Appealed (9 page)

“Mr. Mason, Miss Randolph, we have a problem.” He sighs like a fed-up parent.

Kennedy jumps right in. “May I speak freely, Your Honor?”

“This is not the military, Miss Randolph. Say what you need to say.”

She points at me. “He's an ass.”

“I'm an ass?” I choke. “What about you? You've been busting my balls since day one!”

Her mouth drops open in horror. “I have no interest in your balls!”

“Protesting a little too much, aren't you?”

And we're back to the nose-to-nose thing. Except even in heels, Kennedy's really short—so I have to dip my head.

“I'm getting the feeling you two know each other,” Judge Phillips interrupts.

Kennedy and I answer at the same time.

“Not really.”

“That's right.”

I give her an exasperated look, then inform the judge, “We grew up next door to each other.”

Kennedy snorts and folds her arms. “In houses that were twenty acres apart—it's not like we were roomies.”

“We made out once when we were teenagers,” I volunteer. “Then she broke my heart. It was brutal.”

Kennedy's mouth drops open again. It's actually a nice look for her.

If it weren't for the murderous expression that goes along with it.

“I broke
your
heart! Ha! That's a lie!”

I gesture with my hands and raise my voice. “You went out with William Penderghast before the saliva was dry on my lips!”

And before the come was dry on my stomach. But I keep that particular detail to myself, because I'm a gentleman.

Kennedy gets right in my face. “Because you were already back together with your raging bitch girlfriend!”

And the judge clears his throat. Again.

Oops.

“Yeah, you two definitely know each other.” He leans back in his chair, eyes going between the two of us.

Kennedy steps forward to his desk, so I can't see her expression. But her voice is softer, and deliberately even. “We haven't seen each other in almost fifteen years, Judge. So the truth is, we don't know each other at all.” She shakes her head, just a bit. “Not anymore.”

Maybe it's the way she says it—monotone—without a hint of anger or annoyance or even sadness. Or maybe it's just that the words are true. But my stomach drops. It falls in that sharp, unexpected, yearning sort of way—that feels exactly like regret.

Judge Phillips looks at us for a moment longer. Then he spins in his chair, plucks a framed photograph from the shelf behind him, and shows it to us. “I have five boys. Even after the first three, my Alice was determined to get her daughter. After Timothy came along, she finally accepted that she'd have to be content with daughters-in-law.”

In the picture, Judge Phillips and his aging-pretty-damn-well-looking wife stand in front of a lighthouse, flanked by five dark-haired, twenty-something-year-old guys in light blue button-downs and jeans.

“You have a beautiful family, Judge,” I tell him.

“They seem like fine, upstanding young men,” Kennedy adds.

“They are.
Now
. When they were teenagers, they were destructive, hot-tempered bastards who loved to piss each other off.”

I grin, because he sounds just like Jake and his wild brood of McQuaids.

“When two of them would really get into it,” the judge continues, “I'd lock them together in a bedroom and let them duke it out. Sometimes I'd hear a crash or a thump against the wall, but for the most part they'd work out their issues. And more importantly—I didn't have to listen to them while they did it.”

He takes his wallet out of his pocket and tosses a couple of twenties down on the desk. He looks at the pile, joggles his head back and forth, and throws out a few more twenties.

“That strategy worked out so well I'm going to use it with the two of you.” He gestures to the money. “Go out, sit down, get some dinner and maybe a few beverages, and work out whatever issues you have that are turning my courtroom into a circus.”

The judge's plan scores me court-mandated alone time with Kennedy—so I like it.

She doesn't.

“Your Honor, this is highly irregular—”

“Yes, it is, Miss Randolph, but I'm ordering it anyway. Watching you two swipe and spit at each other has gotten on my last nerve.”

“Judge Phillips, I can assure you—”

“I don't want your assurances, little lady, I want a smooth-running trial.” He points again to the money on the desk. “This will get me that—so don't even think of walking back in here on Monday until your and Mr. Mason's issues have been hashed out.”

She stamps her foot. “We don't have issues! You can't—”

“Oh, for Christ's sake.” I take the money and grab Kennedy's hand in an iron grip. “We'll work it out. Have a good weekend, Judge.”

Then I walk out of the room, pulling her behind me like a stubborn wagon.

In the hall outside the judge's chambers, she yanks at her hand. “Don't drag me!”

“Then fucking walk,” I growl back.

When I feel her resistance lessen, I give her back her hand and she keeps in step beside me.

“He can't do this! He can't order us to have dinner! What the hell kind of medieval—”

“He's the judge, genius—he can order anything he damn well pleases. And we've already ticked him off. Riling him up further won't play out well for either one of us.”

“But—”

I stop short and turn to face her. I drop my voice lower, tempting and persuasive. “It's one meal. One conversation. Then we put it all behind us and you can go back to pretending like I don't exist. Isn't that what you want?”

She searches my face.

I'm lying, of course. Because now that she's back, here where I can see her and touch her, where I can talk to her and tease her, maybe even one day make her smile—there's no fucking way I'm letting her go ever again.

She doesn't blink. And she doesn't back down. She releases a long breath, then says, “Fine. One meal—one conversation. That's it.”

My smile is appeasing. Charming. “See, was that so hard? I'll even be nice and let you pick the restaurant, Viper.”

Her lips tighten as she turns to continue walking down the hall. “Don't call me Viper. It sounds like a stripper's name.”

I walk next to her. “What's wrong with a stripper's name? Some of the best people I know are strippers. Besides, Viper was a badass character from the Captain America comics. She was my favorite villain—and she was hot. Most teenage boys had
Playboy
to inspire their fantasies. I had Marvel. You should take it as the highest compliment.”

She snorts, shaking her head. But it almost sounds like a laugh.

And that, right there, is progress.

•  •  •

We sit at a round table in the back corner of an empty pub just a few blocks from the courthouse. The lights are dim and the music is low enough to talk with our indoor voices but still fill any silences.

“Two bacon cheeseburgers, medium rare,” I tell the waitress. “She'll have onion rings instead of fries and barbecue sauce instead of ketchup. And two draft beers, please.” I glance at Kennedy as I return the menus. “We should pace ourselves—save the hard stuff for later.”

After the waitress goes on her merry way, the blond viper stares at me, her mouth an adorable—annoyed—bow.

“What?”

“Maybe I wanted the veggie burger. I could be vegetarian now.”

I grimace. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then kindly cease the bitching.” I lean back in my chair, legs open, getting comfortable—debating how to begin.

Kennedy takes the issue out of my hands. “I can't believe you told Judge Phillips I broke your heart.” Then she kind of snorts, shaking her head, like the notion itself is ridiculous.

I look at her straight on. “You did. It's been fourteen years, but I can still remember how it felt—I was shattered when you went out with William.”

“You don't know the meaning of the word
shattered
.”

“Yeah—I do. It's when you give me the greatest orgasm of my seventeen-year-old life, let me hear you moan my name as you come spectacularly around my fingers—and then ten hours later, push me to the fucking curb for William goddamn Penderghast.”

Did that sound bitter? Good.

Kennedy leans forward, eyes blazing. “You were already back together with Cashmere before I agreed to go out with William!”

I blink. “No, I wasn't.”

“Yes, you were.”

And the waitress brings our beers—perfect timing. We both take a healthy chug.

After my frosty mug is back on the table, I suggest, “Let's start at the beginning.”

“Fine,” she agrees. “Parents' weekend, junior year.”

You up for a little time travel? 'Cause it's time to party like it's 1999 . . .

“K
itty!”

“Mitzy!”

Our mothers hug like they haven't seen each other in years. A Welcome Parents sign hangs across the entrance to the main building, the sun is shining, and the air is warm with a hint of early spring crispness. Eagle-Eye Cherry plays from a radio somewhere across the quad, and clusters of families dot the lush green grass.

“I feel like it's been ages!” Mitzy says. “We should all have lunch together! There's that fabulous little place down by the lake . . .”

As my mother quietly agrees, I take advantage of my dark,
Risky Business
–era sunglasses to check Kennedy out. She looks especially cute today. Her brown hair's wrapped around the top of her head in a messy, kind of sexy bun. She's wearing snug blue jeans and an open, oversized navy checkered flannel shirt, but the white tank top beneath it shows off her flat waist and sweet-looking tits. She got her braces taken off last month too.
Bonus
.

And at the moment, she's doing that thing with her lip—clasping the plump bottom one between her teeth, sucking just a bit. That move gave me my very first boner when I was thirteen years old, and, damn, if it doesn't hit me the exact same way right now.

Kennedy and I have always been tight . . . up until this year. When I became captain on the lacrosse team and started seriously dating Cazz. Seriously, as in—fucking her. These days, Kennedy hangs with her roommate, Vicki Russo, and I hang with . . . other people.

She adjusts her glasses and smiles up at me. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Like a disapproving blond wraith, Kennedy's sister appears at her side. “Would it have killed you to dress up a little bit? Honestly, Kennedy, Mother and Father drove all this way . . .”

I slip my hands into my pockets and rock back on my heels. “Hi, Claire. It's good to see you.”

“Brent.” She smiles tightly. “You're looking . . .” She takes note of my jeans, sneakers, and white-collared shirt under a navy blue sweater. “. . . typical.”

I put my hand up. “Claire, please—I realize I'm an irresistible specimen of male perfection, but your obsession with me is getting embarrassing.”

Kennedy snorts. The uncontrollable urge to laugh bubbles up from my chest and I don't even try to resist it—because the sour look on Claire Randolph's face feels so much more hilarious than it actually is. She turns away and follows our parents up the path, leaving Kennedy and me relatively alone.

“Are you high?” she asks me in a hushed voice.

I lean in close to her. “As fuck. It was the only way I could make it through this weekend.”

I know some guys who are major stoners, and I'm not one of them. But an herbal refreshment before a long, stressful day is totally acceptable.

She shakes her head and her nose wrinkles with exasperation. This too is also really fucking cute.

We fall in step beside each other, trailing behind our chattering parents.

“I see your sister still hasn't elected to have that surgery yet.”

She comes right back with, “You mean the one that will remove the stick from up her ass? Nope, not yet.”

I laugh out loud. “Shit, Kennedy, it feels like we haven't hung out in forever. Where have you been?”

I've seen her around—campus isn't that big. But I haven't
seen her
, seen her. Can't remember the last time I really talked to her, and she's a cool girl to talk to.

She turns her head, looking at me for a few seconds, and her voice is almost a sigh. “I've been right here the whole time.”

•  •  •

“Posture, Kennedy. Slouching is for girls with weak spines.”

“Why won't you wear contact lenses, Kennedy? Your eyes are your best feature, yet you insist on hiding them.”

“Another roll, Kennedy? Tsk-tsk, those carbs are a dancer's enemy.”

It's been like this since we sat down. For the last hour, Mitzy Randolph has criticized Kennedy right down to her goddamn fingernails.

My buzz is gone and my head feels like it's going to explode if I have to listen to one more bitchy comment from Mrs. Randolph.

So, of course she says, “Kennedy could have been a classic prima ballerina—if only she had managed to be taller.”

And I say, “Well maybe the rack will come back into fashion and we can strap her on for a nice stretch.”

All four parents stop. And look at me with blank faces.

Just as I'm about to tell them where to go, Kennedy starts to giggle beside me. It's that forced kind of giggle—a signal to everyone else that a joke was told and they should laugh to be polite. And as long as you're not her younger daughter, Mitzy Randolph is the epitome of politeness.

Same goes for my mother. “Brent, darling, take off those sunglasses. It's rude to wear them at the table.”