Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(2)

“Calm down, kitten,” I try, my voice level.

“Don’t call me that!” she snaps. “We said we wouldn’t discuss the case—that was our agreement.”

I move in closer, palms out, the universal sign of I come in peace. “We agreed to a lot of things that no longer apply, sweet-cheeks.”

Her nostrils flare at the trial nickname. Guess I can add “sweet-cheeks” to the no column, which is a damn shame. It suits her.

“I only brought it up because I’m trying to help you.”

It’s official: I’m a f*cking idiot. Of all the wrong things I could’ve said, that’s the wrongest of them all.

“You think I need your help? Condescending cocksucker!”

She turns for the door, but I grab her arm again.

“Let go. I’m leaving.”

I want to respond with a good old Like hell you are or the more direct You’re not going anywhere. But they both have a psychotic, it-puts-the-lotion-in-the-basket-or-it-gets-the-hose kind of vibe. And that’s not what I’m going for.

Instead, I snatch the clothes from her arms and head to the window.

“What are you—? Don’t!”

Too late.

Her designer skirt, sleeveless silk blouse, and red lacy underthings float on the air for a fraction of a second, then fall to the sidewalk and street below us. Her bra gets snagged on the antenna of a passing car and waves majestically down the street like the flag on a diplomat’s vehicle from some awesome country named Titsland.

Feels like I should salute it.

I close the window, cross my arms, and smile. “If you try to leave now, poor Harrison may be scarred for life.” Harrison is my butler. Again—later.

“You son of a bitch!”

And her fists come flying at my face. All those years of ballet classes have made her quick, gracefully agile. But as fast as she is, and as mighty as her disposition is, she’s only five foot one at best. So before she can land a punch, or thinks to knee me in the balls, I easily toss her onto the bed. Then I straddle her waist, leaning over to press her wrists into the mattress above her head. My cock brushes hot and hard against the smooth skin just below her breasts, which gives him some fabulous ideas—but that’s gonna have to wait until later too.

Pity.

I gaze down at her. “Now, peaches, we’ll continue our conversation.”

That nickname fits too. Her silken skin is all peaches and cream. And the way she smells, Jesus, the way she tastes on my tongue—sweeter and softer than a ripe peach on a summer day.

Strands of blond hair dance across her collarbone as she bucks beneath me, giving my dick even more fabulous ideas. “Fuck you! I’m done talking.”

“Good. Then how about you shut that beautiful mouth and listen? Or I could always gag you.”

I may gag her anyway, just for the fun of it. Probably should’ve held on to her panties.

“I hate you!”

I chuckle. “No, you don’t.”

Her brown eyes burn into me, the same way they branded me decades ago. “I never should have trusted you again.”

Keeping her wrists pinned above her, I lean back a little to enjoy the view. “Bullshit. Best decision you ever made. Now listen up, buttercup . . .”

And I start to tell her all the things I should’ve said weeks ago. No—years ago . . .

? ? ?





4 weeks earlier


“I had a weird dream last night.”

I pace behind the couch with a racquetball ball in my hand. When I get to the end, I bounce the ball against the wall, catch it with one hand, then turn around and head the other way. I talk easier, think better when I’m moving.

“I was on a beach . . . at least I think it was a beach, I don’t remember any water. But there was sand, I was digging in the sand.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

Some people think it’s weak to see a therapist—but they couldn’t be more full of shit. It takes some big brass balls to bare your thoughts to another person. Your fears, faults, down-and-dirty desires. It’s like a workout for the soul. It forces you to see yourself—the real you.

And I think that’s the problem—most people don’t want to see themselves. They prefer to believe they’re actually the person everyone on the outside thinks they are—not the selfish, deviant * who’s really calling the shots.

“The grains were rough—white, beige, and black, and I kept digging deeper. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I knew it when I found it.”

Bounce, catch, turn.

“It was a ruby. A ruby in the sand. But here’s the weird part—when I tried to pick it up, it kept slipping from my hands. No matter how hard I tried, how much I tightened my grip, I couldn’t hold on to it. Fucking creepy, right, Waldo?”

My therapist’s name is Waldo Bingingham. He’s a soft-spoken, contemplative kind of guy a few years shy of retirement. All his other clients call him Dr. Bingingham, or Dr. Bing for short. But I like Waldo—it’s pretty much the most awesome name someone could be named. If your kid’s name is Waldo, at some point in his life, you’re gonna have to say, Where’s Waldo? And that’s hilarious.

He gazes at me patiently. He removes his dark, thick-rimmed, 1960s Walter Cronkite–era glasses and cleans them slowly with a tissue. It’s a strategy he’s used often in the years I’ve been coming to him. He’s waiting me out—giving me time to answer my own question.