Appealed (The Legal Briefs 3)

“Justin Longhorn is seventeen years old,” I argue.

“Exactly,” she practically spits. “More than old enough to have known better.”

“It’s his first offense.”

“And he made a hell of a debut. I’m going for the maximum. Your boy is looking at twenty years.”

When we were young, Kennedy was intelligent, funny as hell, socially oblivious—but she was never spiteful. But looking at her now, there’s a ferociousness about her that’s new. Like a sharp-toothed Chihuahua that’s been stepped on one too many times.

Part of me finds this scorchingly hot. She’s not a girl anymore—she’s a fierce, strong, fully self-possessed woman. The kind whose hair I’d love to fist tight and pull while she’s deep-throating my cock. The kind who would moan for more while I pounded into her rough and hard against a wall.

But another part of me mourns that sweetness. The brave, innocent, beautifully wild creature who sat on a bike’s handlebars and trusted me to keep her safe while I was at the pedals. The one who took my hand and told me to dance with her wearing my unpracticed fake leg, because she thought she was strong enough to catch me if I stumbled.

Then there’s the professional in me who’s just straight-up pissed off—because she’s gonna be a pain in the ass about a case that should be an easy close.

I step in closer. “What the hell, Kennedy? The money’s been returned. It was a mistake. He’s a child.”

She raises her chin and looks at me, all fire and fight. “He’s a criminal. And a bully. He screwed with the life savings of a dozen innocent people. He messed with their heads and sense of security, just because he could. He willfully and knowingly stole thousands of dollars—returned or not—and I’m going to make sure he pays for it.”

“Wow. Hello, Inspector Javert.”

Kennedy shakes her head and chuckles. “You were always clever, Brent. So adorable. I hope for your client’s sake you’re packing more than cuteness these days.”

I bend my head, leaning down, just inches away from her shiny lips. “I haven’t had any complaints about what I’m packing so far.”

She stares at my mouth for one beat too long.

Then she blinks, shaking off her stare. “Good. Then I’ll see you in court, Counselor.”

“Bet your sweet ass you will.”

Kennedy brushes past me and struts away—leaving me no choice but to watch her go.

• • •

We don’t talk again after that. But I discreetly keep tabs on Kennedy the rest of the afternoon—where she’s standing, who she chats with. Tension prickles my skin if she’s out of my field of vision for too long, but when I find her again, relief detonates in my chest. For a long time—years—I wondered what she was doing, where she was, wanted so fucking badly to see her—the way an alcoholic craves just one more taste.

It wasn’t easy, but eventually I went cold turkey, gave up on her completely—because wondering and wanting are lost causes. So, as good as it is to be able to watch her now, I’m not thrilled to fall off the wagon just yet.

“I don’t want to go, Mommy!” Jonathon cries, yanking at his mother’s hand, trying to dig his heels into the grass.

Because Katherine just told her kids it’s getting late—time to head home.

Annie adds her own plaintive wail. “I wants da fireworks.”

I step up beside my cousin as her children join forces against her.

“We’re gonna miss the fireworks, Mommy!” Jonathon yells.

“Settle down, little man.” I tell him. “There aren’t any fireworks tonight. We only have them on New Year’s Eve.”

Every year, my parents go all out throwing a huge, formal New Year’s Eve party—they have since before I was born. There’s tuxedos and gowns, dancing, fountains of champagne . . . and fireworks at midnight that light up the sky and bathe the Potomac River in bright, sparkling color. Young kids in the family, like Jonathon and Annie, aren’t allowed to stay at the party all night. They’re sent to bed in one of the dozens of upstairs rooms before midnight. But Jonathon and Annie obviously know about the fireworks. They probably slip out of bed and watch the show through the window. That’s what I did every year, when I was their age.

Only—I didn’t watch from the window. And I didn’t watch alone.

“I’ll go first,” I tell Kennedy at the base of the ladder. “So I can open the hatch.”

Even though we’re both nine, she’s a lot smaller than I am. This is the first time we’ve gone up to the roof—and I’m the boy, so I should definitely go first. There could be rabid birds up there, or bats.

We’re in the big attic, where trunks, old books, paintings, and plastic-wrapped dresses get stored. It’s dark and dusty, with shadowed corners that look like they’re moving if you stare too long. Kennedy loves it up here.

“Come on, it’s going to start soon,” I tell her. “We’ll come back here tomorrow.”

Her eyes are still wide behind her thick-lensed, yellow-framed glasses as she gazes around the room, but she nods. “All right.”

I head up the ladder and push open the access door in the ceiling. Then I climb through and reach down my hand. Kennedy grabs it as she climbs through and then we’re standing on the flat peak of my house. Sometimes Kennedy calls it a castle—Mason Castle—because of the ballroom. Her house is just as big. They don’t have a ballroom, but they have a home movie theater, which is a thousand times cooler.

The icy wind cuts right through my robe—it’s freezing this year, cold enough to see every breath. The sky is a black blanket above us, and the stars are so bright, it feels like I could reach up and grab one—as easily as picking an apple off a tree. Kennedy spins in quick circles, her long brown hair fanning out. “You were right—this is the best!”

She’s smiling, and the metal line of her retainer shines in the moonlight.

I grin back—until she gets too close to the edge of the roof. I grab her hand and pull her back. “Watch out!”

We sit down close to one of the five chimneys, to block the wind. When Kennedy’s teeth start to chatter, I put my arm around her. She snuggles against me, warming us both up a little. We talk while we wait for the show to start.

“. . . So they let me quit fencing and start lacrosse instead,” I tell her. “It’s awesome.”

“You’re so lucky!” Kennedy cries. “Mother said I couldn’t stop ballet even if my leg was broken. She said I’m going to marry a prince, and no prince wants a princess who doesn’t know how to dance.”

Music floats up from the band downstairs. “I wonder if Claire is dancing with your cousin Louis,” Kennedy tells me. “She said she’s going to kiss him at midnight.”

I feel my face scrunch. “Why?”

“She said that’s what you do at midnight. Kiss the boy you like.”

My face stays scrunched—because I can’t imagine anyone liking Louis—let alone kissing him.

Then a chorus of voices surge from the veranda below. “10, 9, 8 . . .”

A few seconds later, the band begins “Old Lang Syne” and the sky explodes with color. Bursts of reds and blues, slashes of silvery purples and swaths of sparkling greens light up the night and reflect on the river’s surface.

While I watch the fireworks, Kennedy turns under my arm. And then she kisses me on the cheek.

“Happy New Year, Brent,” she whispers.

I look at her and smile.

“Happy New Year, Kennedy.”

As I shake off the memory I scan the yard, searching for that red dress. But when I find her, it’s not just relief I feel—it’s something else. Something rougher, hotter, hungrier.

Because Kennedy is staring at me.

She doesn’t notice that I’ve noticed. Her gaze is too busy trailing over my chest, my arms, my ass. Her eyes are eager and her cheeks are flushed pink—and I don’t think it has anything to do with the afternoon sun. I turn her way, holding my arms out, so she can get the full viewing pleasure

—and her eyes snap up to mine.

I smirk and lift an eyebrow.

Her lips part and her cheeks go from pink to red.

I lift my hand and wave.

She lifts her nose and turns away from me.

And you know something? I think this is going to be fun.

5

A week and a half later, I walk into court for the first day of the Longhorn trial, wearing my best navy suit and lucky silver cuff links. Ready to rumble.

Little Miss I-don’t-make-plea-deals-ever made it pretty clear she’s looking for a fight. And if that’s how she wants it, that’s how I’ll give it to her. But when I fight in court, I fight to win. If she’s not going to play nice—I’m down for playing dirty. That applies to outside the courtroom too.

I set my briefcase on the defense table. Justin is already here, looking very young and respectable in a gray jacket and burgundy tie. He was understandably freaked when I told him there’d been a change in plans—that he was going to be seeing the inside of a courtroom. His father’s here today, sitting behind his son in the front row of the galley, staring at his phone, barely sparing his kid a glance. We’ve worked out an attendance plan for his parents with alternating days. I just hope they stick to it, because the last thing I need to worry about is the two of them keeping their shit together.

Kennedy strolls in, dressed to kill.

Literally—she looks like a smoking-hot, badass businesswoman assassin straight out of one of my comic books. A black leather, knee-length pencil skirt, a shiny silk black blouse that clings to her torso in all the right ways, open at the neck, showing off an onyx necklace set in silver. Her hair is pulled back into a high bun and her makeup is subtle, accentuating the beauty of her features.

She takes her place at the prosecution table, turns deliberately my way—and smiles. And my cock reacts like she’s a snake charmer, stirring and thickening, rising in the presence of that breath-stealing smile.

It’s the perfect combination of sweet and evil. Delicious but deadly. A smile that says I’m going to destroy you—and you’re going to love every fucking second of it.

She’s still wearing the turquoise contact lenses, and I’m kind of relieved. Because her natural eyes would do me in—and I’d be drooling.