Overruled(98)

Again.

It’s the sole image I’ve conjured every single time I’ve jerked off, which has been pathetically often.

Those crystal blue eyes, her quick-smiling pink lips, her long, elegant neck that begged to be licked, her lithe limbs that I just bet are oh so flexible, and most important, her firm, perfectly sized tits. I mentally kick myself for not getting her number.

She’s too old—and too hot—to be a virgin at twenty-six, but there was something about her that seemed . . . pure. Untouched. Undiscovered. And that’s a particular course I sure as hell would love to chart.

I rub my eyes. I need to get laid. This “getting to know a woman first” shit is turning out to be a bigger hassle than I ever anticipated. Is the risk of contracting an STD really such a big deal?

And then I remember how it felt waiting for those test results. The sharp, cold terror of being saddled with a disease—possibly for life. Or, even scarier, with one that could cut my life short. Hell, yes—it’s a big deal.

No f*ck, no matter how spectacular, is worth dying for.

That should be the tag line in every high school safe-sex campaign.

My secretary, Mrs. Higgens—a great lady who looks like everybody’s grandma—opens my office door. “Miss Chelsea McQuaid is here to see you, Jake. And she’s got a whole brood of little ones with her.”

My smile is wide and slow and completely gratified. I don’t believe in signs—but if I did, this would be big, flashing neon.

I straighten my tie. “Show them in, Mrs. Higgens.”

She nods, and a few moments later, Chelsea and her fidgeting, noisy gaggle of nieces and nephews come into my office. She’s wearing casual “mommy-wear,” but on that body, it screams Sexy. A dark green sweater that highlights the red in her auburn hair. Snug blue jeans tucked into high brown boots that accent those endless legs—and the tight swell of her ass. That’s a pleasant surprise—I didn’t notice her ass the first time we met, but it’s f*cking gorgeous.

She adjusts her grip on the baby carrier and her smile is strained. “Hello, Mr. Becker.”

I stand up behind my desk. “Chelsea, it’s good to see you again. What brings you . . .”

My eyes flick quickly to each of the faces that crowds my office, then to the empty doorway, as I realize someone is missing.

“Where’s Rory?”

Chelsea sighs. Before she can speak, the grouchy girl—the fourteen-year-old, Riley—answers for her. “The idiot got arrested. He stole a car.”

“A car?”

In a week, the little shit went from mugging to grand theft auto. That sure escalated quickly.

The small towheaded one, Rosaline, continues. “And then he crashed it.”

The two-year-old supplies sound effects. “Brooocshhh.”

The smart one, Raymond, adds, “And not just any car—a Ferrari 458 Italia Limited Edition. The starting price is around nine hundred thousand dollars.”

I look to Chelsea, who nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story. He’s in juvenile detention—serious trouble this time.”

This time implies there’s been other times—my almost-robbery notwithstanding. Jesus Christ, kid.

Chelsea explains in a strained voice, “My brother has dozens of attorneys in his contact list, but none of them are defense attorneys. I had your card . . . and you seem like a good lawyer.”

Out of curiosity, I ask, “What makes you think I’m good?”

She raises her chin and meets my eyes. “You look like a man who knows how to win a fight. That’s what I need—what Rory needs.”

I take a few moments to think—to plan.

Chelsea must interpret my silence as rejection, because her voice turns almost pleading. “I don’t know what your typical retainer is, but I have money if—”

My lifted finger stops her. “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. Wait here.” Then I point to Raymond. “Come with me.” And to the oldest girl. “You too, Smiley.”

As they follow me out the door, the brooding teen corrects me. “My name is Riley.”

“I know. But I’m going to call you Smiley.”

“Why?” she asks, like it’s the stupidest, most vile thing she’s ever heard.

I smirk. “Because you’re not.”

Let the eye rolling commence.

I lead them into the office next door. Sofia Santos’s dark head is bent over her desk, her perfectly manicured hands scribbling rapid notes on a document. She looks up as we enter.