Chapter 33
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“I don’t think you’re supposed to wash your hair twice in one day,” Nia tells me as she piles her freshly-conditioned hair on the top of her head.
“I’d argue that we aren’t meant to eat cold pizza in the shower, either,” I chuckle.
Reaching past the shower curtain for a slice of the pie, I offer a bite to her before taking one for myself, and she laughs with a shake of her head as I set it back onto its plate.
When I return, her fingers trace over my scars, her face melting into a thoughtful expression.
“This isn’t just sex and friendship for me,” she says, “and it’s not just about you being my Dom. When this is over and I’m not your client anymore, and there’s no more Daniel drama, and life can be normal…I’m worried that this will be over with it.”
“When I told you that you’re mine, I meant that,” I assure her, bringing my hand to her jaw as I press a kiss to her lips.
“My mom’s going to court,” she tells me.
“And she will have no idea that I am anything other than your attorney.”
“It’s really normal for this to go to court?” She asks me for what has to be the tenth time since we received our hearing date.
“Yes,” I assure her once again. Reaching for the slice of pizza to offer her another bite of it, I tell her, “I spend probably forty percent of my hours in hearings.”
“Okay,” she nods, using her hand to cover the bite of food in her mouth.
Nia is unlike any of the women that I’ve been involved with in the past. She can be messy, she doesn’t care about minding her manners, she doesn’t take an answer to a question at face value – she needs to know why .
She doesn’t need me; she never has, and she never will. To be someone that she trusts and feels that she can rely on, anyway, leaves me with a feeling of great privilege.
As we finish our shower, we stand wrapped in soft towels, and I lean against the counter as Nia dabs an assortment of creams onto her face in the mirror.
“You can’t stay tonight, can you?” She asks, her fingers dabbing gently at the skin beneath her eyes.
“No,” I tell her, “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she tells me, though I don’t necessarily believe her; because it doesn’t feel okay to me, either. “It’s almost over, right?”
“Yes,” I promise her.
The sun is starting to set, and once again, the thing that feels wrong is the thing that I have to do.
As I pull on my clothes and my shoes, I look at the house that felt so painfully empty for years, and to the woman who now brings life back into it. The last thing that I want to do is to leave her here by herself, worried about what’s to come and what awaits her in her near future.
I sit on her driveway in my parked car for probably far too long, ordering a replacement for the flowers that we destroyed before I finally pull away and head in the direction of my own house.
I may not be able to stay here, but I can still be with her in some way.
I’ve always performed well in the courtroom, from my first mock trial to where I stand in my career today. My sister insists that it’s just because I like to argue; I’d disagree with her, but that would serve as confirmation for her, wouldn’t it?
While watching my clients face cross examination is never something that I enjoy , I do always feel a sense of pride in them. They work hard, they take their preparation seriously, and they’re fighting for what they deserve. It’s something to be proud of.
Watching Nia, however, fills me with something much more than just pride. I’m nearly amazed by her as I watch her speak, answering questions and armed with the knowledge that those questions will be asked in a way that is intended to throw her off.
She refuses to let them.
Her focus is honed in, perfected, directed only at whom it needs to be as she handles her husband’s counsel. With occasional flicks of her gaze in my direction, I offer her subtle nods of encouragement as I bite down the smile that begs to spread across my face. She’s incredible.
While I speak with her husband, I tamper down my desire to reach across the stand and choke the life out of him, disguising my hatred for him behind a wall of feigned boredom with him instead.
I listen as he and his team try to paint Nia as not only an unfit mother, but an inattentive and detached wife – points which are both immediately squashed by Nia’s mother and a shared character witness.
I don’t kill the man – but I’d certainly like to.
As four grueling hours come to an end with recess called until next week, I calmly and quickly lead Nia from the courtroom, minding the trembling of the hands that she wrings in front of her while we walk. My hand rests between her shoulder blades until we reach a quiet alcove.
Dropping my attaché case on the ground next to us, I take her hands in mine and hold eye contact with her. “Breathe,” I tell her as her panic builds. “That is an order.”
With her eyes locked onto mine, she nods, pulling in a deep breath through her nose and releasing it through her mouth just as she’s done before.
“You’re doing very well, Nia,” I tell her. “Keep breathing.”
She obeys, breathing deeply until the trembling in her hands slows to a stop and the panic carved into her features settles into exhaustion instead.
Bringing a hand to cup her face, I offer her a smile and a soft nod of approval.
“ Kids have to do that?” She asks, wiping a knuckle at the tear-lined corners of her eyes.
“Sometimes, yes,” I nod. “I try to keep that from happening, when I can.”
“Your job really sucks,” she tells me with a humorless laugh.
As her head falls forward to rest against my chest, I cup the back of her head, pressing a kiss to it with a chuckle.
“Not when we win,” I assure her. “Your homework for tonight is to take your daughter home, have a treat together while you watch Oliver & Company , and get some rest before your big weekend.”
“I wish you could be there,” she tells me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It comes with the territory.” Using a hooked finger to guide her jaw toward me, I tell her, “I’ll come by Monday morning for more prep work.”
As I move to turn out of the alcove, I’m stopped by Nia taking a firm hold of my hand. “Brody,” she says. I turn to face her with an expectant arch in my brow. “I know you don’t like kids, but…”
“Take plenty of pictures for me,” I tell her with a smile. Lifting our joined hands, I press a kiss to the back of hers. “Go do what I asked you to, sweet girl. Don’t make me ask again.”
“Yes, Sir,” she agrees with a nod.
And once again, I’m left walking away from her.