Hardass (Bad Bitch)(11)

Several things about him worried me, not the least of which was that he gave a statement to the police when he first got popped. Idiot. Of course, he couldn’t recall a word of what he said. Being high on meth while talking to the cops was a sure way to land in Angola for good.

“So the State will just give us their file? The whole thing?” Caroline chewed on her pen, her dark pink lipstick coloring the translucent top.

“That’s the law. Only things they can play keep-away with are their own notes and mental impressions. I don’t want those anyway.” I smirked. “You should know this. I realize you didn’t graduate with flying colors, but I thought you did well in criminal procedure.”

“I was just asking.” She turned toward me, her anger quick before she got it under control. “You said you had an issue with the prosecutor, so I didn’t know if it would be a problem.”

“Matt can pull some dirty tricks, but he tends to follow the rules on constitutional issues.”

“What sort of dirty tricks?” She twisted the pen around in her mouth, more lipstick on the top.

A mental flash of those lips wrapped around my cock had me shifting in my seat. I was out of control. I was able to hide it—barely. When the guard at Angola tried to feel her up, I almost boiled over. It wouldn’t have ended well for him.

“He’s just an unpleasant person. Let’s leave it at that.” Telling her about my history with Matt Turnbull was not an option. Some things were best left buried, even though Matt showed up with a shovel and proceeded to dig every chance he got. Chances like this case, like every high-profile case I worked.

“An unpleasant person? You mean he’s a dick?” She smiled. I got the feeling that, behind her sunglasses, her brown eyes were twinkling.

“Yes. Just so. Thanks for clearing that up, Ms. Montreat.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Well, we’re going to eat his lunch in this case, so maybe he’ll be nicer next time.”

“Pretty cocky for your first time out, aren’t you?”

“Cocky?” She quirked an eyebrow, her mouth an enticing pink pout.

We were close enough to New Orleans to get NPR again, so I turned the radio up and let her question die in a story about the lost art of muslin embroidery. She settled back into her seat, but not without a little smile.

She was playing a game with me. It was ballsy and, I admit, unexpected. I enjoyed watching her move her pieces all around the board.

She didn’t realize I was the most competitive person in the car.





Chapter Four


Caroline

“He clocked the handsy guard?” Terrell sipped his white wine.

“No.” I leaned back in my ratty comfy chair and tucked my feet up under me. “Where did you even get that?”

“Oh, I was just making your story more entertaining, is all.” He took another sip and started flipping through the channels.

This was our nightly ritual: debriefing and bitch session. We’d been roommates in law school and didn’t see any reason to change it, especially since we’d lucked out and were working at the same firm—even though Terrell went to Tulane, whereas I went to a city school with a less than stellar reputation. I was pleased, even if Terrell’s parents weren’t.

The New Orleans Lynches were a formidable clan, full of some of the city’s foremost doctors and lawyers. They were dissatisfied that their firstborn had thrown his lot in with an “opportunistic climber” like myself. I smirked at the memory of Terrell relaying that little bit of intel. Of course, that was back before Terrell had come out, so they just assumed I was after his trust fund.

Sometimes, I was glad I hadn’t come from money. Then again, I looked around our apartment—far nicer than what we should have been able to afford as fresh-out-of-school lawyers—and was happy Terrell and his trust fund assisted me in living far beyond my means. Cheers.

I took a gulp of wine. “Mr. Granade was plenty entertaining. Trust me. He was just so, so—”

“Alpha?”

“Yes!” I laid my head back and stared at the swirling ceiling fan. “Like, he was the usual him but turned up even more, you know?”

“Sounds fascinating.” He kept flipping channels until he landed on a show about some woman addicted to eating soap. “Disgusting. We have to watch it. What about the serial killer? Did he tell you to rub the lotion on your skin or else you’d get the hose again?”

I snickered into my glass. “No, but I have no doubt he would, given the chance. He’s a burnout meth-head who likes hitting hookers more than drawing breath.”

“Guilty, huh?”