Hardass (Bad Bitch) Read online

  She would be well within her rights to complain to human resources about me, though I knew she wouldn’t.

  I had fucked up royally. I just needed to make sure it didn’t happen again.

  The entire way to work I reiterated to myself that she was an associate—off-limits. I parked in the deck and gave myself a hard stare in the rearview mirror. Get it together, Wash. At least it was Friday, so I could take a breather over the weekend and get my head on straight.

  I rode the elevator alone and got the first cup of coffee as the office slowly woke up for the day. Caroline’s office was thankfully dark, but just looking at her desk made my cock twitch back to life. I hurried down the hall, coffee sloshing over the side of my Palmer & Granade cup.

  Shirley wasn’t in yet, so I closed the door to my office and began going through the e-mails that piled up to be an insurmountable task. Trial settings, arraignments, conflict checks, new clients—it was a never-ending cascade of information. At least it took my mind off Caroline, off the previous night.

  I worked until what was left of my coffee was long since cold. It was already eleven, and I hadn’t accomplished much more than dictating a few letters, drafting a quick evidentiary pleading, and cleaning out my in-box. I was about to get a coffee refill when there was a knock on my door.

  “Come in.”

  Caroline eased inside, her brown eyes meeting mine with easy confidence. She wore an emerald green dress with a belt below her breasts, accentuating them perfectly. She had to be doing this to me on purpose, had to be. But my dick didn’t care one way or another; it was just happy to see her.

  I kept my seat and waved her inside. She went to close the door.

  “No. Leave it open.” I didn’t trust myself to be alone with her in a closed room, especially not when her dress was so short and she wore the most amazing high-heeled boots. Definitely not going to be able to get up for a while.

  “I have the evidence memo you wanted.” She handed me a stapled packet of about twenty pages, each item neatly identified and tagged just as I’d asked. She was acting like she usually did, nothing in her demeanor changed despite what we’d done the night before.

  “You looked at the pictures?” I asked as she sat, her skirt riding higher up her smooth thighs.

  She looked down to her hands and then back up at me. “Yes. I had some help. Terrell and I went through them together.”

  “Terrell?” I put my elbows on my desk. “You two are friends, right?”

  Did I just sound like a jealous teenager? Yes, yes I did.

  She smiled, her dark pink lips opening to show me her even, white teeth. “Yes, we live together.”

  Holy shit, she was living with someone? “Oh, I had no idea.” I sat back, my chest suddenly constricted, as if my shirt were too tight.

  Her smile widened. She was gorgeous, the sun lighting her blond waves and kissing her skin. Of course she was with someone.

  “Not like that, Mr. Granade. We’re just friends. Terrell is allergic to vaginas.”

  I almost choked on my own spit. “Allergic to—”

  “We’ve been roommates since law school.” She crossed her legs at the knee.

  Gay, her roommate was gay. I was far too happy about that simple fact. I looked down at the paperwork she’d handed me so as to avoid getting myself in any deeper. She was like some sort of gravitational force that I needed to fight, even if it killed me.

  I skimmed the first few pages, flipping through the rundown of the various police reports. A few things caught my eye.

  “Did you read the interview of Tyler Graves?”

  She leaned forward. “Yes, flip to the next page. That’s where it gets good. He claimed that he’d hung out with a couple of the victims, but said that Rowan was their primary customer, not him. He also claimed he’d seen Rowan beat one of the victims mercilessly only a few weeks before she was killed.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sotero, the one found on the upper branch of the Old Pearl tangled in some trees. They found her when the water fell after the drought a couple of summers ago. Autopsy report says she’d been there at least a month.”

  I dropped the page and looked up at her again, her gaze intense. “And why is that important, Ms. Montreat?”

  “Because Rowan told us he’d never even met Sotero.”

  “Exactly. Someone’s lying.”

  “So which one do you think it is?” She clasped her hands around her knee.

  “What did I tell you about the importance of guilt or innocence, Ms. Montreat?”

  She leaned back. “That it doesn’t matter.”

  “That is correct. And it doesn’t, not for our purposes. Go ahead and pull last known whereabouts for Mr. Graves. We need to pay him a visit unannounced, and sooner rather than later.”

  “Already on it. I found his last three addresses, all of them halfway houses for ex-cons and drifters. The most recent was over in Algiers.”

  “Any jobs?”

  “No. Not that I saw. He hasn’t worked in over five years. Not sure how he survives, but he’s still kicking.”

  “Family?” Sometimes parents were the best way to get to witnesses. Even the most hardened deviant would accept calls from his mom.

  “Parents are dead. He has a brother, polar opposite. Lives in the Garden District, big house, wife, kids, job in the financial sector. Might be worth talking to. Maybe he could tell us where his brother went wrong?”

  “Seems like a good start. Got the morgue lined up?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and looked out my window, perusing the patches of Mississippi River in the distance. “Yes.” She bit her lip.

  “You’ll do fine, Ms. Montreat. We won’t be doing any inspections ourselves. It’s just better for us to hear it from Dr. Snider while he looks them over in person. We need to know every detail, every bit of minutiae that can help our case.”

  “And you’ll be there with me?”

  Something in my chest warmed as her gaze returned to mine. I ran a hand through my hair, as if that would make the sensation stop. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

  “Okay.” She let out a pent-up breath. “Okay, I think I can do it.”

  “You can. I wouldn’t have chosen you for this assignment if I didn’t think you could handle it.”

  Her face brightened.

  “But don’t let it go to your head.”

  She rose and swayed her hips to my door. “I’ll get to work on our game plan for Monday’s visit to Algiers. Anything else I should attend to?” She shot a look over her shoulder and busted me looking at her perfect, plump ass.

  I played it off by yelling for Shirley to bring me the jail docket for the afternoon. Before I could give any more directives, Trent strolled in.

  “Ms. Montreat, are you attending the get-together for Judge Lane tomorrow evening?”

  Shit. I’d forgotten all about the fund-raiser we were throwing for Tim Lane.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Her easy charm even got a smile out of Trent; she was that good.

  She continued down the hall back to her office as Trent came inside and closed my door. “Did you forget about this weekend?”

  “No, not at all.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you didn’t. Doesn’t matter. You’re coming. Now, do you want to talk about Ms. Montreat?”

  My stomach churned as I tried to gauge the correct response.

  Trent sat in one of my chairs and continued on, seemingly oblivious to the guilt that covered me from head to toe. “Well, how’s she doing? You think she’s going to be able to handle the big leagues?”

  I relaxed, my paranoia at bay. “Her performance has been good so far. She’s spotted some key issues and seems to be proactive about moving the case along.”

  “That’s what I like to hear. As you know, she certainly wasn’t my first choice for the position, but if she turns out to be a good hire, then that’s just all the better.”

  “I think she is.”
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  “Good to know.” He rose, the interrogation finished. When he got to the door, he paused. “Just watch yourself with her, Wash. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  “I—”

  He held up his hand. “I know you wouldn’t. But just be careful. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Hero worship and all that. Keep her at arm’s length. We don’t need any scandals. Got it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good talk.” He left, greeting the secretaries and paralegals as he made his way to his side of the office.

  I leaned back in my chair and looked to the ceiling, just breathing for a minute. Trent didn’t know or he would have said something then and there.

  This was my wake-up call. I needed to get back on the straight and narrow and keep my relationship with Caroline—Ms. Montreat—strictly business. The slip with her the previous night was a moment of temporary insanity. I would see to it that we were never alone like that again.

  Chapter Six

  Caroline

  I couldn’t wait to be alone with Mr. Granade again. Parts south tingled at the memory of his mouth, and I couldn’t forget his gravelly voice—the sheer desire that coated each and every note.

  “You’re doing that thing again.” Terrell sized me up in the mirror as I finished my makeup. He wore a black velvet jacket, a button-down shirt open at the top, and some dressy jeans. Handsome as always.

  “What thing?” I dropped my mascara and stood, as ready as I was going to be.

  “The thing you’ve been doing for the past two days. Where you space out and your cheeks pink up like a hooker wearing too much rouge.” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped curls and turned back to me. “At least you look hot tonight. Just try to stay present. If you zone out and Trent catches you drooling, we’ll have a problem.”

  “I don’t drool.” I ran my hands down my black dress. I didn’t have far to go—the hemline was almost scandalous, and the neckline wasn’t much better. I was already having second thoughts about wearing it.

  “Well, let’s not test the theory. Make a good impression.” He twirled his finger at me in the mirror. “Let me see the whole thing.”

  I did as requested and turned around, giving him the entire three-sixty. When I stopped and looked up at him, waiting for him to say no, he smiled. “Perfect. Now, what shoes were you thinking?”

  “Maybe black pumps?”

  He snorted. “No. Unless you have some Louboutins you haven’t told me about?”

  “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said in weeks.”

  “We both know that’s a lie. I’m the cleverest person you know.” He was right. His dry wit had gotten many a laugh out of me over the years.

  I peeked over my shoulder at my ass in the mirror. It was acceptable, the dress’s slinky fabric draping nicely. My hair hung down my back in a blond curtain. It had taken me half an hour with the flat iron to get it all straight.

  Terrell went to my barely walk-in closet and flipped on the light. He took two steps inside and perused my shoe collection. It was respectable, but not fabulous by any means.

  “No, no, no.” He ticked off a list of negativity as he studied the shoe rack.

  “That’s all I got, Terrell. I don’t have any Lynch money to buy new ones, so choose wisely.”

  He pushed some of my suits to the side and let out an “ooohh.”

  I rolled my eyes. I knew which ones he’d found. “I’m not wearing those.”

  He pulled out the red stilettos with the strap around the ankle. “Yes you are.”

  “I’ll look like a prostitute!” I reached past him and grabbed a more dignified pair of black patent pumps.

  He slapped my hand, and I dropped the black shoes at his feet.

  “These are perfect, Caroline. Trust me.”

  “I can’t go to a firm party wearing red hooker heels.” I put my hand on my hip and shook my head.

  “You still have that red necklace I got you last Christmas? With the matching earrings?”

  “Yes. I just don’t wear them much because they’re too fancy for work.”

  “You’re finally right about fashion. Correct answer. They’re perfect with this outfit, though. So get them.” He pulled my black wool coat from its hanger and shooed me out of the closet.

  I retrieved the jewelry, and he fastened the necklace—silver accented by red gemstones, with a longer strand down the front that ended between my breasts. The earrings were matching teardrops.

  I strapped the shoes on my feet, grumbling the entire time as Terrell tapped his oxford on the wood floor. “Come on. Fashionably late is turning into dick late.”

  I stood and managed to walk without a wobble. The straps at the ankle gave a surprising amount of stability. Though I was curvy, the dress hit me in all the right spots. Terrell was right. The shoes really made the whole ensemble.

  “My ugly duckling is finally a beautiful swan.” He helped me into my coat.

  “I’ve never been an ugly duckling.” The coat at least gave me some semblance of modesty. Terrell might have to force me at gunpoint to take it off.

  He kissed my forehead. “I know. It’s called hyperbole. Read a book sometime, Caroline. Now let’s go.”

  I spent the ride over fidgeting with my coat and trying to figure out what Mr. Granade might think about my dress. It was hard to concentrate with Terrell talking to his latest boytoy on the Bluetooth. TMI didn’t even begin to cover the sexual-tension-laden conversation between the two. I kept shooting daggers at Terrell with my eyes, but he just put his finger to his lips to silence me and smiled. Fucker.

  By the time we reached Mr. Palmer’s house, Terrell already had a date right after the party was over. I envied his ability to snare lovers. I had never been so lucky. I’d had boyfriends here and there but nothing serious, especially not once I got to law school and only had time to study, work, and sleep.

  Cars were lined up along the street, several with European insignias and outrageously smooth lines. Money was everywhere in the legal community, just not in my pocket yet. I intended to change that. Staying at Palmer & Granade, and hopefully one day making partner, would be the key to rising in the ranks. Would I be able to afford a Ferrari? Probably not, but I’d be a player all the same.

  Terrell dropped me off in front of the Palmer home—a three-story Victorian in one of the poshest neighborhoods in New Orleans. It was done in the painted ladies style, colorful and overly embellished with ornate woodwork. The windows glowed warmly, and the sounds of the party drifted on the air as I stood at the end of the driveway and waited.

  “Ms. Montreat?”

  I whirled at the sound. Mr. Granade had walked up behind me as I watched Terrell’s taillights disappear down the block.

  “Hi.” My cheeks warmed. He always got that reaction out of me. It was as if I were a teenager again and had seen my crush in the hallway. I shoved my hands in my pocket and looked up into his eyes, dark in the night. He wore a deep emerald dress shirt with an open collar, a dark brown blazer, and jeans. Casual yet somehow also refined. His clean scent washed over me, vying with the night-blooming jasmine in Mr. Palmer’s yard.

  My heart relocated to my ears, the beat a steady thump as I let my gaze wander down to his lips, his open collar, the broadness of his chest.

  “Are you waiting for someone?”

  “Oh, um, yes. Terrell is parking the car.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis and then dropped it when I realized I looked like an idiot.

  A cool wind whipped by and up my skirt. I shifted on my heels, trying to close my legs against the chill. My thong didn’t grant me much of a reprieve.

  His eyes narrowed before he looked away toward the house. Then he sighed and took my elbow as if it were his duty. “Come on. Let’s go in. You’ll freeze out here.”

  “Well, don’t do me any favors. Terrell will be here in a minute.” I pulled my elbow from his grip right as another breeze blew by, even stronger than the first. My lady bits
protested, but I wasn’t going in with him when he was acting so . . . so much like his hardass self.

  “Fine.” He took two steps away from me, then stopped. His shoulders rose and fell, and I’d swear I heard him sigh. He turned back around. “No, not fine.”

  “Excuse me?” I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. There was no looking away this time.

  He ran a hand through his hair, the perfectly smooth locks now mussed just like I liked them. “I’m sorry. It’s not a favor. I’d like to escort you in if you’ll let me.”

  I considered his outstretched hand and peeked over my shoulder for Terrell. No dice.

  “I guess so.” I walked past him, not taking his hand, and he fell into step beside me.

  “Your hair looks different.”

  Was this small talk? “You don’t like it?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” He put his hand to my lower back as we climbed the steps to the front porch. “I mean, yes, I do like it.”

  The voices grew louder as we approached the wide front door.

  “Thanks.” I glanced up at him, the light from the transom window painting him golden.

  He spread his fingers along the small of my back, pressing through the thick wool coat and the thin fabric of my dress.

  “It’s beautiful, is what I meant to say.” His voice seemed an octave lower.

  My skin tingled under his hand despite the layers between us. I leaned toward him, my heels giving me more height than usual. His hand moved around to my side and pulled me close enough that his scent became a heady delight.

  His gaze darted to my lips and stayed there. We were close and moved closer still, his warm breath tickling my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered as if I were running a footrace.

  The door opened and the moment was broken. We stepped away from each other. Mr. Palmer was speaking to someone in the house and turned his head only after Mr. Granade and I had separated. He smiled warmly and ushered us inside.