Page 16 of Final Verdict
Her words come muted, and the walls in my office dissolve, giving way to the same view I’ve been trying to forget all weekend.
Scarlett.
It’s been three whole days, and my mind refuses to relinquish her face from its memories.
There’s no reason to continue holding on; nothing of value was exchanged between us, and she was in and out of my life within an hour.
Right after I’d dropped her off, I drove straight home for a cold shower to wash away every thought I’d had of leaning over the console and pushing up her dress to eat her pussy.
The ones I had of pulling over and making her ride me in the front seat took a bit longer to rinse away.
She officially holds the record for making me take the longest cold shower in my life, and somehow it still wasn’t enough.
I’d never thought about anyone for longer than a moment after our business was done. Hell, I had clients who I’d handled for months-long cases, and I could walk past them on the street without giving them a second glance.
It’s probably because it’s been a while since I had sex, and she’s so damn stunning…
“Yeah, that’s it,” I say aloud. “Just an unfortunate crossover.”
“Huh?” Rachel crosses her arms. “An unfortunate lunch order?”
“I wasn’t paying attention,” I say. “You can catch me up on whatever you were saying later. Much later.”
She rolls her eyes.
“In the meantime…” I push up my sleeves. “Give me the rundown of potential clients today.”
“You want their crimes or their names?”
“Theirallegedcrimes, Rachel.” I shoot her a pointed look. “You always forget to say allegedly.”
“Right…” She picks up a folder and flips the page. “Yacht crash in the Hamptons with a potential DUI.”
“Pass.”
“Millions of dollars in property damage from an angry ex-wife who’s claiming temporary mental insanity?”
“I’m intrigued, but pass.”
“A personal loan shark who beat up someone he gave money to.”
“How much money?”
“It has to be tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands if he’s contacting you.” She jokes, but I don’t laugh.
A flashback of that guy giving me a card crosses my mind.
“How bad was the alleged beating?” I ask. “And how old is the victim?”
“He beat the guy into a two-week coma, and then he was downgraded to serious condition for an entire month,” she says, handing me the sheet. “The victim was only twenty-six years old.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.” She scoffs. “Shady loans or not, I don’t think any company would risk beating up a woman.”
An image of Scarlett’s terrified face crosses my mind, and I’m suddenly not so certain about that.
The company on this sheet isn’t the one that I remembered from the business card, but I was curious.
