Hard Case (Hard as Nails #2) (2 page)

I imagine her back in that dress and sweater; only I’m stripping them off her, revealing pale, lush curves one inch at a time.

But first things first…

She slumps over as she shuffles in, her hands and feet shackled. Her eyes are vacant. I’m not sure if she’s registered all that is going on. I’m surprised by the intense urge to sweep her off her feet and cradle her in my arms.

Desire I can understand, but this strange feeling of tenderness? It reminds me of a long ago time. The only time in my life that a woman had shown
me
tenderness. But that thought is followed closely by memories of blood and violence, and I immediately shut them down.

When Rose stumbles slightly as she pauses in front of her chair, I frown.

“Guys, are the shackles necessary?” I ask the guards.

“They’re for your protection,” one of them says. He’s easily over six-and-a-half feet tall and as wide as two of me. His tone is no-nonsense and most people would back down.

I’m not most people.

“She shot someone in self-defense,” I reminded Goliath. “Unless I plan on attacking her, I don’t need protection. Now, undo the shackles so we can have a civilized conversation.”

Goliath looks at his partner, who shrugs. Goliath’s chest heaves. “We’ll do it, but don’t come crying to us when shit goes wrong in here.”

“Alright, Jolly Green, got it. And thank you.”

After they pull off the shackles and let Rose sit down, I jerk my head toward the door to tell them to get the hell out of there. Goliath does so begrudgingly.

“What are we doing?” Rose asks absently.

“Rose, my name is Slate Rawlings. I’m a defense attorney. Do you know why you’re here?” I decide to take things slow at first and reel her back into reality.

“I shot my husband,” she says.

I nod. “Yes, you did. But I’m here to help you prove it was in self-defense.”

She looks at me from behind those smoky eyes. I’ve seen it before. The trauma of what happened is threatening to rip her from reality altogether. I need to find a way to ground her.

“Who hired you?” she asks.

“Nobody has hired me,” I lie. “I heard about what happened over the wire, and I decided to offer you my services pro bono.”

“That’s sweet of you,” she says. Her eyes narrow and she seems to see me for the first time. “Why are you doing that?”

“Imagine you guys had a kid, and your kid saw what was happening. Now, imagine that it had been going on like that for a long time.”

She blinks.

And there she is, sharp as a tack, her eyes focusing on me completely. Her face shifts then, and I see the teacher in her coming out. There is a gentle sense of caring in her eyes, coupled with something deep and firm. She brushes her hair out of her face, and I’m once again struck by the many facets of her personality. How she’s a woman capable of finger painting with toddlers and shooting a man to save herself.

“You poor thing. I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”

She sounds genuine, and it’s the caring, motherly instinct of the teacher that has snapped her out of the shocked state she was in when they escorted her into the room. Part of me is a little insulted; I’d have preferred my masculine presence have done it.

I catch myself watching the way her full lips move as she talks. She carefully shapes every word with her mouth the way a sculptor molds clay in their hands, giving her speech a magical quality that I’m sure comes in handy when standing in front of a classroom.

There is something undeniably irresistible about seeing her out of her element like this and knowing that I’m catching a rare glimpse of her, a side of her that no one on the outside has seen before. It makes me want more. I want to see her writhing and moaning from sexual pleasure in a way no man has been able to bring out before. I sense she has untapped passion inside her, and I long to lure it out.

Hell, I want to dive in and pull it out.

But this woman is vulnerable in more ways than she can even comprehend. She is traumatized and in danger. I hope I can help her. That we can help each other.

And that means checking my libido and keeping things professional.

At least for now.

I clear my throat, pretending to be slightly embarrassed at her reaction, though, in reality, I’m trying to reign in my imagination. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “It was a lifetime ago. But, because of that, I have a soft spot in my heart for the victims of abuse. And you, Rose Carter, are the victim here.”

She looks down. “I killed him,” she says. Her voice is heavier now. “What happens now?”

“I’ve handled your bail.” I lean forward on the table and add quietly, “We can talk more about what happened when we’re out of here.” I tap my ear to let her know there’s always the possibility that someone else is listening to us.

“Why are you doing all of this?” she asks again. She’s right to be suspicious, but I can’t let her know that.

“I told you. It’s because you’re the victim. And jail is no place for victims,” I tell her. “This place is for criminals. If I weren't confident that you were in the right, I wouldn’t be willing to take your case pro bono.” What I don’t tell her is that the reason I’m taking her case for free is because I’ve already been paid. Not in cash, but with a favor, one that got my buddy Street out of prison. Taking Rose’s case is just one more in a string of cases I’ve taken on in the past three years to pay my debt.

The man I owe doesn’t care if Rose goes to jail or not. He wants assurance she can’t bring him down. I’m going to give him that. I’m also, for purely personal reasons now, going to fully represent Rose until her case is over.

I hope she’ll still be alive then.

* * *

Rose

We walk down the hallway toward the entrance of the jail. The guard on my left is quiet. He holds my arm in his firm grip, letting me know he has authority in here.

On the other side of me, Slate is silent, yet he has this intense energy about him, this charisma that draws attention to him no matter what.

He wears his dark hair slicked back. He’s in a nice black suit with a dark red shirt and a black tie. When they marched me into the room where we’d met, my first impression was that the devil had shown up to help me strike a deal.

I’m still not sure Slate Rawlings isn’t the devil, but he’s representing me and getting me out of here. So, I’ll go along with him for now.

We stop at the end of the hallway at a small ticket window. The lady on the other side of the caged glass passes a form to me through a slot.

“Sign here,” she says, pointing at the bottom line. Obediently, I sign and she pulls the form back before I can read it. Then, she puts my clothes on the counter and pushes them through the slot. They’re folded neatly enough that they fit through the small space.

“Here are your things,” she says. Her voice is flat and matter-of-fact. She says only what she needs to say, nothing more. She turns away to file the signed form.

I look at Slate, who has produced one of those 50-cent sleeves of peanuts and is chewing on them absently like this is just another day for him. I realize it probably is, and I’m in a whole new world. One where the rules I played by until a few days ago don’t apply.

“That’s it?” I ask Slate.

“That’s it,” he agrees.

As the guard opens the last gate to let us out, I wish I could be as calm and cool as my lawyer. He’s seen this a million times, I’m sure, and probably a lot worse, but I’m walking into uncertain, uncharted territory now.

As my life spirals out of control in front of me, the lawyer who is supposed to be helping me is stuffing his face with salted honey roasted peanuts.

He empties the sleeve into his hand and tosses it into the trashcan. He nods to the restrooms on the way out. “Go change into your regular clothes,” he says nonchalantly. “I’ll be out here.”

He pushes through the door and walks out into the sunshine.

When I’m sure he’s not going to burst into flames, I do what he says.

Chapter Three

Rose

I walk out into the sunlight for the first time in three days. I realize how much I’d missed it when the warmth hits my face, welcoming me back into the world. It’s not that I was locked up for so long; I understand I was only in there for a few days. It’s that I was locked inside my head the whole time, trying to make sense of what I’d done.

Three days is a long time to be alone with your own thoughts, especially when you’re reeling from the knowledge that you shot and killed your husband.

I’d killed
Josh
. Sure, I’d only shot him to stop him from shooting me first, but legal justification wasn’t at the forefront of my mind as I’d stared at the blood seeping from his body.

All I’d been able to see was the smiling boy who’d offered to hold my jacket all those years before.

The man I’d walked down the aisle to marry.

The person I’d trusted most in the world not to hurt me.

* * *

After I dropped the gun onto the floor, I grabbed my cell phone and called 9-1-1.

I told them what had happened as clearly as I could.

Then, I’d changed clothes. It probably wasn’t the sanest idea I’d ever had, but it seemed wrong to stay in my pajamas while I waited for the police to show up.

I threw my tank top and pajama pants on the bed and crossed the bedroom in my panties as quickly as I could. My stomach churned with the knowledge that I was naked in the room with Josh’s lifeless body.

I grabbed a bra, a T-shirt, and a pair of jeans from the closet. I hurried to the bathroom and got dressed.

And that was where they found me, curled over on the toilet, crying.

Bawling my eyes out.

* * *

“Hey, are you okay?” Slate asks me, snapping me back to the sunlit sidewalk in front of the county jail.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. I don’t want him to know I’m struggling between the present and the past. That the past keeps overtaking me.

He opens the door to his car. It’s a sleek black coupe. It looks like a cross between a Rolls Royce and a Ferrari. The lines are elegant, the color fierce.

I’m even less sure he’s not the devil at this point.

I try to sit and almost fall into the racecar style seat. The interior is black and red, just like his suit.

He closes the door and strolls over to his side as I pull the seatbelt across me. I adjust myself in the seat, noticing how the belt slides perfectly between my breasts. The car isn’t even on, and I can already feel its power waiting to be unleashed.

“Great car,” I say because I feel like it’s expected.

“Thanks.” He navigates the car smoothly, and I must have zoned out, because when I next feel the car stop, I realize we’ve pulled up in front of my house.

I stare at my brick split-level home, the epitome of 1970’s suburbia, the quintessential family home. The building in front of me is a shell now, a hollow, haunting reminder of what was and what should have been. On one end, the driveway and carport greet us, with the side door that enters through the laundry room. A walkway leads up to the front door of the house. Beyond the door is the actual split-level, two-story section of my home. I try to fight back my memories of purchasing the home and moving in with my then-loving husband, as we embarked on the next step in our lives together.

It had been such an exciting, hopeful time in our lives, but the memories are tainted with all that has gone wrong.

“Why are we here?” I ask him. I don’t know where else I expected him to take me, but I hadn’t expected it to be here.

“Do you have anywhere else to go?”

“No, I guess not. But isn’t it a crime scene?”

“It’s already been processed so you’re free to stay here.”

He cuts off the engine as I open my door, even though I’m not sure I’ll be able to go inside. The house looks so foreign to me now, like revisiting a childhood home after being gone for a lifetime.

“I’m going to come in with you.” He doesn’t say something’s wrong, but his tone suggests it.

Of course something’s wrong, I want to tell him. I shot my husband in this house a few days ago.

But, then, I see it, too. The front door is wide open. A couple of windows are broken. The house looks like it’s been vacant for months. It’s not my imagination warping the present condition of the house to reflect my pain; the house really is in much worse shape than when I was carted off a few days ago.

“Hold on.” He puts an arm out to keep me back so he can enter first. I realize he’s got a gun in his hand now. He holds it low as he walks through the door.

I don’t know which is more disturbing – the fact my lawyer nonchalantly whipped out a handgun, possibly from inside his coat, without my noticing; or the fact it seems to fit his dangerously smooth personality. I also realize I’m now grouped in with the clients whose cases must have inspired him to pack heat on the job in the first place. Is this my new life?