Chapter Seven
Maeve
When I step back into the living room after storing the takeout leftovers in the fridge, Trigger is grabbing his jacket. “You’re leaving?”
He whips his head around, and I’m once again struck by how freaking good-looking the man is.
I’m struck with the ugly thought that this—sleeping with women on a random Thursday—is normal for him.
It’s not like I thought he’d stay forever, but I didn’t expect him to be ready to leave before his hair had even dried from our bath.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just got a call from Saint. There’s trouble at Haven House and they need all the help they can get.
” He walks over to me and despite the insecurities, I find my heart hammering out of control.
He’s smiling as he frames my face in his hands and kisses my mouth.
It’s slow and tender and it sends my stomach fluttering and toes curling in pleasure.
“I’ll be back. I promise not to get into trouble and worry my pretty attorney. ”
“Okay,” I murmur, licking my lips.
Oh, this is bad, I think as he brushes hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. This is really bad.
I’ve gone and foolishly fallen in love with this man. Falling for his body was bad enough, but at least that was something I knew I could take care of.
But Christ, an emotional attachment with a client? Am I out of my mind?
“I’m sorry, I wish I didn’t have to go.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say, shuffling my feet nervously, unsettled by the thoughts that have slipped into my mind. “Take care and please don’t get in trouble. I don’t want your bail to be revoked.”
He smirks and with a last touch, a simple graze of his thumb over my cheek, he walks away and out, leaving me staring after him like a fool. A fool who has fallen for a man she was never supposed to fall for.
A rebel, a client, an ex-convict.
I glance down at my wristwatch and realize that it’s only two. I’m questioning whether I should head to the office when the decision is taken out of my hands in the form of a courier delivering the case files I requested for Trigger’s case.
“Well, it seems like you’re working from home today, Maeve,” I say, carrying the folders to the couch and dropping them on the coffee table.
I head to the kitchen and consider grabbing some wine, but opt for coffee instead.
After making myself a cup, I return to the living room and sit on the floor, eager to dive into the last ten years of Cole Maddox.
The man I just let inside of me a couple of hours ago. More than once, I let the man take me. I practically begged him to take me after he made my body sing in tunes I never thought it could.
I’m still sore and my heart is a mess, but Christ, I want him again.
With a sigh, I shove out the sentimental woman and call in the lawyer for this part.
I tie my hair behind my head in a quick bun before opening the first file.
I start with the original police reports, reading through them and looking for inconsistencies, missing details, or signs of bias.
The reports are vague on how they got the tip.
Heck, it’s surprising that they were able to find a judge to sign the search warrant without probable cause.
“An anonymous tip, my butt,” I scoff, reaching for my coffee as I search through the files for anything that will help my case.
My heart nearly stops when I find the name.
William L. Halloway. Supervisor to the prosecuting attorney.
There it is, in bold, along with a signature I’ve grown up staring at.
What are the chances that my father would be involved in the case that sent the man I have feelings for to jail? My fingers are trembling as I push the coffee cup away, grappling for the other documents to double-check. He wasn’t directly involved, but he worked closely with the prosecutor who was.
I swipe a hand over my forehead when I feel a thin sweat break out.
“This is a fucking mess,” I mutter to myself as I read through the forensic report.
I could have torn all this apart in court had I not been fourteen years old at the time.
Heck, I would probably have done a better job at defending Trigger in court than his pompous lawyer did, even at that age.
There are holes. Everywhere.
In the court transcripts, prosecutor’s notes and discovery records, a secondary suspect was dismissed early on without further details provided… And the worst part is the psychological evaluation report and risk assessment.
With a frustrated growl, I run a hand through my hair and undo the bun. How the hell does one conclude that my client was unremorseful when the transcript shows he barely spoke during the trial and when he did, it was in polite language?
“Subject is a highly trained ex-Marine, whose aggressive behavior is likely caused by psychological effects of combat,” I read out loud, unable to believe what I’m seeing. I scoff. “So you’re saying he was too good at his job.”
I’m agitated as I flip aggressively through the pages. No history of violence and yet somehow, the prosecution was able to convince the judge and jury that Trigger is a threat. As an ex-Marine and a Steel Rebel.
I can file a motion to have the first conviction overturned, but it makes me angry that all this could have been avoided if Trigger had had me to defend him ten years ago. I would have torn them all to shreds. I intend to.
I glance at my wristwatch, surprised to see that I’ve been at it for nearly four hours. I have no idea how time went by so fast, but I realize I can’t stop. There are still too many documents to go through.
I sit down and make notes, pinning them to each file. The sun fades behind the curtains, and I’m about to put the files away for the day when I spot something else that sends my blood boiling.
I sit up, reading through the name of one of the arresting officers over and over again.
Gareth Jones.
“He came after you? Before the anonymous tip and the gun charge?” I remember the way Trigger’s eyes had fired up after I’d asked him that.
“A couple of times, yes. Enough that I even learned his name. Fucking officer Jones couldn’t get over the fact that his ex-wife had moved on.”
I didn’t make the connection when he said the name. There are probably a hundred Joneses on the Chicago police force alone, but how many of them share the same name with one of my father’s closest friends?
“If it was Gareth Jones who was after revenge, then that means his ex-wife…”
My heart clenches painfully as the image of a stunning woman with wavy brown hair, red lips, bright hazel eyes, and the body of a goddess slips into my mind.
Gareth’s ex-wife. I remember her. Anya Jones is a stunning woman, a Hollywood actress at some point before she married Gareth Jones.
Before she divorced him…and slept with Trigger.
I fall back against the couch, overwhelmed by the information but even more than that, incredibly jealous. Anya Jones was who I wanted to be when I grew up—pretty, smart, and sexy—and isn’t that ironic?
Now, I can’t help but compare myself to the stunning woman who started all this. The same beautiful woman who seduced Trigger, leading to his arrest and conviction ten years ago.
Maybe I do need that wine after all.
I grab my cold coffee and head to the kitchen, dumping it in the sink.
I search around for the bottle of wine I was gifted by a friend when I opened my own office six months ago.
I pour myself a glass and take a sip, approving of the taste before taking my glass to the balcony. Lord knows I could use the air.
Anya Jones and Trigger…
I take a sip, trying not to think of the two of them together as I stare into the night.
“I’ve jerked off to you before. It started that day I dropped you off. I found myself watching your window and when you stepped out of the balcony, you looked so fucking beautiful, I couldn’t help it.”
I stare into the dark streets and wonder if he is indeed out there. He mentioned he was needed at the shelter and he would be back. Surely he has no reason to linger in the streets just to watch me, right? I find my eyes squinting into the night, but I don’t spot him.
Still, I find myself wondering.
What if he’s out there? Watching me now?
Maybe it’s the wine or the thought of Trigger’s history with Anya that gets to me, but I find myself desperately wanting to prove, to him and myself, that I’m better.
It’s silly and unreasonable. I haven’t seen Anya in years, and I imagine that neither has Trigger, but… I can’t push down the insecurities.
I step inside and place my wine on the coffee table before closing the balcony door and sliding the sheer set of curtains over the windows. The night is dark, and in the glow of the lamp next to the couch, I know my silhouette will be visible, a sharp shadow against the curtains.
Slowly, feeling a bit ridiculous, I peel off my top, making my movements as dramatic possible, shimmying a little as I work the fabric up over my breasts and off over my head. Then I move on to my skirt, hips swaying as I inch the material lower and lower.
This is crazy, but I can’t help it. The jealousy, the insecurity, gives me this need to prove that I can affect the man more than his past lovers ever did.
He’s mine.
When I’m only wearing my bra and panties, I turn so my side profile will be visible, arching my neck and back and pushing my breasts forward, still dancing to some imaginary tune. My heart is beating fast as I imagine myself on a stage, doing a striptease.
But Trigger is the only one I really want to be in the audience, and I don’t even know if he’s out there right now.
“This is insane!” I say with a laugh, grabbing my wineglass. I make it to the kitchen and even manage to rinse out my glass before the doorbell chimes, sending my pulse drumming fiercely.
I pull on a robe as I walk to the door, not surprised when I open it to find the ex-convict whose life I’m trying to straighten out.