Prologue #4
Danielle Roberts-Andrews.
I blinked away the single tear that swelled in my right eye. Daniel was one of the few cases I collected from my extensive research on inmates still claiming their innocence after the system had taken years, sometimes decades, of their lives.
It was extremely difficult to keep the faith when fighting crimes you didn’t commit. The system would tell you that you did something enough times for you to begin to believe it. But, not Daniel. He was adamant about his lack of involvement in the murder of the store clerk.
He was present.
But, he didn’t have a gun.
He didn’t have a motive.
He didn’t have an alibi.
All he had was an erection that he needed protection for so that he didn’t end the night as a nineteen-year-old father.
That wasn’t enough to convince the judge of his innocence. Not when he resembled the killer they’d only caught a glimpse of on camera.
Condoms. I released a slow, steady breath as I sat back in my seat.
“Entire life given to a system that murdered him… for condoms.”
I massaged my temple as my heart sank deeper into the rug underneath my feet.
One.
I closed my eyes as my chest imploded.
Two.
Three.
Everything around me was silenced.
Four.
Five.
I mourned. Silently, I despised the familiar feeling of loss. Gloom. Grief. Death.
Six.
Seven.
My body shuddered from the impact of the news. For a moment, I was breathless.
Eight.
I inhaled deeply, pulling air into my lungs.
Nine.
I exhaled again.
Ten.
My eyes reopened. I stood to my feet, packing away the emotional turmoil that threatened to suppress my progress for the day.
“Rest well, Mr. Roberts. Justice will be delivered, even if it’s to your graveside.”
Ten seconds was all the time allotted for feelings unless they involved those who shared the same blood as me or were related through marriage. I’d learned from Richie that feelings were the culprit for collapses. And if I didn’t have mine in check, then everything around me would crumble and fall.
Head high.
Chest out.
Chin up.
Ears on.
I remembered his words just as I remembered him. Clearly. Honestly. Bluntly. Brutally. No cut corners. No sugar coating. No love lost.
“See you next lifetime, Old Man,” I whispered, feeling the cool wind against my face as I exited my study.
In the massive, lonely home that measured six thousand square feet, the sound of my socks against the floor was like earthquakes on a quiet, slow evening in a pottery studio. I stopped at the railing of my stairs and placed a hand on my beating heart.
The feeling of being adored and revered, yet still lonely, is stifling.
My logic left me short of breath.
Kason was so close, but most often he felt miles and miles away.
But he’s right there.
My nostrils swelled at the revelation. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping the ringing in my ears and the pain in my chest would soon subside.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
There was new breath in my body again. I didn’t have ten seconds to give this time. I shoved my troubling thoughts down the drain and took my steps to the second floor where my closet ended. On the first floor is where it began and where I’d conclude my visit.
Kason isn’t complicated. He’s simple. Predictable. Safe. And the sex is incredible.
I made note of the reasons I’d agreed to be his woman and settled with the security they gave me.
862465.
A green light was evidence of my granted access. Valuables transformed my closet from a simple hideaway to a treasured vault. Every piece inside was an investment. They totaled over two million dollars. I protected them with fire-safe walls, code access, and a full surveillance system.
Black pieces lined the entry walls. Chocolate pieces followed. Beige pieces were next. Cream pieces finalized my selection.
There were no in-betweens.
No exceptions.
Black.
Chocolate.
Beige.
Cream.
I didn’t bend the rules and regulations of the Courtroom Etiquette Handbook that I’d written during my stretch in college. I applied the laws and principles I created to every aspect of my professional life down to my wardrobe.
On the first floor, the rules were more flexible. But there were still rules, nonetheless. Personal restrictions. Preferences. Barriers.
Because being a Childers was a restriction in itself, and free will was hardly a token for our experiences. Though we were taught it existed, and it was offered to us, we understood the importance of upholding our family’s core values. We didn’t take the bait.
We weren’t designed to. We weren’t wired to. Structure was our choice. And, remains the choice ’til the day.
Blindly, I grabbed a pair of black pants, silky to the touch.
A buttery soft shirt felt incredible against my skin.
And, lastly, a blazer. The pieces folded over my arm like a newborn after a feeding.
All black and color-treated frequently to match in shade, no matter the piece or portion of my attire.
The thought of the gold accents of the Chanel briefcase led me toward the corresponding section in my closet. A handbag wasn’t necessary. But mules were. I grabbed the vintage black pair, compliments of Roulette.
I was convinced there was nothing she couldn’t find. Our closets were lined with her thoughtfulness.
“There.”
With everything I’d come for in my possession, I pressed the steel button. The elevator doors opened immediately.
Ping.
My journey to the first level was swift. The doors reopened, and I was welcomed into the carpeted space by the smell of vanilla and tonka. Piece by piece, I hung the threads on the sorting rack to the left of the full-length mirror.
My reflection halted my strides. I turned my lips inward as I straightened the curve of my spine and squared my shoulders. My head tilted leftward, furthering my inspection.
Satisfaction lifted me to the tips of my toes. My once tucked lips formed a smile as I smoothed my hands down my body. I noticed the roundness of my hips and the plumpness of my breasts.
Good dick will do it to you.
I tossed my head back in laughter, unable to take myself seriously. Still, the fact remained that I’d been getting dicked down consistently for the last few months, leading to a newfound confidence that only good dick could give you.
Now, for another shower.
I clenched the handle of my briefcase as I stepped into the court’s doors. Bypassing the line of defendants, prosecutors, lawyers, law students, and family members of the unlawful waiting to get through the metal detectors, I stopped in front of the five-foot-eight threat to his employer.
“Arms,” he requested.
Slowly, I lifted my arms, stretching them wide. The wand’s silence continued down my body, ignoring the compact Glock in the ankle holster. Neither did it sound when waved across my briefcase holding its twin.
“Have a good day, ma’am.”
“You do the same.”
I didn’t give a damn about his day. It was his obedience that interested me.
Click.
Clack.
Click.
Clack.
Clark City Courthouse was crawling with humans. While their presence was disgruntling, I pushed forward. Their existence came with the territory. I’d accepted it many moons ago, but still needed to brace for impact when encountering the masses.
A flick of the wrist exposed the Rolex on my wrist. In three minutes, the judge would hear my client’s case. Inhaling deeply, I made strides toward Courtroom 06.
“Mrs. Childers.” Yolanda sighed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Don’t wait for me. Ever.
With lips as straight as an arrow, I waited for the wife of Edgar Baster to state her order of business. Aside from the details discussed with my client, there was nothing more to reveal.
Not to Yolanda.
Not to Edgar.
“Ms. Childers.”
With a nod, she agreed.
“Right. Ms. Childers. Edgar explained what’s supposed to happen in there today. I– I’m all nerves. I couldn’t sleep las–”
“Is there something you would like to ask me, Mrs. Baster?”
“I–uh– Well,” Yolanda breathed out.
Stumbling over her words, she nodded again.
“I have mere seconds. Ask or I’m walking in the courtroom to be with your husband.”
He needed me inside. I was not a source of comfort for his wife. She didn’t require my presence. She was not my client.
“Do you think it’ll happen?”
It was my turn to nod. Her anguished eyes beamed with pride. The smug look on her face was replaced with a smile that radiated the space around us. The gloom of the dingy courtroom had been lifted.
“Prepare the sheets, Mrs. Baster. Your husband will need ample space to compensate you for the time you’ve spent apart.”
Her chest imploded. Her smile widened, proving the impossible was certainly possible. I left her outside the courtroom to collect herself as I did the same inside. Rows and rows of spectators faced the judge presiding over the courtroom.
Against the dark brown wood, Edgar stood, awaiting his fate.
Metal cuffs bound his wrists. A beige jumpsuit claimed his freedom, transforming the millionaire into a number.
A number that the state would remember him by because his name no longer mattered.
Neither did his status or his tax bracket or his responsibilities.
I gnawed on my bottom lip as I inhaled a shaky breath. My confidence in the courtroom wasn’t up for question. My confidence around criminals was.
Not any kind.
Those of Edgar’s caliber.
Handsome beyond belief.
Thick in stature.
Chocolate.
Well-groomed.
Well-versed.
Handsome in every sense of the word.
Knowledgeable.
Respectable.
Disrespectful.
Yolanda was a sheep on his farm. He loved her dearly.
She loved him unconditionally. Blindly. Deeply.
And, for good reason. He’d die for her. But, even more, he’d live for her.
And that’s why he was fighting his case with everything in him.
He wanted to return to her. To the life they were building. To the other side of the law.