it now that she's made up these bullshit charges."
"Yes, let's not mention choking any…bitches, especially not the victim. You'll need to watch your temper because any sort of outburst will just add fuel to the prosecutor's fire."
"Right."
"We may need to take a trip to Atlantic City soon to get the video surveillance, and you can show me the hotel room, so we can take some pictures to possibly use as exhibits. We can talk to the hotel staff to see if they remember seeing her, and I’ll set up an appointment with the District Attorney to get acquainted."
"Yeah, whenever. Just let me know. It's not like I've got anything else to do," he says with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
"All right, how about tomorrow? I can get the subpoena for the video ready, and my Notice of Appearance and Motion for Discovery typed up to file it with the clerk while we're there."
Yesterday I was terrified of the man, but after watching him toss his cookies in fear, he doesn't seem quite as scary. I think hearing the possible consequences of a conviction will likely have him on his bes
t behavior from now on.
"Sure. On one condition, though - I get to drive," he says with a smirk.
"Fine. That way I can get some work done. I'll put a call into pretrial services to get authorization for you to travel..."
A knock on my office door interrupts me mid-sentence.
"Come in," I grit out, wondering which jackass is checking up on me now.
"Page?" Jamie asks from the doorway.
"Hey, what's up?" I ask our receptionist, glad it's not another snickering attorney.
"Sorry to interrupt, but Elliott wanted me to catch you before you left," she starts, then drops her eyes to the post-it in her hand.
"Let me guess, he has to cancel lunch?" I ask, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms over my chest in annoyance at the man, not the messenger.
"Yes. He apologized and said he would make it up to you tonight," she says reading from the post-it note in her hand.
I groan, already hearing how he'll "make it up" to me by talking nonstop about whatever budget plan or new piece of legislation they'd worked on today. How important his job is, how wonderful he is, blah, blah, blah.
"Thanks, Jamie," I tell her as she backs out of the office and suddenly covers her nose and mouth. That reminds me. "Oh, and, Jamie? Can you have someone from housekeeping come grab my trash for me?" I ask, and she nods quickly before pulling the door shut.
"Sorry about your trash can," Malone murmurs. I swear he almost sounded embarrassed with his eyes cast down to the floor.
"Don't worry about it." I shrug it off.
"Friend stand you up?" he asks.
"Fiancé, and yes. Not the first time and won't be the last." Self-centered prick. Why make plans if three out of four times they get canceled? Why not just say, "Hey, I'll call you if I get free?"
"You're not wearing a ring," he says, interrupting my internal ranting.
"Um, excuse me?" I ask.
"A ring," he repeats, holding up his hand and pointing to where the circular piece of jewelry would go.
"Oh, well, we just sort of, you know…agreed to get married. It wasn't like he went down on one knee or made a big scene."
"Sounds like a really romantic guy." He snorts with a shake of his head and his trademark smirk.
"And you think you're what, a regular Casanova?" I scoff. The guy who chokes and rapes women wants to be critical of my love life?
He shrugs in response. "Maybe not, but if a beautiful woman actually agreed to marry my dumb-ass, I wouldn't skimp on a ring. I'd want everyone to know she's taken and that she's mine."
Was that a compliment or just a general statement? Either way, it doesn't matter.
"Our relationship is not a bunch of hearts and flower nonsense." Because that would require an actual effort on Elliott's behalf. "It's basically a…realistic partnership."
"What, like a business deal?" he asks.
"Actually, yes."
He shakes his head. "That's weird."
"Weird? What's weird about marrying someone you're compatible with?"
He shrugs again. "Whatever. Marriage is a waste anyway," he says, standing up to go. "What time do you want to leave tomorrow?"
"Um, how about ten?" I suggest.
"See you then," he replies over his shoulder. I watch as the man strolls out the door of my office with so much sexy swagger it should be illegal.
Chapter Three
Jax
I pull up in front of the high-dollar law firm in Silver Spring two minutes late. The tall, bitchy blonde is already waiting for me at the curb, looking put out with her briefcase over her shoulder and arms crossed over her chest.
It's going to be a long fucking day.
I turn the booming bass of my stereo down and climb out. The ice princess opens the passenger door before I have a chance, so I just hold it open for her while she sits down with her nose wrinkled in disgust.
After I settle back into the driver seat, I glance over at her while I put my seatbelt back on.
"What?" I ask in annoyance when her face remains scrunched up like she smells shit. My car is my baby, and I keep it spotless. The only thing I smell inside of it is the scent of new leather and Armor All from the dashboard.
"This is your car? What the heck is this thing?"
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask in disbelief. "It's a brand new Dodge Viper. The most awesome car ever."
"It's cramped and…impractical," she remarks, while twisting around to reach for the seatbelt.
"It's fun to drive. Do you even know what the term fun means?"
"Yes."
"Right," I snicker. "You should be happy I didn't insist we take my bike."
The thought of her arms wrapped around my waist, breasts pressed against my back while weaving through traffic on my Beemer, shouldn't be as arousing as it is. I can already tell my unfortunate vow of celibacy is gonna last about as long as the flavor in a stick of gum. I turn the radio back up as a distraction from my wayward thoughts, even louder than before just to tick Miss Priss off.
She shifts her long, lean body, one I'm almost certain would be damn fine if it wasn't always covered up with expensive pantsuits like the black one she's got on today until she's as far away from me as possible in the confined space. Her revulsion shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I'm pretty sure she still thinks I'm guilty, and I don't like how she assumes I'm a bad guy. Sure, the IFC league casts me as a crazy motherfucker that bloodies people and knocks their brains loose. That's all true, but they're just trying to hype up the volatile maniac image to sell tickets and merchandise.
I go along with it, playing up the role of the jackass fighter everyone loves to hate but still watch, because I'm able to backup my talk in the cage where it counts. Most women seem to go for the bad boy, even if some, like this ice princess, are afraid of me. Now with these charges, everyone probably thinks I'm a loose cannon.
I don't care what the fans think about me, but my attorney that I'm paying to defend me so I won't spend the rest of my life in prison? Well, I need her to see that I'm innocent and worth her precious time to try and save me.
I turn down the volume on the radio as I take the exit for the highway. "So, Ms. Davenport, how long have you been practicing?" I ask as nicely as possible.
"I know what I'm doing," she responds snidely.
"I didn't ask if you know what you're doing, I asked how long you've been practicing."
"Almost a year," she says, lowering her voice like she's embarrassed and hates losing face.
"Where'd you go to law school?"
"Georgetown, just like everyone else in my family."
"Nice. Go Bulldogs. That's a pretty tough school, right?" I ask.
"Yeah, it's ranked thirteenth in the country."
"Wow, that's impressive. You must’ve worked your ass off."
She sighs. "Not really. My dad just made a few calls."
"What?" I ask in disbelief, glancing over at her highness.
"Kidding. That's what everyone probably thinks, though."
"I've never really cared much about what everyone thinks," I tell her. Well, except for one sassy, uppity lawyer bitch.
"Must be nice."
"I take it criminal law is not your favorite area to practice?" I ask.
"No, it's not. I don't know what area I want to practice in, though, so right now I take whatever cases my dad gives me."
"What about your fiancé? Is he an attorney, too?" I don't know much about him, but he has to be an asshole for standing her up on a regular basis. Oh, and what kind of dick doesn't even buy a fucking engagement ring?
She gives a soft sarcastic laugh. "Technically, although he's currently serving as a state senator and not really practicing."
"Ah. So he's a politician. Those are even worse than attorneys, right?" I tease.
"Oh yeah," she agrees. "Elliot has his eye on the U.S. Congress and then running for the Presidency after he's been in office a few years."
"As in the President o
f the United States?" I ask in awe.
"Um-huh, but that's way down the road."
"So you could be like the First Lady someday?"
"Yeah. I'm a lucky girl," she says quietly while looking out the window, not sounding like she feels the least bit lucky.
"So how long have you been mauling people?" she asks after a few minutes of silence, catching me off guard.
"A long time," I reply, unable to prevent the bloody memories of my youth from surfacing. "Since I was ten."
"You mauled people when you were only ten years old?" she asks, her voice going all high and squeaky like she's appalled.
"That's when I first started getting into fights, yeah. I used any reason to beat up a kid. If someone said a wrong word to me or messed with one of the other kids, I went ape-shit on their asses. After my third suspension from school, my dad told me that if I could go a month without getting into another fight, he'd let me enroll in the new kickboxing school."
"So you started kickboxing?"
"Yeah. I stopped fighting at school, took the kickboxing class once a week, and then eventually bumped it up to three times a week. In middle school, I added football and wrestling to burn off the anger. After I won the state championship in the one-seventy weight class in my freshman and sophomore year of high school, Jon Baker, a local MMA coach, approached me. He asked if I wanted to train with him to fight some tough ass men instead of weak little boys. I gave up school sports in my junior year and started training at his gym. When I was twenty-one, I signed up with former championship heavyweight boxer Don Briggs, my current coach, when he opened Havoc Fight Club in Silver Springs. A year later I won my first world championship belt."
"And the rest is history," Page remarks.
"Yeah. I've never lost a fight."
"Never say never," she mutters.
"As long as I stay in shape no one will ever beat me. I train with some first class heavyweights, and if they can't do it, no middleweight will, either."
"Not lacking any confidence are you?"
"It's the truth, not me just running my mouth."
"Uh-huh," she says, sounding less than impressed. Why that bothers me, I have no idea.
When she pulls her laptop from her bag and goes to work, I figure my attempt to make small talk is over. I turn the radio back up to an acceptable level and keep my thoughts to myself the rest of the trip.
