Chapter 1
ONE
JUSTICE
Karma is an unforgiving bitch.
She collects her debt from sinners deserving of her misfortune: thieves, murderers, drug dealers, pedophiles, etcetera.
But like the fickle bitch she is, she has an obvious enjoyment for making a mockery of the innocent.
By no means am I claiming to be a saint—far fuckin’ from it, in fact.
Or maybe I’m paying the debt for those I associate myself with, or those who have purposely done me wrong.
For instance, take Hatfield County’s Honorable Judge Brant Mullins.
He’s esteemed among the community—on a pedestal all his own, but he’s a self-righteous bastard who doesn’t deserve the air he inhales.
Sitting there in his black robe, looking down his nose on every defendant who stands before him as if they are beneath his dignity.
Very few know the true character of the man.
Whichever the case, I wish Karma would do me a solid and stop taunting me with her ruthless misery or let some ill-fated accident end this god-forsaken existence I call life.
I’ve been waiting on this hardwood bench for nearly three hours, listening as defendant after defendant pleads their case with the court.
I’m a good judge of character and can determine the innocence of each simply by witnessing their testimony—most of which are piss-poor excuses as to how they managed to get caught in the act of their illegal indiscretions.
After the first dozen cases were pleaded, it all became a bore, hence the evaluation of monumental fuck-ups I’ve succeeded in during my short twenty-five years.
The clinking of chains catches my attention, and I cast my eyes to the far right where the jailer escorts a new lineup of inmates into the courtroom to await their arraignment.
I search the faces of the inmates, many familiar, when my eyes lock on Harlan’s stormy grays.
His eyes darken sinisterly as he smirks in my direction.
His glare captivates me, briefly communicating the curiosity—intrigue even—for the predicament he’s in.
Awfully cocky from where I’m sittin’, honey.
The jailer orders the inmates to be seated, and he turns his back to me, interrupting the brief moment we just shared.
I consider how I’ll ever stop loving this man.
I know in my heart of hearts that what I’m doing is right.
For once in this travesty of a life I live, I am finally doing the right fuckin’ thing.
But for every action there is a consequence, right or wrong; it ultimately doesn’t matter in the end because someone always ends up getting hurt, or worse.
Harlan is guilty of many wrongs—loving me, abusing me, theft, drug trafficking, money laundering.
His criminal case file is lengthy with dozens of charges he’s managed to evade.
Which brings me to my current position, sitting in the public gallery of the Hatfield County courtroom, waiting for my husband to be arraigned on drug trafficking charges, yet again.
And I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m sitting here, waiting patiently like a good little wife when this man has only caused me more physical and emotional pain than one woman can endure.
It’s blatantly obvious there is no love lost between us.
If I’ve learned anything during the last eight years with Harlan, it’s that he doesn’t accept betrayal.
We made our promise before God that we would be together ‘til death do us part—one promise he is fully intent on keeping.
The hinges on the courtroom doors squeak as the heavy wood is pulled ajar then closes slowly.
From my peripheral, a man slides into the bench behind me.
The scent of his cologne wafts around me, and my spine stiffens.
A tremor of anxious nerves rolls up my spine, as nausea quakes my stomach, and with a quick glance I confirm my suspicions.
His attendance obviously is a good sign.
He’s here to revel in the victory of bringing Harlan Daughtry, my husband, to justice.
I slow my breathing and say a silent prayer. This is it.
Case after case is brought before the judge, the defendants each given the fair opportunity to briefly enter a plea for the crimes they are being arraigned for.
Needing something to focus on, I count the ticking second hand on the grand clock, the steady rhythm soothing my rattled nerves.
It doesn’t take long before each tick matches the beat of my heart, and the conversations around me are all silent. Tick tick, tick … thud, thud, thud.
“You got lucky, yet again, Mr. Daughtry. I advise you quit tempting fate’s hand and get your act together.
I’m sure you’ll stumble over your drunken feet soon enough and land your ass back in my courtroom.
And when, Mr. Daughtry, you do, I’ll be sure the charges are iron-clad.
” Judge Mullins’ raspy announcement interrupts my moment of peace, bringing me back to a startling reality that I want no part of.
Harlan’s arraignment is over, and the charges have been dropped? FUCK.
“Mr. Moore, I don’t want to see your client in my courtroom again; is that understood?”
Harlan’s high-dollar, skeezy attorney mumbles in agreement. Judge Mullins cracks the gavel against the oak bench and calls his next case.
I make my way to the lobby and wait for Harlan’s release.
More idle time for my mind to wander, which let’s face it— that is not a safe playground to be lost in, but I welcome it nonetheless.
I’m not self-loathing. I know my mistakes are my own, and the road I chose led me to where I am today.
As badly as I hate my husband, I hate myself even more.
I allowed him to break me down. I conformed to his lifestyle and expectations.
Despite what some may say, I’m a smart gal, but I was blinded by all that is Harlan Daughtry, and only I can fault myself for that.
Suddenly the voices I hear aren’t those wandering through the dark playground that is my self-conscience.
A deep timbre that I recognize has me standing abruptly to steal a quick glance.
There he stands with his back to me as he has a quiet discussion with another man.
So close—well within reach, and I have to fight the urge just to say hello.
It’s been days since I last saw him. My heart thuds rapidly in my chest, and it’s an unfamiliar longing that I suddenly miss.
How long has it been since Harlan made my heart skip a beat?
Five short strides and I’ll be close enough to smell the spicy scent of his cologne.
It took everything in me not to speak to him when he took the seat behind me in the courtroom, and I know I have no business approaching him now.
Perhaps it’s the shock of Harlan’s release that is spurring me forward to seek answers.
“Justice!” Harlan barks as he approaches, his gray eyes hard and menacing. He presses his hand on the small of my back, and with a demanding shove my feet are moving. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
His touch, his voice, his scent, his brooding demeanor; Harlan rattles me to my core in a very dangerous way. I risk one final look over my shoulder, locking eyes with Dylan for a mere second—his eyes impassive and uncaring, before the warm summer sun kisses my cheeks.
A heavy tension falls between us and silence fills the air as I drive home.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
A grimy streak of grease stains the tips of his brown hair from running his fingers through it while he works on trucks all day.
Hard lines are etched into his face, his lips a down-turned scowl, and a rough stubble frames his jawline.
Harlan used to send a quiver of desire tingling from my core to the tips of my toes with just one look, but knowing the heartless, condescending bastard for what he is only taints the love I once felt for him.
“Feds are gettin’ too close,” Harlan admits, breaking the silence. He glares at me, a menacing gleam in his taunting eyes.
“What is going on, Harlan?” I ask nervously.
During the time that I’ve been a confidential informant for the FBI, Harlan has never let on that he was a target of any investigations.
He’s been arrested four times in the last eighteen months, which triggered the bureau’s investigation into his criminal activity, but each time his attorney has managed to buy his freedom.
He nods slowly, scratching at the scruff that lines his jaw. “Anybody suspicious been askin’ ya questions? Maybe at the diner or just in passin’?”
My brows knit together as the knot in my throat tightens. “Nothing that comes to mind.” I shrug, silently praying that my nonchalant demeanor and response will be enough to quell his suspicions.
“How did you manage to escape drug trafficking charges, Harlan? I know the kind of weight you and Silas push; this doesn’t make sense. You’re lucky as hell that you weren’t indicted.”
“The charges don’t matter, kitten. The less you know, the better.”
“How do you expect me to help you if I don’t know what’s going on?”
“I didn’t ask for your fuckin’ help, kitten. I asked if anyone has been snoopin’ around, puttin’ their nose in business that don’t concern them.”
There’s an edge of warning behind his tone, and his guard is up. I know better than to argue with him, so I remain quiet for the rest of the drive, the air between us thick with tension.