Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

“Thank you, sir,” Stanton replies.

“What’s that for you now, Mr. Shaw? Eight wins under the proverbial belt?”

Stanton shrugs, immodestly. “Nine, actually.”

Jonas nods as he removes his glasses and cleans them with a monogrammed handkerchief. “Impressive.”

“It’s all about the jury, Mr. Adams,” Stanton crows. “Never met one that didn’t like me.”

“Yes, very good, very good. And you, Miss Santos? Still undefeated, eh?”

With a smile, I lift my chin proudly. “Yes, sir—six for six.”

Professional women have come a long way—our feet are now firmly in the door of the previously dominated boy’s club of political, legal, and business fields. But we still have a long way to go. The fact remains that more often than not, when it comes to promotions and professional opportunities, we’re the afterthought, not the first consideration. In order to get to the forefront of our bosses’ regard, it’s not enough to be as good as our male counterparts—we have to be better. We have to stand out.

It’s an unfair truth, but a truth all the same.

Which is why when Jonas’s driver enters the room to retrieve his luggage, wheeling out a luxury brand golf bag whose contents are worth more than Stanton’s Porsche, I comment, “I didn’t know you were a golfer, Mr. Adams.”

That’s not true—I totally knew.

“Yes, I’m an avid player. Relaxing, you know, helps with the stress. I’m looking forward to a few rounds during the conference. Do you play?”

I smile like the Cheshire Cat. “I do, as a matter of fact. Just shot a seventy-seven at East Potomac.”

He replaces his glasses over widened eyes. “That’s remarkable.” He wags his finger. “When I return from Hawaii, you’ll be my guest at my club, Trump National, for a few rounds.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.”

Jonas’s jowls jiggle hypnotically as he nods. “My secretary will have your assistant add it to your calendar.” Then he turns his attention back to Stanton. “Do you play, Shaw?”

Because I know him, I notice the nanosecond of hesitation. But then his face splits into a wide grin. “Of course. Golf is my life.”

Jonas claps his hands. “Excellent. Then you’ll join us for the day.”

Stanton swallows hard. “Super.”

After Jonas takes his leave, Stanton and I are back in the elevator heading to our own respective offices on the fourth floor.

“ ‘Golf is my life’ ?” I quote, watching the lighted numbers descend.

His amused eyes turn to me. “What the hell was I supposed to say?”

“Ah, you could have said what you said to me three months ago: ‘Golf is not a real sport.’ ”

“It’s not,” he insists. “If you don’t sweat, it’s not a sport.”

To which I respond, “Golf requires a tremendous amount of skill . . .”

“So does Ping-Pong. And that’s not a fucking sport either.”

Stubborn, stupid man perspective. Having grown up with brothers I’m familiar with it, yet I still laugh at the absurdity.

“So what are you going to do? Jonas returns from Hawaii in two weeks.”

“Plenty of time for you to teach me to play,” he answers, elbowing me softly.

“Me?” I sputter.

“Sure, Ms. Seventy-Seven at East Potomac. Who better?”

I shake my head. This is how Stanton operates. Like my niece uses her quivering lip against my oldest brother, Stanton uses his damnable charm.

It’s impossible to resist—especially when you don’t really want to.

“Two weeks isn’t much time.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the bare skin at the nape of my neck. The action scorches a path down my spine, making all the muscles below my waist clench.

“We’ll start this weekend. I have total confidence in you, Soph. Plus”—he winks—“I’m a fast learner.”

As the elevator doors open, he removes his hand, and for a quick moment, I mourn the loss. “That’ll be the perfect time to settle up on our bet. Your car owes me a drive.”

“I don’t think I should be held responsible for bets I made under duress.”

My heels click on the wood floors as I scoff, “What possible duress were you under?”

Stanton stops a few feet from our office doors. He lowers his voice and leans in to whisper against my ear. “You underestimate the power of your miraculous tits. They were in my face—thinking clearly was not possible.”

I fold my arms skeptically. “Miraculous?”

He holds his hands up, palms out. “Made me want to stand up and shout amen . . . or drop to my knees and do other things.”

A small laugh escapes me. “If all breasts distract you so easily, you’ve got bigger problems than me driving your baby.”

Stanton looks me over for a moment, and his eyes grow warm. Almost tender.

“Not all breasts, Soph. Just yours.”

I’ve heard the expression ‘my heart skipped a beat,’ but I didn’t realize it can actually happen. Until this moment.

Still, I feign indifference. “Nice try. Request to be excused denied. I don’t give golf lessons to jilters.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Brent steps out of our office, on his way into Stanton’s. He stops whe

n he sees us and raises his arm in salute. “Ah, the returning victors. Just the two people I wanted to see.”

We follow him into Stanton’s office, which he shares with Jake Becker, who’s reclined in his desk chair, perusing an open case file on his lap. With barely a glance our way Jake says, “I hear congratulations are in order. My compliments on proving that justice is dumb as well as blind.”

Stanton and Jake have known each other since law school, when Stanton was in dire need of a roommate to offset the rent and Jake was in dire need of sleeping somewhere that wasn’t his mother’s living room couch. Jake Becker doesn’t look like a lawyer. He reminds me of a heavyweight boxer or the muscle from a black-and-white mobster movie. Black hair, eyes the color of cold steel, full lips that rarely smile and utter the most caustic remarks. His frame is large and dangerously powerful, with hands that swallow mine whole when we shake. Bricklike hands that would make you pity his foolish opponent in a brawl.

Despite his intimidating appearance, Jake is the perfect gentleman. He has a dry sense of humor and he’s unwaveringly protective of those he counts as friends. I feel lucky to say I’m one of them. I’ve never seen him lose his temper or raise his voice, but I suspect his is the kind of anger that strikes with a lethal vengeance—without any warning at all.

Stanton puts his briefcase on his desk and sits down.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Brent warns him. “We’re not staying long. It’s Friday, and your victory gives us the perfect justification for cutting out early.”

I didn’t know Brent when he was young, but he has all the makings of an epic class clown . . . or a child in desperate need of Ritalin. Always upbeat, with a joke at the ready and an endless supply of energy. He rarely sits still; even if he’s reading, he’s on his feet pacing or balanced on the edge of his desk, a file in one hand and a grip strengthener in the other.

Oh, and he doesn’t even drink coffee. Some Monday mornings I want to strangle Brent.

“I have to finish the Rivello brief,” I explain, but his head shake cuts me off.

“You can finish it tomorrow, Miss Go-getter. You’re already Adams’s new pet—don’t need to show the rest of us up that much. Besides, we have cause for celebration, and I make it a rule never to pass those up. Time for happy hour.”

I look at my watch. “It’s three o’clock.”

“Which means it’s five o’clock somewhere.” He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Let’s go, kids—find your buddy. First round’s on Jake.”

Jake’s already standing, packing his briefcase with take-home work. He twirls his finger in the air and says flatly, “Sure. Water for everyone.”

With a chuckle, Stanton loops his arm over my shoulders. “Come on, Soph. There’s a Tequila Sunrise with your name on it. We’ve earned it.”

I have an enduring love/hate relationship with Tequila Sunrises—I love them at happy hour and hate them in the morning.

With a sigh, I give in. “Okay, what the hell.”

5

Stanton

By the time happy hour officially rolls around, Sofia and Brent are way past happy. Not Jake, though—Jake’s the original designated driver. He enjoys a single-malt scotch as much as the next guy, but I’ve never seen him drink to get drunk. Unlike everyone else around him at this moment. Six o’clock on a Friday night in Washington, DC, the streets are a ghost town—because anyone who’s still here is already inside the bars.

Politicians don’t actually live in the city. If Congress isn’t in session, they go back to their home districts. Those who are married with kids head back to the suburbs. That leaves the rest of us—hungry, hardworking, and horny. And there’s no better way to blow off a whole lot of steam from a long-ass week at the office than having a nice drink in a noisy tavern. Sofia calls it the “Grey’s Anatomy effect.”

“Air bubble in the IV,” Brent suggests in a diabolical voice, leaning his elbows on the wood table cluttered with empty glasses. “Hard to trace, impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt—unless there’s video cameras in the patient’s hospital room, quick, efficient . . .”

“And totally unreliable,” Sofia quips, tapping him on the nose. “The amount of air to cause an embolism varies, plus the victim would already have to be in