Hardass (Bad Bitch)(2)

Of the eight associates at the table, eight raised their hands. I tried to hold my hand the highest, like an idiot, as if that would mean that I won. I was a climber, so naturally, competition was in my nature.

Mr. Granade looked around and sat back in his chair. “So all of you are up to the task?”

A round of yes-sirs went up.

He smirked and flicked his gaze across the eager faces at the table. “Are you certain?”

Another round of affirmative, yet also kiss-ass, responses.

The smirk changed to a smile, his even white teeth making him look like more of a stunner. He had dimples. I’d seen them only once before, when his brother visited him at the office and made an off-color joke. That smile was locked in my memory, dimples and all. I’d never seen it again.

If Mr. Granade ever smiled with delight at me, the dimples would appear and my panties would melt. I knew it. I hoped one day I would say something so amazingly clever and brilliant that it would bring out the smile, dimples and all, and he would sweep me off my feet and do unbelievably inappropriate things to me in his corner office. My panties stayed put this morning, because his smile was more wolfish than anything else. No dimples. Not even a trace.

I surreptitiously pushed out my boobs, hoping to get some sort of edge. Terrell straightened his tie. He was handsome, intelligent, and knew how to please even the most discerning of cocks, but this particular cock was mine. Not a chance, bestie.

Mr. Granade looked up in thought, his Adam’s apple tantalizing me above the edge of his sharp white dress shirt and navy tie. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll have a little competition.” He lowered his head and leveled his gaze at us. “Whichever one of you can answer this question to my satisfaction will get to assist me in this case.”

I glanced around at the eager faces. I had to beat them. I didn’t care if they went to a better law school or had better grades or maybe were a little thinner—especially Yvonne, that skinny bitch—I had to win.

The room simmered as Mr. Granade paused. Every associate was gunning for the spot. Yvonne twirled a lock of midnight hair around her finger and sneered at me. Like I said, skinny bitch.

Terrell sat at my elbow, pen poised and at the ready, as if this were a math competition. If that were the case, I was already good and screwed.

Mr. Granade rapped his knuckles on the table. “Here we go. The question is as follows: You’re defending one of two accused bank robbers. The State decides to prosecute the defendants separately. Your guy is going first. The State lists only one witness against your client on its disclosures—the co-defendant bank robber. The co-defendant is set to give particularly damning testimony about how your client masterminded the entire robbery, including plans to kill a guard upon escape. Trial is set to start in an hour. Your guy is looking at twenty years in prison, minimum, upon conviction. What do you do?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his toned but not overly muscled pecs straining against his shirt. I wondered if he was hairy under there. If the strands were the same chocolate color as the smooth locks on his head. Maybe there was a dusting and then a goodie trail leading down below.

Focus, Caroline!

Shit. What was the answer? Plea deal? I chewed on my bottom lip, trying to decipher the trick. There had to be a trick. Mr. Granade was too smart for a straightforward answer. Tricksy hot Hobbitses.

Mr. Granade’s voice sliced through the worried silence. “Mr. Lynch. What’s the correct answer?”

Terrell jerked to attention, though his pen was still poised over his notepad, empty save for his doodles.

“I, um, I would . . .” He drummed his pen on the pad, his dark eyes focusing on the movement as if the answer were there in the tap, tap, tap. I could almost hear the machinery spinning in his head. “I would try the case and bring the bank tellers as witnesses to refute the co-defendant’s testimony?”

Terrell winced when his voice went up at the end of the last word. Answering a question with a question was never a good idea. Answering Mr. Granade that way? Epic fail.

Mr. Granade gave no sign whether the answer was correct or not. He simply barked out another name and went around the table. There were a variety of answers—some creative plea deals, some intense defense strategies with security footage and testimony. Yvonne had a pretty good idea about discrediting the co-defendant on the stand. Too bad she was wrong. And, also, still a skinny bitch.

He kept going, calling names and getting answers. I was glad he saved me for last, though I wondered whether it was on purpose.

“Ms. Montreat, our class clown.” He said it with such derision. “What would you do?” His deep blue gaze settled on me, and my heart did that weird stutter-step thing. The same thing it did whenever I spotted a tub of my favorite—yet elusive—gelato.