Appealed (20 page)

“Do you know why I do that?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Then nothing.

Fucking therapists. All about the head games.

I lift an eyebrow. “Care to share with the class?”

He clears his throat. “You experienced a severe trauma at a young age. Unlike most teenagers, you never underwent the ‘invincibility phase'—the time in an adolescent's life when they hold the unreasonable belief that nothing bad will happen to them, regardless of any unhealthy behavior. Because you knew all too well that bad things do happen. That safety is an illusion, and awful events strike at random, through no fault of our own.

“The loss of your leg left you with two impressions that you carry with you to this very day. The first is that life is unpredictable and cruelly short. So you seize it, squeezing in as many experiences as you can, accomplishing goals with almost frenetic energy—because you never know when your time will run out.

“The second, which is emotionally counterproductive to the first, is you guard your feelings—for women in particular. You keep a tight rein on your affections because you never know when
their
time will run out. And the pain of possibly losing someone you love—that is your greatest fear.”

His words bounce around in my head. And they sound spot-on.

Which doesn't mean I have to believe them.

“I've met someone.” I take a sip of water from the glass on the table in front of me. “Well . . . I've become reacquainted with someone would be more accurate, I guess.”

Now it's Waldo's turn to sit forward. Because he's never heard me talk about any woman in the tone I'm using right now.

Serious. Desperate.

I tell him all about Kennedy. About our childhood, boarding school, the Longhorn case, and everything that's happened between us since I saw her again at that party. I tell him how much I want to make things work with her, how I want to protect her and fulfill her every dream. And mostly, I talk about how badly I don't want to screw it all up. Including the Longhorn case.

After I've caught him up to speed, I ask, “Do you believe in soul mates, Waldo?”

He does the eyeglass-cleaning thing. After he slides them on his face he replies, “I think the more appropriate question is—do
you
believe in soul mates, Brent?”

“I do now.” I try to put my surging thoughts into words. “All these years, Kennedy's never let anyone else in. She has her reasons, but the bottom line is, there hasn't been any guy who's gotten past her fire-breathing dragon. And what if . . . what if the reason I've never let myself fall in love with a woman is because I didn't have anything to give? Because I'd already given my heart to
her
when we were seventeen years old? And all these years . . . I've just been waiting for her to come back to me with it.”

We're silent for several long moments; the only sound is the ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

“What do you think about that, Waldo?”

Slowly, he smiles at me with pride. And confidence.

“Well, Brent—I think of our two theories, I prefer yours.”

“G
od . . . yessss.”

Kennedy's hips jerk as she rides me—the smooth strokes turning rough and desperate. I palm one tit, pinching the pointed nipple, while I suckle the other enthusiastically.

“Oh . . .
o
h
!
”

Her chin falls to the top of my head as she comes, her muscles milking my cock mercilessly—and I explode inside her with an unrestrained shout.

A few minutes later we lie tangled up—her head on my chest, our slick limbs and sweaty torsos clinging to each other in a soothing way. My fingers slide up and down her arm.

And I think.

Kennedy rested her case against Justin Longhorn a few days ago. I put my new computer expert on the stand the following day, to at least suggest some form of reasonable doubt. Now, all that's left is Justin. He'll testify in his own defense . . . and then it'll be done.

And I wonder if this is how Serena Williams or Peyton Manning feel when they compete against their siblings. So fucking conflicted. I want to win the case—for Justin, for my own throbbing sense of competition. Yet I don't want Kennedy to lose.

I blow out a breath and start with, “So listen . . . I know you think you're winning the case . . .”

Kennedy's voice is velvet to my ears, the way she always sounds after I give her three orgasms. “I don't
think
. I
know
I am.”

I squeeze her arm gently. “Right. But, the thing is, tomorrow—your case is gonna implode. I'm going to put Justin on the stand, and there's no way a jury will send him away for twenty years after they hear him testify. You haven't given them the option of a lesser charge, so it's going to be twenty years, or an acquittal. You need to make a plea deal with me, Kennedy.”

She sits up and stares at me like she doesn't recognize me.

“You rotten bastard!”

And you know how the
rest
of that conversation went. She takes a swing at me, I toss her clothes out the window, etc., etc.

•  •  •

“Now listen up, buttercup.”

I look down at her beautiful, infuriated face, locking my eyes with hers.

“I'm falling in love with you.”

Kennedy goes completely still beneath me.

And I shake my head. “No, I
am
in love with you. When I look at you, think about you, I can't decide if I want to fuck you, strangle you, or just hold you in my arms. Usually all three. And if that's not love, I don't know what is.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I don't give her the chance. “You're everything I've been searching for, before I even knew I was looking. I pushed the plea deal because it's the right thing to do for the case—and because I'm terrified if I win you'll hold it against me. And I already have so much to make up for.”

Her chest heaves, like she's sprinting—and in her head, she probably is.

“Let me up, Brent. Let me up right now.”

I release her wrists and climb off, sitting next to her, my leg hanging over the bed. Kennedy sits up, but doesn't move from the space beside me. I can practically see the wheels spinning in her head.

I tuck her hair behind her ear. “You don't have to say anything back.”

It'd be fucking nice if she did—but she doesn't have to yet.

When she speaks, she focuses on her folded hands in her lap. “This is all happening so fast.”

“I know. It's fast, but it's real, Kennedy.” I take her hand. “
We
are real.”

She stares at our hands, but doesn't hold mine back. It lies like a weight in my palm.

“I care about you, Brent—you must already know that. I don't . . . I don't know if I have it in me to love you. I'm not sure I'm capable of it. I dreamed about being with you for so long . . . and then, after school, I let that dream die. Cremated it. Buried it. Sunk it to the bottom—”

“Yeah, thanks—I get the picture.”

Her eyes tighten. “I think . . . I like it buried, Brent. It makes everything easier. My relationship with David and the relationships I had before were easy. I could enjoy them and then move on when they were over, because they didn't affect me. They didn't alter my life or who I am.”

I think about Waldo and frozen ponds.

“You like skating the surface.”

Her forehead wrinkles, not understanding. So I clarify.

“If you never dive in the deep end, you never have to worry about drowning.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah. It's like that.”

Kennedy withdraws her hand and stands up. She rubs her eyes and sighs. “I'm going to go home and think, okay?”

Am I disappointed? As fuck.

Beaten? Not a chance in hell.

I know where she's coming from—more than she'll probably ever understand. And like I said before, I'm patient. I'm relentless.

I don't believe for a second that she's incapable of loving me. There's too much passion between us—so much feeling. I think she might even love me already.

I just have to help her see it.

Kennedy faces me, her posture taking on a more professional air—even though she's still gorgeously bare.

“And there's not going to be a plea deal. I'm sticking to the plan I have. If I change that now, I'll always wonder if it was because it was the best choice for the case, or because I let my feelings for you sway me.”

I nod, resigned but not really surprised.

“Okay.”

She picks up my shirt from the bed, starts to slide her arms in, but I hold up my finger, stopping her. Then I open my bedroom door and there, in a neatly folded pile outside of it, are Kennedy's clothes. Like I knew they would be.

Kennedy chuckles a little when I pick them up and hand them to her. Then she calls out into the hallway, “Thank you, Harrison.”

I should really pay him more.

We're both quiet as she gets dressed—minus her bra. Just can't bring myself to feel bad about that.

Then she approaches me, reaches up on tiptoes, and kisses me softly. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

She will. It's our final matchup. Our Battle Royale. And when it's done, only one of us will be left standing.

•  •  •

“I call Justin Longhorn to the stand, Your Honor.”

Justin adjusts his navy tie, smooths his hands nervously down his tan slacks, and takes the stand. After he's sworn in, he looks at me and I give him an encouraging nod.

“How are you doing, Justin?”

He swallows hard. “Not so good.”

I gesture around the courtroom. “It's kind of crazy, isn't it? How quickly the legal system can move . . . swallow you up in its cold, hard machinery?”

Kennedy rises. “Does Mr. Mason have a relevant question for the witness, Your Honor?”

I glance back at her—eyeing her sweet legs beneath her dark blue skirt. “I have several.”

“Let's get to them, then,” the judge nudges.

“Yes, sir.” I look back to Justin. “How old are you, Justin?”

His voice is small and squeaky with youth. “Seventeen.”

“Do you have any interests? Hobbies?”

“Pretty much just computers.”

I walk him through his childhood. How his interest began with Xbox games and Game Boys, then escalated into online gaming and coding. How he became friends with anonymous posters on message boards, which led him to secret chat rooms where hackers gather. And there he developed his hacking skills. How they would brag about their accomplishments, always trying to impress and outdo each other.

“Tell me about First Security Bank,” I say.

He's more comfortable now. More animated.

“First Security's firewall was like legendary. The gold medal. Everyone wanted to crack it, but anyone who tried crashed and burned. Peeps started saying it really was impenetrable.”

“So you gave it a shot? You attempted to hack into their online banking system.”

His eyes jump to the jury, but then he admits, “Well . . . yeah. It was a challenge. Like the final boss level in a game.”

He explains how he went at it for three sleepless days, fueled by Monster drinks and Hostess Twinkies.

“And then?” I ask.

And he can't keep the smile off his young face. “I was in. I couldn't believe it at first, but it was right in front of me. The accounts were all there.”

“What did you do then? Hop on the message boards to tell the boys the big news?”

Justin's brows draw together. “No. I didn't tell anybody. For a while I just wandered around, checked things out. I kept expecting to get booted out when they realized I was there.” His voice goes soft. Almost sad. “But no one . . . no one saw me.”

“What happened next?”

“I set up my own account. A dummy account.”

I lean back against the defense table. “Why?”

“To see if anyone would notice.”

“And did they, Justin? Did anyone notice you?”

His head shakes infinitesimally. “No.”

Softly, I ask, “What did you do next?”

And here's the gamble. The risk. Justin's and mine, because he's essentially confessing his guilt.

“It was a mistake. I didn't mean to . . .”

“What didn't you mean to do, Justin?”

He takes a deep breath. “I took a penny from an account.”

The corner of my mouth quirks. “A penny?”

He nods. “Yes. And then I waited twenty-four hours. To see . . .”

“To see if anyone would notice you?”

“Yes.”

“Did they?”

He answers so quietly, the court reporter has him repeat his response.

“No.”

“Then what happened, Justin?”

He stares at the microphone in front of him. “I took a hundred pennies. One each from a hundred different accounts.”

I peek at the jury. Eight women, all mothers; six men, four fathers, two uncles. Twelve of them will decide Justin's fate, the remaining two are alternates. And every single one of them has their full attention focused on Justin. Watching his every move, hearing his every word. Noticing every nuance, just like I hoped they would. Not one of them looks pissed; their expressions range from curiosity to interest . . . to sympathy.

Perfect.

I choose my words deliberately. “And did anyone see you
then
, Justin?”

“No.”

“So what did you do?”

He pauses, looks at me for guidance. And I nod.

“It's fuzzy . . . I don't remember the order exactly, but . . . I went back in. And I took more money from the accounts.”

“Did you have plans to spend the money? A weekend in Aspen? A party at a swanky hotel?”