Oh please! Like I give a rat's bare bottom about Elliot's campaign. I don't even bother responding to that nonsense.
"There are nine other attorneys in this firm, why can't one of them do it? You know, maybe one that has actual criminal courtroom experience," I argue.
"You and Logan are the only ones who've passed the bar in New Jersey, which has jurisdiction in this case. And you're the only female in the office. It'll look better to the media and the jurors to see a woman sitting beside Mr. Malone at the defense table. Don't worry, Ryan will carry the brunt of the load."
Oh no. Now I'm starting to understand. My father isn't giving me this case because he thinks I deserve it. No, he wants me to be the sacrificial lamb. The woman the media and feminist groups will all tear into for representing a chauvinistic pig. He really doesn't give one shit...ake mushroom about my reputation. After this case, I'll be nationally known as the idiot woman who represented the rapist jerk. Speaking of…
My dad's secretary cracks the conference room door, and announces in her nauseatingly sweet voice, "Mr. Davenport, the Malones are here."
I have a slight dislike of Margo. Okay, maybe a tad more than slight. She's so freaking nice, it's obviously fake. As soon as her back turns her smile falls and is replaced with a gaping maw of gossip, spewing filth to anyone who will listen.
"Show them in," my father instructs her while straightening his blood red tie, the color appropriately representing his strict conservatism. Then he turns to me, and says, "Be nice, and don't you dare fuck this up," sternly through his clenched teeth.
I make an attempt to ignore the knife sticking out of my chest from the second half of my father's directive, and instead try to come to terms with the idea that he wants me to be nice. Be nice to a ruthless, cocky meathead who thinks that since he's all rich and famous because of a brutal, barbaric sport that he has the right to do whatever the heck he wants with women and get away with it.
Maybe my uncle will hire me if I get up and walk out the door. Sure it'd be boring work filling in blanks on templates for old people, but at least I wouldn't be stuck working with an actual hard core, violent criminal.
An older man, looking roughly in his fifties with shaggy black hair and a beard sprinkled with a dusting of white, steps into the conference room first. The heavy bags under his hazel eyes and his deep frown lines make him look tired, and highly annoyed. I paste on my fake smile and reach across the conference table to shake his hand.
"Mr. Malone, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Page Davenport. Page, this is Martin Malone and his son. I'm sure you'll recognize Jackson Malone from his outstanding MMA career," my dad says when he makes the introductions.
"Nice to meet you," I lie as I hold out my hand to the older man. Shaking it, he gives me a polite nod of his head while assessing me. He's not looking at me in a creepy, sexual way, but his eyes are narrowed and his crinkled brows meet, making it obvious that he's asking himself, ‘Is she really old enough and experienced enough to represent my son?’ Of course not, and everyone in the building knows that.
My curious eyes finally dance around the older man to the one standing behind him. The spacious conference room, that can easily accommodate ten ego-inflated attorneys, suddenly feels too small. Intimidating doesn't even begin to describe the vibe this man is putting off. He practically comes with his own flashing neon sign over his coal colored pompadour cut that says in big, bright letters, "Danger! Stay back at least 100 feet!"
It isn't necessarily the guy's size that makes him scary, even though he’s built like a tank at more than six feet tall, with a wide, muscular build. But when you add in his black bottomless-pit eyes and tight, unshaven jaw...he looks like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Violence and tension radiate off of him in waves that are almost visible. In nothing special faded jeans and a plain white tee contrasting nicely with his tan golden skin, he's absolutely, without a doubt, the most…scrumptious looking man I've ever laid eyes on. His mug shot photo plastered all over the television and Internet doesn’t do him justice.
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...