Tainted Love (A Lovestruck Novella Book 1)

by Lane Hart

  How the heck is it physically possible for someone who lets other people punch him in the face for a living still look like...like...a gorgeous Abercrombie & Fitch model?

  And how can someone so bad-ass and angry still come across as...well, I'd never actually say this to his face, but pretty?

  The man is nothing like the type of guy I'm usually attracted to. He's missing the requisite white collar and tie. I have a feeling that the brute before me never wears either. Instead of clean cut, he's ruggedly and dangerously handsome, singularly able to make women stop, drop their panties, and roll over...and cause men to run away like cowards with their penises tucked between their legs. Speaking of penises I bet his is...

  "Page?" my father's commanding voice interrupts my perusal, that has gone on far too long and much further south than is professional.

  He is a monster, not a sexy man you should be wanting a life size poster of for your bedroom! My inner sanity finally surfaces and reminds me of the rape and strangling he's charged with. Yes, that's exactly what I need! A reminder of why he's here and the horrible things he did.

  "Nice to meet you," I lie again, intentionally not offering him my hand to shake. It would've been a serious stretch to reach him across the table anyway.

  The dangerous man's dark, seemingly soulless elevator eyes assess every single inch of my body. And, unlike his father, his gaze is definitely sensual, lingering on the buttons and fabric of my dress shirt that is stretched tautly over my breasts. He runs his tongue over his full bottom lip like I'm a brand new flavor of Ben & Jerry's. One that he can't wait to dip his…spoon into the cream, gorge himself on until he scrapes the very bottom of the carton, and then lick the sticky container completely clean with his tongue.

  Even if I had looked at him the same way, his sensual stare helps cool my overheating hormones, seeing him for the pig that he is. I retake my seat, using the table in front of me as a shield from his intensity.

  There isn't even a hint of a polite smile on his perfectly sculpted face, and he doesn't speak a word to me or my father. When he realizes that everyone else is already sitting down, he finally lowers himself into the chair beside his father.

  "We're really sorry you're having to deal with this media circus, Jackson. We appreciate Don's referral, and you can be assured that our firm will do whatever it takes to clear your name," my dad begins his ass kissing spill right away.

  "Do you think I'm guilty?" Jackson’s voice is a deep and gravely rumble, causing the goose bumps on my arms to stand up and take notice.

  "It doesn’t matter whether or not you did it," my dad responds coolly, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. "We're going to make sure your case is ready for trial, and do whatever it takes to defend you. Page is licensed in New Jersey as well as Maryland, and Pennsylvania. She'll be first chair, since we believe having her leading the defense team will go far in how the public and media views this case."

  "Do you think I did this shit?" Jackson asks again intently, directing his question toward me.

  My heart stops, and my mouth and mind are suddenly paralyzed. I'm unable to form a single thought. How the heck do I answer that? If I'm honest I'll piss him off and he might not hire us, which will make my dad furious. If I lie, well, he'll probably see through my bullshit and call me on it.

  He continues staring black daggers at me, waiting for my response, along with the other two men in the room.

  "I haven't heard your side of the story, seen any of the reports, or evidence yet." I force my mouth to respond with a politically correct response.

  "Are you going to ask me?"

  "Well, of course we'll need to get your statement," I respond, annoyed when my shaky voice makes me sound like an uncertain little girl.

  "Mr. Malone, why don't you and I head to my office to discuss the general procedures and timeline we're looking at while Page and Jackson get to work. The attorney-client privilege is severed whenever there's someone other than the client and attorney present during confidential communications," my dad explains, narrowing his gaze at me in warning when he stands up as if to leave.

  My heart is suddenly racing in my chest with the onset of my panic. He's leaving me in here? Alone with an angry rapist? I'm so surprised that he's abandoning me in this situation that I'm too paralyzed to react. Without a backward glance, the two men leave the room before I can think of an excuse to ask them to stay. The door clicking shut makes me jump, instantly putting me on edge. The room falls silent and I can't yet find any words for several awkward seconds.

  "So," I finally say, and have to pause to clear the fear from my throat. "Let's start at the beginning." I poise my shaking fingers over the laptop home row keys in front of me, the cursor sitting on a blank Word document on the screen, ready to take notes.

  "The beginning of what?" the delinquent asks, leaning back casually in his chair like he's posing for a photo shoot.

  My father just threw the file in front of me when I was ambushed, so I haven't had a chance to see what information it contains. I grab the folder and quickly thumb through the pages, but the only thing inside is a few emails about setting up this appointment, and a stack of the articles printed from various media outlets.

  "Well, what are you officially charged with?” I ask.

  The man suddenly rises to his feet, towering over the table, and I can't help my startled twitch. After he removes some papers from his back pocket, he practically throws them at me, making them slide across the table before he sits back down. "See for yourself."

  I try to take slow, deep breaths to calm down my galloping heart when I pick up the tri-folded documents to begin scanning them. The conditions of his release are listed on the first sheet, showing he posted a fifty thousand dollar secured bond. He isn't allowed to contact the victim, of course, and he can't travel out of his state of residence without the permission of pretrial services. Flipping over, the next page is a warrant for First Degree Rape. The New Jersey General Statute is cited word for word, along with the name of the victim, Christina Loftis. The second warrant is for Assault by Strangulation, alleging that the defendant wrapped both hands around the victim's neck during intercourse, squeezing until the victim couldn’t breathe. Wow, that is some sick stuff even for me, and I've unfortunately been exposed to some freaky fetishes.

  "How the fuck are you going to represent me if you think I'm guilty?" The criminal practically snarls at me, startling me with his tone and profanity.

  "I didn't say I think you're guilty." I'd only thought it.

  "You didn't have to, it was all over your snobby face from the moment I walked into this room." He hangs his head with a sigh after calling me out, rubbing his temple like he has a headache. I know the feeling.

  "Look, I don't give a shit what you think. Are you going to actually help me or not? Because if you're not, I'll find someone who will."

  I want to beg him to take his case somewhere else, but if I let him walk, I'll never hear the end of it. According to my father, this is a huge case that our firm needs. Maybe, just maybe, if I show my dad that I can handle something so screwed up as this particular case, he'll actually let me start practicing law on my own, and give me a little credit for accomplishing something for once.

  "I want to help you," I tell him.

  His dark eyes narrow and cut to mine, likely trying to read my sincerity. "You want the free publicity? Trying to make a name for yourself? That's all fine with me as long as you don't fuck me over."

  "I won't…fuck you over," I respond, forcing the f-bomb past my lips, which earns me a small smirk. The slight lifting of the corners of his lips even manages to make him appear a little less frightening for a brief second.

  "Good to know," he mutters softly.

  I may not be able to sleep at night knowing I'm trying to help a beautiful monster get off scot-free after doing something so abhorrent, but ethically…well, I'll do what I've been hired to do. Defend him to the best of my abilities.


  "Okay, so let's get to work. Who's Christina Loftis?" I ask.

  He shakes his head and scoffs. "A cage cunt I wish I'd never met. Or fucked."

  Oh God, that chicken salad I had for lunch is threatening to spew all over the conference room table.

  "Consensually," the criminal adds, probably after seeing my stricken expression. "I didn't even remember who the bitch was until I went back through my phone on the way here. I think she first threw herself at me after a fight I won back in April in Atlantic City." The man's ego knows no bounds. "I'm pretty sure we went back to my hotel room, and well, you know…" he trails off.

  "Actually, I don't know, so you need to be honest and tell me everything. Something you may feel is a minor detail may actually be important to your case. What happened in the hotel room in April?" I forced myself to ask as I type up a few notes.

  He stays silent for a minute, and when I lift my eyes back to his, he gives me a cocky, lecherous grin before he continues. "The slut was on her knees trying to suck my cock before the hotel door shut."

  Holy cheese on rice! I gulp, swallowing that crass little tidbit down, and hope my eyes aren't bulging like a cartoon character.

  "If she's the one I think she is," he continues. "I'm pretty sure I pulled her mouth off of my cock, hiked her skirt up, and fucked her against the wall. Without her protest."

  My cheeks suddenly feel sunburnt. Hearing about this man's sexual exploits is so freaking uncomfortable. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do this after all.

  "Afterward, we both undressed and got into bed. I think I fucked her from behind, if that detail's important, and then we fell asleep. The next morning I had an early plane to catch, so she gave me her number," he says, then pauses, reaching up to scratch his head like he's thinking. I don’t drool over the sight of his massive, flexed bicep like it's a three layer chocolate cake. I was just um, really thirsty, that's all.

  "Actually," he continues. "I'm pretty sure she put her name and number in my phone herself, and told me to call her. She must have gotten my number out of there, too."

  "Okay, so did you…talk to her again after that?" I ask, while my fingers click rapidly over my keyboard to keep up with his story.

  "Not until recently. I remember her name showing up in my call log a few times over the last few weeks. I ignored all of her text messages and voicemails just like I do to all the other sluts. The next time I was in Atlantic City was for my brother's fight last weekend. I still have the voicemail she left me saying she knew I was in town since she'd seen me in the crowd on TV, and she wanted a repeat. After the fights were over I was...bored, and decided to call her back. She asked to come up to my hotel room. We met up about thirty minutes later," he says.

  "Which hotel were you staying at?" I ask him.

  "The Trump Taj Mahal both times, which is where both the fights were hosted, too."

  "Got it. Keep going with as many details as you can remember," I encourage.

  "I knew she was drunk when she walked in. Her speech was slurred and she was staggering. I remember smelling the alcohol on her breath. She bitched about me not calling her before she tried to push me backwards toward the bed. After I sat down she climbed on me and unzipped my pants to start trying to fuck me. I had to stop her to grab a condom because she was in such a hurry she was trying to get it in without one. When we were finished she asked if I wanted her to stay. I told her she got what she came for and that I was going to sleep, so I didn’t give a fuck either way. She called me an asshole and left. The next thing I know, two Montgomery County cops show up to my apartment and arrest me last Friday. They took me to the local shithole jail, and since it was the weekend, I was held there for three goddamn days on a writ before the Atlantic City PD finally showed up to take me into their custody. Late last night I went in front of the magistrate and was finally given a bond. My dad said he got there early this morning to post it, and the bastards took until noon to release me."

  "Okay," I say, thinking through the next step of gathering evidence based on what he's told me. "I'm going to need you to get me the hotel receipts, plane tickets, and your cell phone records. Also, I'll need copies of all the voicemails you have, and screenshots of text messages from her. Oh, and we should probably hurry up and get a subpoena ready for the hotel to see if they have any surveillance video from that night before it gets recorded over. So that we can narrow it down for them, what time was it when she arrived at your hotel room and when she left?" I ask as I type up a to-do list. I'm greeted with silence for so long I finally look back up at his startlingly beautiful face, meeting his dark stare. "What?" I ask insecurely.

  "Um, yeah, sure. I can probably get you all that," he finally responds. "And she got there about midnight and left probably before one."

  "Great. So what about witnesses? Anyone see you with her that night?"

  "Jude heard me on the phone with her on the way back to our rooms. His room was next door to mine, so if she had protested he would've heard through the thin-ass walls."

  "Jude?" I ask. "What's his last name?"

  "Malone. He's my little brother," he says, sounding softer and much less hostile than most of the previous conversation.

  "Is he at least eighteen years old?"

  "Yeah, even though he still acts like a juvenile, he just turned twenty." The criminal snorts, and I swear it looked like he almost smiled.

  "Do you think he'd be willing to sign an affidavit swearing he didn't hear anything…unusual?" I ask.

  "I'm sure he would," Jackson says immediately like his brother would lie and say it, even if it wasn’t true. Relatives are crappy witnesses because they always side with their family members, but it's better than having no witnesses.

  "Are you friends with this woman on Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media site?"

  "Hell no."

  "Well, if you can give me some details about her, it'd be worth doing a search to see if we can find her profile and print any public pictures or posts. Do you have any social media accounts?" I ask.

  "Yeah, there are some fan pages but the coaching staff maintains them for me."

  "Is there anything negative, harmful, or damaging to the case on any of them? Because if there is you should shut them down."

  "Um, I don't know. I'll have them double check."

  "Okay, but do it as soon as possible, and I want printed copies of all of them to see for myself. The prosecutor's investigator is probably printing off every word on there as we speak."

  "Fine."

  "Any questions?" I ask, even though I'm not qualified to answer any with my very limited criminal defense experience.

  "No. I just…you've got to make this shit go away. I can't fight until the case is over, and I need to fight."

  "We'll do our best," I tell him, standing up and walking to the door to show him out.

  "Good," he says as he follows me to the door.

  Even at my gigantic, unfeminine height of five-eight, not including my three inch heels, standing beside Jackson Malone makes me feel petite. He's hovering so close, looking downright dangerous with muscles twice the size of most normal men. Although, his midnight eyes aren't quite as menacing when he makes his parting comment. "You might actually be worth the fortune I'm paying you."

  Chapter Two

  Jackson "Jax" Malone

  What a fucking week. It's not that I never expected my ass to get thrown in jail. After my trouble-making and brawling youth, I'm sure everyone who knows me is surprised that it took me to the ripe old age of twenty-seven before I was put behind bars. It's a shame, however, that my first arrest is for complete bullshit.

  I head for the lobby of the big, fancy law office to wait for my dad to finish up in his meeting. Sitting down, I pull out my phone to type a list of all the shit the uptight, elitist bitch lawyer asked me to bring her. Her disgust and instant judgment had pissed me off, but I have to admit, she does seem to be really damn smart. And she's hot as fuck.

  With he
r long, lean legs and light blonde hair pulled back in a neat little bun, she looks like a Playboy pinup or a Victoria's Secret model dressed up to do a naughty attorney photo-shoot. In my fantasy of her as a centerfold, she'd be unbuttoning the professional suit jacket to reveal thin pieces of black lace that barely cover her perfect tits.

  Okay, so maybe I'm a little horny after going four days without getting laid. That had to be a record for me. While I was locked up it was hard to think about fucking when I feared for my life every goddamn second.

  I'd thought the local jail was bad until they threw me in general population in Atlantic City. Both smelled like dirty, sweaty men, shit, and piss, but in AC the floors of the crowded cell actually contained dirt, piss, and shit. There were only two bunks for four dudes, so the unlucky two of us won the lottery to receive roll out mats. I leaned against the wall last night rather than risk floating away in the river of filth. Also, I didn't want to close my eyes and get attacked or shanked. The crackhead trapped in the cell with us couldn't stop scratching himself or fidgeting. He said all kinds of delusional shit, like the cops hid cameras in his apartment, and he knew for a fact that one of us had snitched on him. After that he alternated staring at me and our other two cellmates with his unblinking crazy-eyes and a goofy-ass smile that had me convinced that he'd kill us in our sleep just for shits and giggles.

  Thank God I was only in AC for one night. I never want to see the inside of that type of cage again in any district. I'll probably have nightmares from the trauma of the last four days.

  I'm a badass motherfucker, spending the last seventeen years training to fight. It's not that I'm worried about taking on any of the punks in there, or even three or four of them at a time. But the feeling of suffocating because it was so goddamn hot, with the air rank and stale in such a small box? That's some scary shit.

  I swear there was a lack of oxygen, and more carbon dioxide than can possibly be healthy in that bitch. I'll probably have to sleep with all my doors and windows open with the air conditioning on full blast for the next few weeks.