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.
