Authors: Liz Reinhardt
He swings the door open
, and I do my best not to be too obvious in my admiration of
the clean lines of his
muscles
through the thin
cotton
of his button-down. I notice some skin is
etched with tattoos I can barely make out.
"After you,
m'lady
."
Then he smiles, my nerves unfurl in a long, smooth spin, and I walk in
to the hushed courtroom
with tiny sparks of silvery light flickering on the outsides of my eyes. It's probably from nerves. It's probably because I didn't eat breakfast. It's absolutely not because this irritatingly
over-familiar hustler is trying to pick me up in the hallway of a courthouse.
I clamp down ha
rd and quick on my judgment
. I'm here for trespassing and unintentional arson. He's probably here to argue a speeding ticket.
I murmur a 'thank you' and panic petrifies my legs and leaves me blocked in the doorway. He nudges me in, takes my hand as if I'm some new kid he's been assigned to lead around on the first day of school, and pulls me to a long wooden pew-like bench, where we sit.
I run my fingers over the
red leather portfolio cover
I’m
holding
onto for dear life
. Other people have their court documents clutched in their fists or in cheap ten-cent folders, but I have fancy taste in my accessories.
Mystery Guy has nothing in his hands. Unlike the other people in the courtroom, he's not sitting ram-rod straight or fidgeting. He looks perfectly relaxed.
I bet it was a speeding ticket. He probably thinks just showing up will get him out of it.
I flip my cover open, glance over all the damning evidence pitted against me in black and white, then snap it shut again.
The judge enters the courtroom, and we jump to our feet as a solitary, slightly sheepish unit of criminals.
Law breakers.
Deviants.
Sweat coats both my palms.
When Judge
Schwenzer
finally sits and we settle back down, she attacks the files on her desk. From her shellacked bun to her sensibly hideo
us glasses, she's all
business, and I feel my heart sink.
This woman would never splurge on a red leather portfolio cover for her incriminating court documents. This woman will hate me on principle.
I catch the guy looking at me. No sneaking a look,
no
flirty attempts to maybe establish eye contact
; just plain, open looking
. When I put all my efforts into staring him down, he gives me a
clear, wide smile and winks, one slow, lazy flick of an eyelid laced with all those gorgeous lashes. My heart races again, and I turn my attention stubbornly to the front of the courtroom.
Which is a mistake.
Judge
Schwenzer
is
chewing some poor girl apart over
a DUI charge. Apparently this isn't her first. And just when she's finished reducing the girl to
a
blubbering
mass of
tears, she picks up the next file.
"Winchester
Tobar
Youngblood."
The guy stands and says, "Excuse me," before he flashes one
more cocky
smile and walks with sure confidence to the judge's bench.
Judge
Schwenzer's
lip
s are already compressed flat and
mean
,
a
line
she’s daring anyone to cross
.
"Winchester, t
he charges against you
involve
disturbing the peace and public intoxication. How do you plead?"
Shock jars my eyeballs right to the front of the room, though it makes no sense at all for me to be shocked. I do not know him, no matter how strangely intimate our little court hallway rendezvous felt. Sweet manners, a few open smiles, and a wink aren't enough to establish a man's character. But maybe he's not--
"Guilty, your honor."
I'm admittedly a poor judge of guys, but the disappointment I feel
over this particular guy at this particular moment
is uncanny.
Judge
Schwenzer
also seems...not so much disappointed, but disbelieving.
"I don't buy it, Mr. Youngblood. The officer filing the report said the man he observed was shaggy, unkempt. In all the times you've come before the court, you've never looked that way."
Winchester bows his head
with deference. "My mother told
me
I should always get a
haircut before an important
court date
, ma’am
."
That is a perfectly reasonable explanation. And, honestly, it makes no sense for the
judge to question something so
easily explained. Why didn't she think of it?
"The officer also noted that the man he gave a citation to had a tattoo on his forearm.
Very distinctive.
A Pegasus."
Her eyes are shark
s-with
-laser
s
-intense, and they're trained right on Winchester.
He cuffs his sleeve back and holds his a
rm out for her to see
, out of my line of sight. His words are low and even, almos
t meditative.
"A
pooka
, ma'am, n
ot a Pegasus.
No wings."
I need to see that tattoo. It's like a foil-wrapped birthday gift on the t
able in front of me that I’m not allowed to
open.
She closes her eyes behind those steel-framed glasses
and lets out a sigh heavy with frustration.
"That tattoo looks very fresh."
"My skin takes a long time to heal, ma'am."
His voice remains even-keeled and patient, and that just seems to dig like splinters in
to
Judge
Schwenzer's
ass.
She puckers her lips, shakes her head, and swipes her pen.
"Five thousand dollars, probation, and community service."
She glance
s up from her paperwork. “Winchester?”
He turns to look at her, and there’s a long, silent exchange of facial tics a
nd stares before she says, “This i
s me giving you one final chance.
One.
Don’t throw it away. The next time you’re in this courthouse, I will not exercise leniency.”
Silence rocks between them for a few counts.
"Tha
nk you, ma'am," Winchester says
and picks up the paperwork.
I watch his confident swagger all the way to the back of the courtroom, but I never get to see him leave, because Judge
Schwenzer
, angry as a warthog that's been poked with a sharpened stick, calls my name next, venom practically dribbling over the syllables that fall out of her mouth.
With girls, it's all in the eyes.
That's how you can tell, how you know if a girl's going to be some doe-eyed princess you have to tiptoe around until you can unlock what she wants you to find or an eye-rolling vixen ready to run just for the fun of having you chase her.
Blue, green, brown, hazel,
amber
, gray: I can remember the eyes of any girl who caught my attention, even after her name and number are long-forgotten memories.
I asked her if she was nervous, and it was like a thousand icicles shot out of those eyes to murder my pickup attempts in cold blood.
This is the weird thing abou
t eyes, though. There’s a
saying, 'cold hands, warm heart.' In my experience, a better indicator of a girl's heart is her eyes.
This girl's are Arctic, but I read underneath them,
and can see that the cool exterior is
nothing but a cover for a hot temper
that burns underneath
. I've got a head for stakes and good luck with bets, and I'd be willing to bet everything I have that she gets emotional as hell, probably throws tantrums and lights things on fire.
I've got warm eyes, but my family always talks about how I’m
a cucumber, cool and collected even under pressure, never letting anything rattle me.
That’s why I have the job I have. That’s why I do the things I do. I don’t buckle under pressure.
Ever.
I know she's watching me when I'm in front of the courtroom, and when Judge
Schwenzer
gives me another wrist-slap round of community service
and a serious warning
, I
also
know I have to get the hell out of Dodge.
That girl with those eyes and those curves
and that voice, like slow sex during
a summer storm, runs way
too hot for me to mess with.
E
specially now,
when every damn thing
in my world
is spiraling out of control, and I'm the only one who can grab all the ends and hold it together.
I have my hand on the door
knob
when Judge
Schwenzer
calls a name.
"Evan Williams Lennox."
The judge's voice is tight and bland, like a puke-colored rubber band stretched until it's about
to snap. But the name...there’
s no way it can be that girl's, with her heirloom pearls and her little preppy court uniform.
No girl that high class could be named after whiskey.
I turn my head and catch her walking
up, and I don't even remember taking a seat
, but all of a sudden, my ass is back
on one of those
shiny benches, focusing on the front of the courtroom as old
Schwenzer
puts the girl through hell
, spits her out,
and drags her back for more.
"Ms. Lennox, could you explain to me how exactly it was an
accident
that you wound up burning down some of the oldest trees in the entire state of Georgia?"
Behind her old lady glasses,
Schwenzer's
eyes are bright with glee. She must come from an ancient line of executioners who really enjoyed the profession.
"It was an accident because I never meant the trees any harm, ma'am. I was only trying to burn some personal items."
That damn voice is hot and husky in my ears. I know I should leave now, but, again, I hold back, just for one more minute.
"Burn some personal items? On someone else's property? You're lucky you didn't light the entire house on fire, Ms. Lennox." She raises her eyebrows and scans the
charges. "I have half a mind to
let you spend a week or two in a correctional facility.
"
The girl lets out this soft
little gasp, but I know
Schwenzer's
bluffing out her ass. "But I won't.
This time.
Your record has been clean
so far, and I imagine this was the
result of a night of
carelessness. But you caused serious damage, and you have to accept punishment for that. You will pay the owners of the property for the damages, you will pay your court fines, and you will be spending your free time for the next few weeks in community service. Don't let me see you here again."
Judge
Schwenzer
waves a hand to dismiss her, and the girl takes the papers, looking like she'd rather die than begin the long walk of shame from the bench to the doors. Those cold eyes don't even flurry in my direction when I hold the door open for her.
I follow the sweet curve of her ass as she races to the outer doors, her red heels clicking on the tiles so fast, I'm sure she's about to trip and face
-
plant any second.
Every cell in my brain tells me that the smartest thing I can do is get my paperwork in order, pay my fine, figure out what community service I'll have to wrestle through this time, and get the hell away from this girl and this whole crazy day.
But
I'm not really thinking with my brain when I get to the outer doors. She's already across the parking lot, about to key the paint around the door lock of a silver Lexus because her hands are shaking so hard.
I stand a few feet away so I don't spook her more.
"Evan?"
Her name feels good in my mouth, and I like the shocked
and pleased
look in h
er eyes when she hears me
say it.