“Which ones?”
“My brother Kennedy.” His smooth jaw tightened and released, tightened and released. “And my other brother, Lincoln, just moved back from New York.”
“Parents?”
“They’ve passed.”
Shit. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s been years, and I have a lot of great memories.” He smiled a little, as if a particularly happy memory had popped up right then.
“So what does Kennedy do?”
“Lawyer.”
“Lincoln?”
“Lawyer.”
“Seems like the three of you should have started a firm. The name would be easy enough. The Granade Firm. Or maybe you’d do that ridiculous thing where you all three have to be listed because, you know, pissing contest.”
His eyebrows raised above the frame of the sunglasses. But I was invested, so there was no stopping.
“So it would be Granade, Granade, and Granade. But the question would be, which one of you is which Granade? Am I right? You’d probably tell everyone you were first, and then your brothers would do the same, and then it would be total anarchy.” I snickered.
The corners of his lips twitched, not enough to give me a smile, not even the wolfish one, but the impulse was there. I would take it. He sped up and passed several cars. Speed limits must have been for lesser attorneys. Or maybe ones who couldn’t talk themselves out of a ticket. I was certain he could talk his way out of a murder rap, even if he’d been caught with blood on his hands. He was just that good. I’d seen it. I believed it.
“So what about your family?”
“They live in Baton Rouge. I have a brother in New Orleans. He does some sort of financial stuff. I’m not really sure. He tells me about it, but I wind up, you know”—I made the jackoff motion with my hand—“just telling him to tell Mom so she can be proud, because I don’t give two shits.”
Terrell’s voice echoed through my memory: Tone it down. I dropped my hand.
He smirked as he glanced over at me. I was glad my sunglasses hid my eyes so he couldn’t see my attempt at being embarrassed.
“I mean, I’m sure it’s a good job and everything.” I folded my hands in my lap to keep them under tighter guard. That meant my mouth was on its own. Not good.
“How do you like the firm so far?”
“I love it.” Kiss-ass. “I’ve wanted to do criminal defense since my second year of law school. And Palmer & Granade is where I wanted to be. So it all worked out according to my evil plans.”
“Evil plans, huh? What made you decide on criminal defense?”
You did. “I, well, I saw a trial that I got really interested in. It was like a Lifetime movie. You go into it thinking, Meh, this is going to be boring or stupid or dumb or trite, and then you watch and you’re crying and snotting and so invested and then you root for the heroine when she kills the bad guy even though she’s preggers with his love baby. You know?”
The smirk graced me with its presence. “I am very pleased to say that no, I do not know. But do go on.”
“The trial was just like that. It was an assignment for a litigation skills class. I’d already decided I wanted to be a transactional attorney and make the big bucks with minimal effort. No court time or anything. But then I saw this trial and I was hooked.”
“What case?”
“Oh, I, uh, it was State versus someone or other.” I shrugged and finally turned my gaze out the front windshield, the miles melting away in a blur of speed. I was lying. I would sound like a total stalker if I recited every detail of the trial—which I knew by heart.
“I’m pretty sure all criminal trials are State versus someone or other.” He shifted in his seat the slightest bit, turning his attention on me. “Let’s see. You graduated last year, so your second summer—hmm. I remember trying a case that summer. Sutter—charged with murder. Ring a bell?”
“That might have been it. I don’t really remember details.” My fingers fidgeted with each other, as if dying to escape and make another lewd hand gesture.
“Let’s see, yeah, he was involved in a drug deal gone bad. His supplier was shot through the forehead with a .22. He was the likeliest suspect, so he got popped.” He smiled, even sexier with the sunglasses, but the dimples weren’t making an appearance. Not yet.
Heat rushed along my skin, racing to the juncture of my thighs. “That may have been it.”
“May have or was?” His voice was incisive.
He was cross-examining me. Is it wrong that it turned me on to an alarming degree? “It was.”