Hardass (Bad Bitch)(12)

“I don’t know. Mr. Granade didn’t say, and I couldn’t tell. He’s definitely a bad man, but I don’t know if he’s the Bayou Butcher.” I remembered the way Mr. Granade had touched my knee under the table to reassure me. I sighed.

Terrell rolled his eyes and turned up the volume on the TV. “Well, did Mr. Granade say if he likes cock? Mine in particular?”

I spit my wine all over my pajama pants.

“Hey, don’t waste it! This is some of the good stuff from Lynch Lane.” Terrell jumped up and grabbed a paper towel from our kitchen. “Here, clean yourself up. Raised in a fucking barn, I swear.”

I snorted as he laughed and plopped back down on the couch.

I dabbed up the spilled wine and thought for a moment about wringing the paper towel into my mouth. “I’m pretty sure he’s all about P in the V.”

Terrell snorted. “Yeah, yeah, they all say that until they’re screaming my name, and then I don’t return their calls the next day.”

“You really think you could bed any man, don’t you?”

“I don’t think it. I know it.” He waved the remote at the TV. “Now, look here at this bitch. She just ate a whole bar of Ivory and now she’s going for some Irish Spring. What kind of redneck soap is this? You’d think the producers would at least spring for some Burt’s Bees or Rodan and Fields.”

“I guess she’s a woman who appreciates the simpler things in life, Terrell. Hey, speaking of bitches, did Yvonne talk shit about me while I was on my field trip today?”

“Does a pig have a curly tail?”

“The one in Charlotte’s Web did, so yes?”

“Yes. She went all over talking about how you cheated on Mr. Granade’s criminal procedure question.”

“How the hell could I cheat on an off-the-cuff question like that?”

Terrell shrugged. “I don’t know. She just said that a dumb hick like you could never have gotten it right unless you cheated.”

I set my glass down and moved over to plop next to Terrell. “Did you defend my honor?”

He smiled into his wineglass. “No, I agreed that peasants like you are all cheaters.”

That was it. I dug into his ribs, his white T-shirt no match for my little sausage fingers, as he called them. He yelled and almost dropped his wine before scooting away to the end of the couch and fending me off easily with his free hand. Terrell was six-four and two hundred pounds of muscle. Sneak attacks were my only chance.

“Dammit, Caroline, I almost spilled my wine.” He laughed but kept his hand up. I thought about jumping at him and grabbing onto his curls, but he really would have been pissed about that. No one touched the hair—ever. “And yes, of course I told her to shut her twat-face.”

I sat back, slightly appeased. “Good.”

“Now shut up and let’s watch this chick get her insides Zestfully clean.”

I kicked at Terrell’s pajama-clad legs and settled down. We spent the rest of the night unwinding with trash TV. Even as Terrell gave running soap commentary, my thoughts strayed back to Mr. Granade—his fingertips along my lower back, his hand on my leg, his eyes on me.

I had to excuse myself and head to bed a little early.

“Sure, you’re tired, right?” Terrell smirked.

“Yep. See you in the morning.” I put my glass in the sink and headed down the hall to my bedroom.

“I can hear your vibrator, you know,” he called to my retreating back.

“I know. Rub one out to it if you just have to. I won’t judge.”

“I certainly will not, but I do suspect we’ll be fantasizing about the same person. Oh, Mr. Granade, you want me to stay late? I like your tie. Is it Valentino? I have the same one in navy. You want me to bend over your desk and pi—”

I shut my door and drowned out whatever fantasy Terrell was having. I had one of my own to play out that involved the same desk and a much more creative use of Mr. Granade’s tie.



“Class clown, you ready to head over to the district attorney’s office?” Mr. Granade leaned into my cramped, windowless office. His navy suit was cut perfectly to accentuate his broad shoulders. Terrell would be impressed. So was I.

“Um, yes. I didn’t realize it was so late.” I checked the time on my laptop. We had fifteen minutes to get to our appointment.

He leaned against my doorframe as I gathered my legal pad and a pen. “Usually the associate reminds the partner about appointments, not the other way around, Ms. Montreat.”

His gaze was stern and his tone cold. So, in response, I bent over from the waist to grab my purse off the floor behind my desk.