All In: Raising the Stakes (20 page)

My whole life it's always been, "
Oh, Page made the honor roll? Well, Logan got a perfect score on his SAT
." And "
Page got into Georgetown? Well, Logan was offered a full scholarship when he got accepted
." I'm so freaking tired of it! 

Turning my back on my brother without another word, I pick up the stack of documents and glance through them while heading back to my office. That's when I notice the screen shot of Christina Loftis's Facebook page.

He'd actually found it.

I have to admit that he's done a good job gathering everything he could in less than a day's time.

I pause in the middle of the hallway to close my eyes and replay our most recent conversation. Malone had flipped out on me after my criticism for marking on potential exhibits. There was no way he'd know that, having never done this sort of thing before now. He was probably pissed that after all the time and hard work he'd put in that the first thing I did was snap at him. Of course he got all defensive. That's what he does for a living. Okay, so now that I understand that I'll try not to be so quick to attack him again.

My eyes are still on the paperwork in my hand when I get back to my office. I'm lowering my bottom down into my computer chair before I realize I'm not alone.

"Ah!" I squeal, fumbling to hold on to the stack of documents.

"About time," Malone grumbles from the chair he's currently slouching in across from my desk.  

"Geez Louise, you scared me," I say, holding the papers to my galloping heart. 

"Everything okay in here?" Mark, our federal criminal attorney, asks from my open doorway. He purses his lips like he's trying not to grin, but epically fails when a snicker escapes.   

"Perfectly fine. Now run along, imp," I mutter, getting back up from my chair to go slam the door in the annoying dwarf's face. I swear the man's only a few inches taller than Peter Dinklage, and tells more dirty offensive jokes than Daniel Tosh.

"Listen," I say to Malone when I take my seat again. "There's an office pool going that I don't intend for anyone to win."

"A pool?" he asks, slanting his thick black eyebrows together. Somehow they're actually sexy as all get out, and nothing like Bert's on
Sesame Street
.

"Yeah, my lovely coworkers are betting on me. You, too, actually."

Malone leans back in his chair, both hands behind his head with his elbows out. Can the man do anything without making it look sexy? "Really? What's the bet?" He asks.

"How soon before you make me cry, how soon before I screw up, how soon I'll quit your case, and how soon you fire me."

"Well damn," he mutters. "You a crier or something?"

"No, I'm not a crier! I've never shed a tear in this office, and can’t recall the last time I shed one at all."

Although, it was most likely when I was around ten or eleven years old. I'd found a litter of newborn kittens near the dumpster behind our Methodist Church. After my parents and I dropped them off with a local vet because they wouldn't let me keep them, I told them I wanted to save puppies and kittens when I grew up. In response my mom said, "No, Page. You're too smart and pretty to shovel shit for strays. You're going to marry a rich man." And my dad followed up her statement with, "Or you can go to law school just like your brother." That had been it, my only two options, end of discussion. It was the first time I realized my life would never actually be my own if I didn't want to disappoint them. Any variation from their decree, and to them I'd be a failure. That pressure's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.         

"But all your coworkers think
I'm
going to make you cry?" Malone asks.

"Yep."

"That's pretty fucked up."

"Tell me about it," I agree with a burst of laughter. "So, here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to cry and I'm going to try to be nicer to you. You're going to stop yelling at me, and we're going to work together on your case, so that everyone else in this building can go screw themselves. Deal?" I ask.

He looks at me a second before he finally nods. "Deal."  

"So," I say with a deep calming breath. "You found her on Facebook?"

"Yeah, I tracked her down from her liking my fan page. She apparently doesn't know how to make her shit private since I could see all her posts and pictures. There were several photos of me on there, prior to last weekend. I printed them out, along with her comments."

"This is good stuff," I tell him honestly. I start spreading everything out into piles based on separate categories. One for receipts, one for phone records, and one for Facebook.

I read each page before putting it in the appropriate stack, closely reviewing the victim's Facebook profile and posts for anything that might be helpful. I do a double take when I get to a picture of Jackson. My cheeks warm, looking at such a revealing photo while actually sitting in front of the man.

The black and white photo is...breathtaking. Every single line of his smooth, sculpted chest, arms, stomach and… legs is clearly shown. Feet shoulder width apart, only his two hands cupping himself block his privates from the camera. His head is hung, chin to his chest like there's an enormous invisible weight on his lethal shoulders.

Under the photo is a comment by Christina Loftis, "Even yummier in person and tastes divine."

Wow.

So maybe his ego isn't as inflated as I first thought, or at least not without merit. Hell, if this is what he looks like naked then I'm surprised a stampede of women aren't currently running through our building to get to him.

"Find something you like?" the arrogant jerk asks.

I shuffle on through to the next few pages. "I'm just…reviewing them, you know…to see if ah, there's anything helpful," I stutter.

"If you need me to undress for you to confirm that those are, in fact, pictures of me, well, I'm happy to oblige," he says. I can practically hear his smirk.       

"That won't be necessary," I assure him even though my body completely disagrees.

"I don't have to take advantage of anyone to get some ass. If I posted, 'I'm horny' and listed this address on
Twitter
to my more than two million followers, plenty of women would show up, ready to fuck me any way and as many times as I want. Faster service than a
Domino's Pizza
delivery. So why would I do something as stupid as rape a woman?"

Holy guacamole. After seeing that picture, I knew he wasn't bluffing. He's probably the one responsible for the sudden influx of female fans to MMA over the last few years. That doesn't mean he didn't overpower this woman against her will this time, or choke her during.

"That brings up something important we need to discuss. While this case is pending, you shouldn't be seen with any women in public, and you certainly shouldn't…engage in intercourse with anyone," I tell him.

He scoffs. "You can't be serious." When I don't respond he eventually asks, "How long are we talking?"

Looking up, I quickly run the timeline in my head. “Depending on when we get all the discovery from the district attorney, how soon he goes to the grand jury, and when the judge decides to put the case on the trial calendar, a few months at least."

"Months!" he exclaims, his dark eyebrows reaching for the ceiling.

"Yes, months. Do you really want copycats coming forward with more accusations? Preparing for a trial takes time. We'll get ready as soon as we can, but we have to get your direct testimony and cross-examination ready and practiced. You'll need to decide on a few character witnesses. I may need to hire a medical expert to review the victim's records and injuries, and have you mentally evaluated. I'll want to interview the officers involved. There's a ton to do."

"How do you expect me to go
for months
without getting laid? My dick has high expectations and demands. He's a hardheaded, overeager bastard that gets angry when he's denied servicing for longer than a day."

I try not to smile at his way too detailed description.

"I'm sure you and your…dick will survive the famine. Also, do I really have to tell you not to use any drugs or get drunk in public?"

"For Christ's sake, woman, I'm a professional athlete! I don't ever touch any of that shit," he replies.

"Well, good for you," I say, surprised by his statement. "But don't start now because of the stress of all that's going on."

"If I can't fuck and I can't fight, then I guess I'll be doing a shitload of training."

"That should be fine," I agree. "As long as you're available when I call and need information from you, or for you to come in to do some trial prep work. This case has to be the most important thing in your life for the next few months."

"I get that. If we lose, I'm out of the cage for good."

"Not only that, but these are very serious offenses. If you get convicted you could get an active sentence of up to three hundred months …"

"Three hundred months! What the fuck!?!" he yells, practically coming out of his seat.  

"That's just for the rape charge. Add another maximum of twenty months if you're convicted on the assault by strangulation charge."   

"
Goddamn
! What the hell is three hundred and twenty months?" he asks, his forehead so furrowed trying to do the math that he looks like he's in pain.

"A little less than twenty-seven years."

Malone’s face goes slack, his tan skin turns pale white, and then he really is out of his chair, scrambling for the small black trash can beside my desk.

In that moment I feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. He's known for being a tough, badass fighter, and at the moment he's on his knees losing all the contents of his stomach. He almost looks…vulnerable.

I grab a few tissues from the dispenser on my desk and hand them to him when it sounds like he's finished. He eventually accepts my offering, looking up at me with dark, watery eyes, seeming more like a scared boy than a violent criminal. 

"You can't let them convict me," he pleads. "I swear I didn't do it."

I have to look away from his sad, pitiful, puppy dog eyes before they suck me in. I'm still a sucker for strays. "Those are just the maximum sentences. You know, the worst case scenario sentences. With a clean record and a decent judge, you might only get the minimum of a hundred and fifty-four months. A little less than thirteen years," I say, doing the math for him.

"Thirteen…
fuck
! I wouldn't get out until I'm forty fucking years old," he mutters, hanging his head while wiping off his mouth.

Eventually he rises gracefully to his feet and sits back down in his chair with hunched shoulders. I go around my desk and pick up the smelly trash can, taking it out in the hallway for my fellow coworkers to enjoy. Ha! Take that you bastards.

"It's important for you to understand what you're facing upon conviction,” I tell Jackson as I return to my seat. “Because if the prosecutor offers a plea deal to a lesser offense like assault on a female with just a few years active, it's worth considering."

"I'm not pleading guilty," he says gruffly.

"Even though serving three or four years is a heck of a lot better than twenty-seven or thirteen years?" I ask in disbelief.

"I’m not. Pleading. Guilty. I didn't rape that bitch, and I'll take the risk of doing the extra time before I fucking say I did it."

He may think that now, but when the evidence starts coming in, he'll probably change his mind.

"All right, so let's get ready for trial."

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ALSO AVAILABLE FROM LANE HART

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All In: Calling His Bluff

All In: Playing the Fool

All In: Playing to Win

All In: Paying to Play

Bound by Blood Paranormal Romance Series

Blood Drive

Blood Ties

Blood Loss

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

New York Times
bestselling author Lane Hart was born and raised in North Carolina. She continues to live in the south with her husband, two daughters, and several pets named after
Star Wars
characters.

When Lane's not writing or reading sexy novels, she can be found in the summer on the beaches of the east coast, and in the fall watching football, cheering on the Carolina Panthers.

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