Total pages in book: 179
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 869(@200wpm)___ 695(@250wpm)___ 579(@300wpm)
Pulling my journal from my briefcase, I open it to my writing from yesterday, and grimace at my scribbled note about women who fall in love with convicted killers. Mr. Hotness isn’t the defendant, but the story idea is still a good one. Setting that aside for now, I start jotting down notes related to Lauren’s comments, with a focus on who might be guilty of the murders, if not the defendant. I’m pages into my thoughts when the action in the courtroom begins, and it’s not long before Reese is at his table, and I find myself remembering his words, spoken all gravelly and low: You came for me. Come for me again. There had been a glint in his eye, I realize. Cocky bastard knew exactly what he was implying about me and my, well…orgasm. And holy hell, as he walks to the bench to greet the judge, I’m fairly certain a number of women sigh for no reason other than that he is in the same room. I really hate that I’m one of them, but I’m not going to deny that he’s a good-looking man. That isn’t the point in all of this. His attitude and my job are.
The trial begins, and the prosecution claims the reins, continuing its opening statement narrative, painting a picture of a selfish billionaire who wanted his cake and to eat it too, a.k.a. a wife and a mistress. It’s dirty, gritty, nasty legal work. It’s also delivered clumsily, filled with empty spaces, and theories that have no factual support. And from where I sit, Reese does an incredible job of tearing down every witness that is presented.
So much so that by lunchtime I set aside Lauren’s praise for Reese and decide that my original assessment of the man is correct: He is most definitely the kind of man who will fuck you and fuck you over, unless you fuck him and fuck him over first. Professionally speaking, of course, and as a general observation, made objectively by a woman who has not gotten naked with him. Which brings me to who is actually naked and exposed right now, and it’s not me or Reese, but rather everyone else in the courtroom.
As if proving every mental point I’ve just made, he approaches a witness for the prosecution and proceeds to turn the woman into a silly schoolgirl, who fidgets, smiles nervously, and bats her eyes at him. She also proceeds to look like a liar when she can’t keep her story straight. It seems that her claim to have seen the defendant with his “alleged” mistress, as Reese calls her, proves less than reliable. Apparently, she’s not sure what she saw after all.
Unsurprisingly, once she’s off the stand, the prosecution asks for an early, and long, lunch break. “One hour,” the judge allots, giving nothing but the standard break, which to me says that he believes the witness list is not only long, but destined to be drawn out.
The gavel is clunked on the wooden block on top of the judge’s desk, and the courtroom becomes a gaggle of people standing and moving toward the door. I don’t get up. I can’t. The walkway is packed and I’m trapped. I try to make good use of my captive position, watching the front of the courtroom for a story. The prosecution scrambles to a back room while Reese lingers at his table, conversing with his client and co-counsels. Interestingly, Reese stands close to the accused. He leans toward him. Lauren is right. This is a man who believes his client is innocent. Or Reese simply loves everyone who pays him and pays him well.
The courtroom doesn’t just begin to thin out, it empties out like a suction draining a swamp, and suddenly, I’m out in the open, exposed, a woman watching Reese Summer in a sea of empty seats. It’s in that moment that he leans in close to his client to say something in his ear. In doing so, he faces the courtroom, and me, and his gaze seems to fall on me: The woman who almost stood him up for coffee, who is now sitting in his courtroom, staring at him. This feels like a scene out of a stalker movie, and I’m the stalker.
He doesn’t react to my presence. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me. Maybe his mind is elsewhere. Whatever the case, he continues to stare at me with no external reaction before pulling back to look at his client, his attention back where it belongs: Not on me.
“Miss,” a security guard greets me, suddenly towering above me. “We need you to exit the courtroom.”
I frown and look at grandpa in blue, wondering if the man is serious. How was I supposed to leave when I was blocked in? My walkway is clear now, and I leave my comment in my head. “Of course,” I say, as he steps into the aisle in a fashion that prevents me from walking in any direction but the door. Maybe he thinks I’m a stalker, too.