All In: Paying to Play (Gambling With Love) (12 page)

"So," I finally say, and have to pause to clear the fear from my throat. "Let's start at the beginning." I poise my shaking fingers over the laptop home row keys in front of me, the cursor sitting on a blank Word document on the screen, ready to take notes.

"The beginning of what?" the delinquent asks, leaning back casually in his chair like he's posing for a photo shoot.

My father just threw the file in front of me when I was ambushed, so I haven't had a chance to see what information it contains. I grab the folder and quickly thumb through the pages, but the only thing inside is a few emails about setting up this appointment, and a stack of the articles printed from various media outlets.

"Well, what are you officially charged with?” I ask.

The man suddenly rises to his feet, towering over the table, and I can't help my startled twitch. After he removes some papers from his back pocket, he practically throws them at me, making them slide across the table before he sits back down. "See for yourself."

I try to take slow, deep breaths to calm down my galloping heart when I pick up the tri-folded documents to begin scanning them. The conditions of his release are listed on the first sheet, showing he posted a fifty thousand dollar secured bond. He isn't allowed to contact the victim, of course, and he can't travel out of his state of residence without the permission of pretrial services. Flipping over, the next page is a warrant for First Degree Rape. The New Jersey General Statute is cited word for word, along with the name of the victim, Christina Loftis. The second warrant is for Assault by Strangulation, alleging that the defendant wrapped both hands around the victim's neck during intercourse, squeezing until the victim couldn’t breathe. Wow, that is some sick stuff even for me, and I've unfortunately been exposed to some freaky fetishes.     

"How the fuck are you going to represent me if you think I'm guilty?" The criminal practically snarls at me, startling me with his tone and profanity.

"I didn't say I think you're guilty." I'd only thought it.  

"You didn't have to, it was all over your snobby face from the moment I walked into this room." He hangs his head with a sigh after calling me out, rubbing his temple like he has a headache. I know the feeling.

"Look, I don't give a shit what you think. Are you going to actually help me or not? Because if you're not, I'll find someone who will."

I want to beg him to take his case somewhere else, but if I let him walk, I'll never hear the end of it. According to my father, this is a huge case that our firm needs. Maybe, just maybe, if I show my dad that I
can
handle something so screwed up as this particular case, he'll actually let me start practicing law on my own, and give me a little credit for accomplishing something for once.

"I want to help you," I tell him.        

His dark eyes narrow and cut to mine, likely trying to read my sincerity. "You want the free publicity? Trying to make a name for yourself? That's all fine with me as long as you don't fuck me over."

"I won't…fuck you over," I respond, forcing the f-bomb past my lips, which earns me a small smirk. The slight lifting of the corners of his lips even manages to make him appear a little less frightening for a brief second.

"Good to know," he mutters softly.

I may not be able to sleep at night knowing I'm trying to help a beautiful monster get off scot-free after doing something so abhorrent, but ethically…well, I'll do what I've been hired to do. Defend him to the best of my abilities.

"Okay, so let's get to work. Who's Christina Loftis?" I ask.

He shakes his head and scoffs. "A cage cunt I wish I'd never met. Or fucked."

Oh God, that chicken salad I had for lunch is threatening to spew all over the conference room table.

"
Consensually
," the criminal adds, probably after seeing my stricken expression. "I didn't even remember who the bitch was until I went back through my phone on the way here. I think she first threw herself at me after a fight I won back in April in Atlantic City." The man's ego knows no bounds. "I'm pretty sure we went back to my hotel room, and well, you know…" he trails off.

"Actually,
I don't
know, so you need to be honest and tell me everything. Something you may feel is a minor detail may actually be important to your case. What happened in the hotel room in April?" I forced myself to ask as I type up a few notes.

He stays silent for a minute, and when I lift my eyes back to his, he gives me a cocky, lecherous grin before he continues. "The slut was on her knees trying to suck my cock before the hotel door shut."

Holy cheese on rice! I gulp, swallowing that crass little tidbit down, and hope my eyes aren't bulging like a cartoon character.

"If she's the one I think she is," he continues. "I'm pretty sure I pulled her mouth off of my cock, hiked her skirt up, and fucked her against the wall.
Without
her protest."

My cheeks suddenly feel sunburnt. Hearing about this man's sexual exploits is so freaking uncomfortable. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do this after all.

"Afterward, we both undressed and got into bed. I think I fucked her from behind, if that detail's important, and then we fell asleep. The next morning I had an early plane to catch, so she gave me her number," he says, then pauses, reaching up to scratch his head like he's thinking. I don’t drool over the sight of his massive, flexed bicep like it's a three layer chocolate cake. I was just um, really thirsty, that's all.

"Actually," he continues. "I'm pretty sure
she
put her name and number in my phone herself, and told me to call her. She must have gotten my number out of there, too."

"Okay, so did you…talk to her again after that?" I ask, while my fingers click rapidly over my keyboard to keep up with his story.

"Not until recently. I remember her name showing up in my call log a few times over the last few weeks. I ignored all of her text messages and voicemails just like I do to all the other sluts. The next time I was in Atlantic City was for my brother's fight last weekend. I still have the voicemail she left me saying she knew I was in town since she'd seen me in the crowd on TV, and she wanted a repeat. After the fights were over I was...bored, and decided to call her back. She asked to come up to my hotel room. We met up about thirty minutes later," he says.

"Which hotel were you staying at?" I ask him.

"The Trump Taj Mahal both times, which is where both the fights were hosted, too."

"Got it. Keep going with as many details as you can remember," I encourage.

"I knew she was drunk when she walked in. Her speech was slurred and she was staggering. I remember smelling the alcohol on her breath. She bitched about me not calling her before she tried to push me backwards toward the bed. After I sat down she climbed on me and unzipped my pants to start trying to fuck me. I had to stop her to grab a condom because she was in such a hurry she was trying to get it in without one. When we were finished she asked if I wanted her to stay. I told her she got what she came for and that I was going to sleep, so I didn’t give a fuck either way. She called me an asshole and left. The next thing I know, two Montgomery County cops show up to my apartment and arrest me last Friday. They took me to the local shithole jail, and since it was the weekend, I was held there for three goddamn days on a writ before the Atlantic City PD finally showed up to take me into their custody. Late last night I went in front of the magistrate and was finally given a bond. My dad said he got there early this morning to post it, and the bastards took until noon to release me."

"Okay," I say, thinking through the next step of gathering evidence based on what he's told me. "I'm going to need you to get me the hotel receipts, plane tickets, and your cell phone records. Also, I'll need copies of all the voicemails you have, and screenshots of text messages from her. Oh, and we should probably hurry up and get a subpoena ready for the hotel to see if they have any surveillance video from that night before it gets recorded over. So that we can narrow it down for them, what time was it when she arrived at your hotel room and when she left?" I ask as I type up a to-do list. I'm greeted with silence for so long I finally look back up at his startlingly beautiful face, meeting his dark stare. "What?" I ask insecurely.

"Um, yeah, sure. I can probably get you all that," he finally responds. "And she got there about midnight and left probably before one."

"Great. So what about witnesses? Anyone see you with her that night?"

"Jude heard me on the phone with her on the way back to our rooms. His room was next door to mine, so if she
had
protested he would've heard through the thin-ass walls."

"Jude?" I ask. "What's his last name?" 

"Malone. He's my little brother," he says, sounding softer and much less hostile than most of the previous conversation.

"Is he at least eighteen years old?"

"Yeah, even though he still acts like a juvenile, he just turned twenty." The criminal snorts, and I swear it looked like he almost smiled.                     

"Do you think he'd be willing to sign an affidavit swearing he didn't hear anything…unusual?" I ask.

"I'm sure he would," Jackson says immediately like his brother would lie and say it, even if it wasn’t true. Relatives are crappy witnesses because they always side with their family members, but it's better than having no witnesses.

"Are you friends with this woman on Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media site?"

"Hell no." 

"Well, if you can give me some details about her, it'd be worth doing a search to see if we can find her profile and print any public pictures or posts. Do you have any social media accounts?" I ask.

"Yeah, there are some fan pages but the coaching staff maintains them for me."

"Is there anything negative, harmful, or damaging to the case on any of them? Because if there is you should shut them down."

"Um, I don't know. I'll have them double check."

"Okay, but do it as soon as possible, and I want printed copies of all of them to see for myself. The prosecutor's investigator is probably printing off every word on there as we speak."

"Fine."

"Any questions?" I ask, even though I'm not qualified to answer any with my very limited criminal defense experience.

"No. I just…you've got to make this shit go away. I can't fight until the case is over, and I need to fight."

"We'll do our best," I tell him, standing up and walking to the door to show him out.

"Good," he says as he follows me to the door.

Even at my gigantic, unfeminine height of five-eight, not including my three inch heels, standing beside Jackson Malone makes me feel petite. He's hovering so close, looking downright dangerous with muscles twice the size of most normal men. Although, his midnight eyes aren't quite as menacing when he makes his parting comment. "You might actually be worth the fortune I'm paying you."

Jackson "Jax" Malone

What a fucking week. It's not that I never expected my ass to get thrown in jail. After my trouble-making and brawling youth, I'm sure everyone who knows me is surprised that it took me to the ripe old age of twenty-seven before I was put behind bars. It's a shame, however, that my first arrest is for complete bullshit.

I head for the lobby of the big, fancy law office to wait for my dad to finish up in his meeting. Sitting down, I pull out my phone to type a list of all the shit the uptight, elitist bitch lawyer asked me to bring her. Her disgust and instant judgment had pissed me off, but I have to admit, she does seem to be really damn smart. And she's hot as fuck.

With her long, lean legs and light blonde hair pulled back in a neat little bun, she looks like a
Playboy
pinup or a
Victoria's Secret
model dressed up to do a naughty attorney photo-shoot. In my fantasy of her as a centerfold, she'd be unbuttoning the professional suit jacket to reveal thin pieces of black lace that barely cover her perfect tits.

Okay, so maybe I'm a
little
horny after going four days without getting laid. That had to be a record for me. While I was locked up it was hard to think about fucking when I feared for my life every goddamn second.

I'd thought the local jail was bad until they threw me in general population in Atlantic City. Both smelled like dirty, sweaty men, shit, and piss, but in AC the floors of the crowded cell actually contained dirt, piss, and shit. There were only two bunks for four dudes, so the unlucky two of us won the lottery to receive roll out mats. I leaned against the wall last night rather than risk floating away in the river of filth. Also, I didn't want to close my eyes and get attacked or shanked. The crackhead trapped in the cell with us couldn't stop scratching himself or fidgeting. He said all kinds of delusional shit, like the cops hid cameras in his apartment, and he knew for a fact that one of us had snitched on him. After that he alternated staring at me and our other two cellmates with his unblinking crazy-eyes and a goofy-ass smile that had me convinced that he'd kill us in our sleep just for shits and giggles.

Thank God I was only in AC for one night. I never want to see the inside of that type of cage again in any district. I'll probably have nightmares from the trauma of the last four days.

I'm a badass motherfucker, spending the last seventeen years training to fight. It's not that I'm worried about taking on any of the punks in there, or even three or four of them at a time. But the feeling of suffocating because it was so goddamn hot, with the air rank and stale in such a small box? That's some scary shit.

I swear there was a lack of oxygen, and more carbon dioxide than can possibly be healthy in that bitch. I'll probably have to sleep with all my doors and windows open with the air conditioning on full blast for the next few weeks.

So despite how much this whole situation sucks, I'll do whatever it takes to avoid going back to that hell hole. I’ll even follow the orders of the blonde, bitchy lawyer.              

Finally, after what seems like forever, my dad and the father of the prude ice princess come out of one of the offices.

I hate seeing my dad so upset, and I'm still not sure if he and Jude believe I'm innocent or not. They both know my battle with rage better than most. The anger I've been struggling with since I was ten years old, beating and bloodying anyone and everyone who said a wrong word to me. That's the reason I got into legitimate fighting in the first place. The classes were a bribe to motivate me to stop getting suspended from school. So it's probably not a stretch for them to think I'd do this type of thing.

As a newly single father raising us on one income, my dad scraped up money we didn't have in order to give me some type of outlet to constantly grapple with my demons. And Jude, well, he's taken the most punishment over the years. The fucked up part is he always kept coming back for more, no matter how many times I knocked him down or out.

I'd like to think that in some way I've been helping Jude get his fighting career to where mine is today, or more like where it was a week ago. But for the first few years when he started training with me, that thought never crossed my mind while I was repeatedly beating the shit out of my younger brother. I'm not sure which is worse; being angry at him or feeling guilty for taking my jealousy out on him.

I can't say I'm real happy about the loss of income while this shit drags out, or the dent I just made in my bank account either. A huge chunk of my hard earned money flushed down the toilet all because some cage cunt decided it'd be fun to ruin my life.

Before my dad posted my bond and my feet even hit the ground, Mack Miller, the President of the IFC, the International Fighting Championship, had left me a voicemail saying that my contract with him at the largest and best MMA promotion company has been put on hold until the disposition of the case. When I talked to Coach Briggs on the way here, he told me that just like the IFC, all of my sponsors have dropped me until this nightmare ends.

I'm not worried about making ends meet, just pissed I'm throwing money away. As the reigning middleweight champion of the world for the past five years, between promotion purses and advertisers, my bank account sits comfortably with seven figures, even after this unexpected hit. I'm worried that I might not ever be able to get in the cage again, and I have to admit that the idea of ending up behind bars for the long haul is scary as fuck. 

"Jackson, did Page get your statement?" the arrogant, white-haired attorney asks. I'm pretty sure the old man's scared of me. I'm an expert at reading people's fear in and out of the cage. He avoided eye contact with me, and ran out of the conference room like his ass was on fire. His daughter's got more balls than him. Even though she was practically shaking with nervousness being alone with me, she held her ground and didn't run scared.

I stand up when they approach and nod in response before taking a few steps toward the old man to test my theory. "Yeah, pretty much."

Retreating a step, Davenport says, "Don't worry about her inexperience or timidity. Ryan Warburton may technically be second chair in the courtroom, but he'll be running the show behind the scenes. He's got over a hundred trials under his belt. Page will just add a nice, feminine touch for media purposes."

Wow, so this pussy doesn't think his own daughter is capable of handling my case. He sounds like he just wants her to basically be arm candy for photo-ops. What a sexist prick. I might fuck more women than I can count, but I do know that just because someone has nice tits and a fine ass doesn't mean they can't do any job just as well as any man, maybe even better.

"Page already has some great ideas on how to go forward, and gave me a list of receipts and things to get her. She seems to really know her shit," I tell him. Why I feel defensive on her behalf, I have no fucking idea. Especially when my first thought seeing her was that she's just a snotty, spoiled, dumb blonde getting by on her daddy's coattails. I can occasionally admit when I'm wrong.

"Right. Well, I'm sure you need to get some rest after the hellish weekend you've had. Here's my card and Ryan's. Call either of us if you need anything." Davenport hands over two business cards, not bothering to offer me his daughter's, and then after a polite handshake, he's gone.

"So how do you feel about them?" my dad asks when we sit down in his Explorer in the parking garage.

"Davenport is an arrogant asshole who’s terrified of me, and his daughter thinks I'm a piece of shit rapist. But she seems like she's going to actually put in the effort."

"Don't worry about her. Miles assured me that Warburton is a top-notch defense attorney. As soon as he gets out of his murder trial in a few weeks he'll take over your case."

So Davenport had also convinced my dad that his daughter isn't capable of handling me. No wonder the girl comes across as such a frigid bitch if she has to deal with her own father's shit every day.

...

Page

I'm surprised the day after our first meeting when Jamie buzzes me around eleven a.m. to say Jackson Malone's up front and wants to see me. I tidy up my office so I can bring him in here and leave the door open instead of having to close us in a conference room together, then go to the lobby to get him.

"Mr. Malone?" I ask when I get to the waiting area. He rises from the chair with a bizarre masculine fluidity I've never witnessed before. Today he's dressed even more casually, in a pair of black nylon workout pants and a white tee stretched tight over his broad chest that say's
Havoc
in large bold letters
,
with
Fight Club
underneath
.
The "V" of the word Havoc is actually a detailed bird or griffin of some sort, and it looks like his wings are spread out and flexing like a man would flex his biceps. How cute.

I don't miss Malone's dark eyes drifting down my gray pants suit before they eventually come up and meet mine.

"I've got all that shit you wanted," he says, holding out a stack of papers and a thumb drive that I accept.

"Um, that was quick. Thanks."

I slip the thumb drive into my pocket, so I can flip through the pages to see what all he's rounded up. There are plane tickets, fight promotional flyers, hotel receipts, his own social media posts, and phone records with yellow highlights on a certain number, which I assume belongs to the accuser.

"Just for future reference, don't mark on any original documents," I warn him.

"Excuse the fuck out of me. I spent two goddamn hours going through this stack of shit, picking out her number from hundreds of other calls, trying to save you some time."

I jerk back from his hostility and fire back with my own, even though we're standing in the front lobby with onlookers. "Don't worry. I'm not hourly since you paid a flat fee, so even if it takes me hours, it won't cost you another penny."

"I don't give a shit about the fucking money," he snarls, his black eyes fiery like liquid lava. "Despite what you instantly judged and assumed from looking at me, I actually have plenty."

Based on the way our conversation is growing rather inflamed, I decide we both need a cool down period, but I still can't help taking another shot at him.

"Why don't I give you a few minutes to extract those wadded up panties that seem to be causing you some discomfort, and when you're ready to talk to me without the attitude Jamie will show you to my office," I tell him, pointing to the cowering receptionist behind her window before turning on my heel and storming back to my office. I pretend to ignore the muttered "itch" with a capital "B" that follows me down the hall.

That man is so freaking infuriating! Instead of going back in my office I march right on past it and don't stop until I get to the break room. I toss the papers down on the lunch table and then grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, quickly twisting off the cap. 

My brother, of course, chooses that moment to stroll in. "What's all the shouting about?" he asks before I can swallow my first sip. "You need some help?"

I roll my eyes and let out an annoyed huff, taking my time sipping my water, so he's forced to wait in silence for my response.

"I've got everything under control,
Logie.
" I tack on the hated childhood nickname I gifted him, and smile to myself when he winces.

"Didn't sound like it," he says, leaning back against the countertop in front of me while crossing his arms over the front of his crisp white dress shirt. "Are you going to cry? Do you want me to take over the case for you?"

My jaw drops and my back straightens, bristling at his insinuation. "I am perfectly capable of handling that cocky jerk all on my own, thank you very much!" I can't help the screech caused when my teeth grind against each other. "Why do you even care? You don't practice criminal law, either. You're just a weeny patent lawyer." 

He raises a light blonde eyebrow at my assertion before flashing both rows of his perfect white teeth. "I'm the best damn patent lawyer in the country, beanpole. And there's an office pool running on you."

"Are you kidding?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips. "For what exactly?"

"A variety of things." He laughs before he begins ticking them off on his fingers. "One, for how long it'll be before he makes you cry. Another is for how long before you fuck up. When you'll actually give up and quit. Oh, and one for how long before he fires the firm because you piss him off. So yeah, I think that's all of them."

I try really hard not to let the hurt show on my face, knowing he'll use it against me. The whole office doesn't think I can handle the angry criminal, or probably any other case, for that matter.

"So what are the bets?" I ask. I'm going to make sure I surpass them all.

"For crying, anywhere from today until Friday at the latest. Fucking up in the next forty-eight hours. On quitting, the bets range from today until next Monday. And on him firing us, well, we all give it less than a week."

Now I'm no longer hurt, I'm angry. I work with an office full of jerks. No wonder female attorneys haven't lasted longer than a year, two at the max, in this place. The men are dicks and the assistants are all gossiping hens…well, except for Jamie. I'm by God going to prove them all wrong, and I don't care what it takes. This jerk of a client is no different than the men I work with. I'll just have to finally show them that I'm actually tougher and smarter than I look.