Big Daddy Sinatra 3: The Best of My Love (The Sinatras of Jericho County) (17 page)

He
became so enraptured by her love that he lifted her body, sitting her upright,
and wrapped his arms around her tightly as he fucked her.
 
Then he began kissing her.
 
Jenay could taste him and her on his mouth as
he kissed her, but it only made the sensations more stark.
 
She thought about how he was doing her, as
she felt his body slapping against hers, as her vagina felt filled to the breaking
point as if his already fully-aroused dick, miraculously, was still expanding!

And
when they finally came together as he knew they would, he pushed that thick
dick all the way inside of her until his balls were slamming against her
vagina, giving her pain with her pleasure.
 
His body was leaned in a backwards lean as he held onto her and poured
into her and they both stifled screams from the sheer elation of their
cum.
 

He
was still emptying inside of her when his desk intercom buzzed.
  
He closed his eyes.
 
“Dammit!” he said in a voice that was nearly
out of breath.

“You’ve
got to answer it,” Jenay said.
 
She could
tell he was reluctant to not only answer his intercom, but to pull out of
her.
 
She had to take matters into
 
her own hands.

“Move,”
she said, pushing him away from her, and his dick did finally slide out.
 
Then she grabbed her panties and hurried to
the bathroom attached to his office.
 
She
closed the door behind her.

Charles
was still breathing heavily.
 
He was a
fit man, but he was no spring chicken anymore.
 
He could not jump up and go as easily as his younger wife could.
 
He had to take a moment.
 
And his intercom buzzed again.

He
finally pressed the button.
 
“Yes?” he
said, attempting to regain the strength in his voice.
 
He also began pulling his pants back up.

“Chief
Sinatra is here to see you, sir,” Faye said.
 
“Along with a Miss Ross,” she added.

Charles
had heard about Miss Ross, and how she was the special prosecutor appointed by
the state Attorney General to investigate and represent the state’s point of
view at his father’s upcoming hearing, but he’d never met her.
 
Nor wanted to.
 
It was only natural, he thought, that some
uninvited guest like her would be the one to interrupt the little time he had
left with his wife before she left town.
 
He didn’t like her already.

“Send
them in,” he said to his assistant, and released the button.

Charles
sat down behind his desk.
 
He was still
winded by that sexual whirlwind with his wife, and the last thing he needed
right now was company.
 
But it was done
now.
  
Brent was about to enter.
 
And he entered the office with a very
attractive woman, but a woman that could give Charles fits if she released his
father: Makayla Ross.

“Hey,
Dad,” Brent said as they entered.

“It’s
not a great time, Brent.”

“Understood,”
Brent said, “but when is it ever with you and your schedule?”

That
was fair, so Charles didn’t argue with him.

Makayla
was oddly nervous as Brent escorted her toward his father’s desk.
 
Not that she was intimidated by his wealth or
power.
 
Wealth and power never
intimidated her.
 
But his reputation gave
her pause.
 
If the vast majority of the
townspeople were to be believed, Charles Sinatra was a spawn of the devil.
 
In all the time that she’d been working with
Brent (and she’d been impressed by how Brent kept it purely professional after
she turned him down for sex), there was not one person she ran into yet who had
something good to say about Charles Sinatra.
 
Except for Brent himself.
 
 
He talked about his father as if he was the
kindest, most generous man alive.
 
He was
Brent’s hero, no doubt about that.
 
What
Makayla couldn’t understand, given what she’d heard, was why.

But
she was nobody’s puppet.
 
She was
concerned by all of the negative stuff she’d heard, but she was willing to give
the man the benefit of the doubt.

“I
want you to meet Makayla Ross,” Brent said to his father as they approached his
desk.
 
“She’s the special prosecutor on
your father’s case.”

“I
know who she is,” Charles said.

Makayla
smiled and extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sinatra.”

But
Charles didn’t shake her hand.
 
Not
because he was rude, but because his fingers, not that long ago, had found
themselves massaging his wife’s vagina.
  
“Have a seat,” he said.

Brent
was surprised by his father’s rudeness, and Makayla, just by that rudeness
alone, was fast closing in on an unfavorable verdict for this man Brent so
adored.
 
But then a beautiful,
well-dressed woman entered from out of the adjacent bathroom, and the sudden
tense mood completely changed.

“Well
hello there, Brenton,” Jenay said jovially as she made her way toward Charles’s
desk.
 
She looked at Makayla with such a
warm smile that Makayla smiled too.
 
“Hi,” she said to Brent’s guest.

Brent
and Makayla stood up.
 
“Makayla Ross,”
she said as she extended her hand.

“Hello
Makayla Ross,” Jenay said as she shook her hand.

Charles
looked at his wife.
 
She had cleaned up
nicely, he thought, considering what all he had done to her, and he was proud
to introduce her.
 
“This is my wife,” he
said to Makayla.
 
“Jenay Sinatra.”

“It’s
so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sinatra.
 
I’ve
heard nothing but wonderful things about you.”
 
And it was true.
 
Although Charles
was the devil incarnate in the townspeople’s eyes, Jenay was talked about as if
she was a saint.
 
What surprised Makayla
was that Jenay was African-American.
 
Nobody, not even Brent, had mentioned that fact.
 
Which said something positive, Makayla also
realized, about Jericho.

“It’s
nice to meet you too,” Jenay said.

“She’s
the special prosecutor working on Granddad’s case, Ma,” Brent said.

Makayla
was surprised to hear Brent refer to this woman as his mother, given that she
appeared to be less than ten years his senior, and the fact that there was
nothing interracial looking about Brent.
 

“I’ve
seen her around town,” Jenay said, “and I assumed she was indeed the person
from the Governor’s office, but we’ve never met.”

“Your
stepson didn’t think it was a good idea for me to bother his family members
unless it was absolutely necessary.”

Charles
and Jenay looked at Brent.
 
“It’s
necessary,” Brent said.

“We
don’t have a wealth of time,” Jenay said, “because I have a plane to
catch.
 
But please sit down.
 
We have a few minutes.”

Makayla
and Brent sat back down.
 
Jenay sat on
the edge of her husband’s chair.
 
She
could still feel Charles’s cum inside of her, and when he took her hand, the
electricity of their coupling was still vibrant.
 
“So what’s the deal?” Jenay asked.
 
“What’s the sudden necessity?”

“I’ve
gone through a lot of case files,” Makayla said, “which is the bulk of my work,
but I’ve also interviewed people who were living in town at the time of the
crime.
 
What I’ve discovered is how
little they know about what actually happened.
 
I was stunned by this lack of knowledge.”

“The
prosecutor at the time made short shrift of the details,” Charles said.
 
“And my father’s lawyer did the same.”

“Apparently
your father’s lawyer called no witnesses to testify on his behalf at all, nor
did your father testify.”

Charles
frowned.
 
“What difference would that
have made?
 
The only witnesses to the
crime were my siblings and I.
 
And I
testified for the three of us.
 
Why would
they need to hear from my father?
 
He
shot and killed my mother and her lover.
 
He played God that night and killed two human beings.
 
Case closed.”

“Only
no, sir,” Makayla said, “that’s not how our justice system is supposed to
work.
 
The prosecutor withheld a lot of
evidence.
 
I mean a lot of evidence.”

“What
evidence?” Jenay asked.
 
“He killed two
people.”

“But
the jury never got to hear why.
 
Oh, they
knew his wife was in the middle of a sexual act with the man, but they didn’t
hear the backstory.”

“What
backstory?” Charles asked, his temper rising.

“Hold
your cool, Dad,” Brent said in a way that seemed protective of Makayla.
 
“Don’t shoot the messenger.
 
Hear her out.”

“What
backstory?” Jenay asked.
 
She was with
Charles.
 
What kind of nonsensical,
get-out-of-jail-free scheme was this lady trying to hatch?

“The
jurors were never told that Cobb Zaxby, the man Luke Sinatra murdered, had
threatened to murder Luke the week before.”

This
was news to Jenay.
 
No newspaper article
she read about the case mentioned anything at all about Luke Sinatra having any
past encounters with his wife’s lover.
 
She looked at Charles.
 
Charles
was staring at Makayla.

Makayla
continued.
 
“Cobb Zaxby and Luke Sinatra
had argued over Cobb’s wife the week before.
 
Apparently Luke had gotten too close to Cobb’s wife, or had even had an
affair with her-it was not clear, but Cobb took exception and they had a verbal
confrontation.
  
Cobb had, at that time,
said that he was going to kill Luke.”

“So?”
Charles said.
 
“What could that have
changed?”

“Maybe
nothing,” Makayla said.
 
“Or maybe everything.
 
It might have been enough for the jurors to
conclude that Cobb Zaxby provoked your father that night by being at his house
at all, and Luke had no choice but to kill him.
 
Maybe he came at Luke.”

“Except
he didn’t,” Charles said.
 
“I was there.
  
I was the one who came at Cobb Zaxby.
 
My father was the one who killed the man
before the man knew what hit him.”

“Perhaps
he killed him because he was beating on his son.”

“He
was not beating on me,” Charles said.
 
“I
was kicking his ass.
 
And my father
wouldn’t have given a damn about that.
 
A
man was getting the upper hand on his wife, and he didn’t like it.
 
So he killed that man.
 
And he killed his wife, my mother, for the
hell of it.
 
Not because she was with
another man.
 
Hell, he’d been with so
many other women he couldn’t possibly have any kind of moral conscious about a
thing like that.
 
Every Sinatra man is a
whore in that respect.”

Brent
and Makayla exchanged a glance they hadn’t expected to exchange.
 

“But
the point I’m making,” Makayla said, “is that the jurors should have been given
that option.
 
That information is a
material fact.
 
Your father could walk
free because the prosecutor, and your father’s lawyer working in concert with
the prosecutor, hid that fact from the jury.
 
Your father couldn’t speak to the jurors.
 
He was depending on his lawyer.
 
But we’ve discovered that his lawyer and the
prosecutor were cousins, and worked together to convict him.”

Charles
couldn’t believe this nonsense. “So what do you want me to do?
 
Tell them oh no, he was justified in killing
my mother?
 
Is that what you want?”

“The
prosecutor and defense attorney failed to even ask you about your fight with
Mr. Zaxby.
 
You were young, you were only
thirteen at the time and I understand that, but the only thing they asked you
was what happened when your father entered that basement.
 
You said he went over to Zaxby and shot him,
then he turned his weapon on his wife.
 
But they never asked you what led to that shooting.
 
They never asked you about the fact that when
your father came downstairs, you were fighting with Mr. Zaxby.
 
He could have been trying to save your life.”

Charles
stood up.
 
“That’s bullshit,” he
said.
 
Brent and Makayla stood too.
 
“Now you can play those bullshit games with
whoever will listen to you, but I won’t be participating.”

“I’m
not playing any game, Mr. Sinatra,” Makayla said. “I’m just trying to do my
job.”

“Goodbye,”
Charles said.

Brent
would have asked his father to listen to reason, but he knew it was
useless.
 
Because he agreed with his
father.
 
They were not going to take the
fact that Charles had jumped on Cobb Zaxby as a way to make Luke Sinatra seem
like some kind of hero coming to save his son and wife from the evil man.
 
No way.

“I’ll
talk to you later, Dad,” he said to his father.
 
“Tell your parents I said hello, Ma,” he said to Jenay.

And
then he ushered Makayla out of their world.

Jenay
and Charles looked at each other.
 
Jenay
knew he sought her reassurance.
 
“I
couldn’t have said it better myself,” she said.

And
Charles nodded.
 
He didn’t need her
reassurance, not even Jenay was going to change his mind about Luke Sinatra,
but he was pleased to have it.

He
saw her as she walked across the campus.
 
Beautiful girl with two of her beautiful friends.
 
They were laughing, none of them had books
but plenty of weave and designer purses: it was as if they were in school for
the fashion show.
 
Which pleased Willie
Stiles.
 
The easier it was to get his
plan back on track, the better.
 
And
Ashley Sinatra, with her bad girl self, was making it a cinch.

When
she finally looked near the curb where he was parked, he called out her
name.
 
“Ashley!
 
Can I see you for a minute?”

Ashley
remembered him.
 
She even remembered his
name.
 
She especially remembered his car.

“Wow,”
one of her girlfriends said.
 
“Who’s that
hunk?”

Ashley
only smiled.
 
“Wait here,” she said to
the group she commanded, and made her way over to Willie’s Stingray.