Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I’m fine.”
Oops, there’s that fine word again.
“Did you get any sleep? Wait, why was Lucky in here, and were you … cuddling her?” Brody’s face lights up.
“We weren’t cuddling,” I grumble. “She was using me as a pillow.”
“You were cuddling.”
“We weren’t …” I grunt. “Shouldn’t you be getting to work?”
“I should, but I can stay if you want? Call in sick?”
“Any excuse to get out of that case, huh?”
“God, don’t remind me. And no, daddy dearest will kick my ass if I call in sick, but I’ll do it if you need me to.”
“Daddy issues?”
“Understatement. He’s my boss, and one of the many partners at the firm.”
“Yikes. Pressure.”
“Pretty much.”
“I don’t need you to stay. You should go.”
Yet, even as I say the words, I can’t help thinking that I’m lying. Or, if I don’t need him to stay, I at least want him to.
I want to see if last night was a fluke or if it’s possible to replicate that new level of calmness Brody gave me, even if it was only small. No, smaller than small. It was a blip. But it’s a hopeful blip.
No one outside of my family has given me that. It makes me think all the work I’ve been putting in these last six months might be working.
I’m so close to taking it back—asking him to stay—but I don’t get the balls to do it in time.
“I’ll see you tonight.” Brody leaves, and disappointment about his absence gives me even more hope.
8
Brody
I stare at my phone at the text I sent Anders at lunchtime. That was five hours ago now. He doesn’t have that function where it tells you if it’s been read or not, so I have no idea if he’s ignoring me or hasn’t seen it.
I feel for him. Hell, I’m scared, heartbroken, and angry for him.
I want to protect him and save him from the torment he has to endure every day.
Going through something like that … what does it say about me that it makes my pull towards him deeper?
Maybe I have a hero complex. Or maybe I really do see him as my karmic good-doing after having to endure today—the shittiest day in the history of my career. The whole time I’ve been reading about what my client did to his victim, I can’t help thinking about Anders and his situation. It sickens me.
It’s days like today where I lose confidence in being able to be a criminal attorney. I’m supposed to be impartial, and for the most part, I look at the law like a game. It’s not about innocence and guilt. It’s about bending the law to make it go my way. And this case, for it to go our way, we’re pitching the young, dumb, and incapacitated state of inebriation defence on why this shithead had sex with a passed-out girl at a party.
I can’t fuck it up, and I can’t throw the case. Everyone has a right to legal representation, and as a lawyer, I have to vow to work to the best of my ability in getting this guy the least amount of justice our stupid system will allow.
There’s a knock at my office door, and Dad steps through.
I’m not quick enough to put my phone away, and I curse myself.
The people in this office think I get preferential treatment because I’m John Davenport’s son, but the opposite’s the truth. When I started here, Dad sat me down in his office and told me exactly what he expects of me—to set a good example for the other grads.
“Break time, is it?”
Condescending time, is it?
Dad pulls back when he notices my face. “What happened to your eye?”
“Oh.” I press against the bruise. It didn’t come up too swollen this morning, but it’s still noticeable. “Rachel’s stupid cat tripped me, and then I got into a fight with the coffee table.”
No way am I telling him I have a roommate who thought I was attacking him, so he punched me. Nope. Actually, no way I’m telling him I have a roommate, period.
Dad paid for my apartment, but the deed is in my name. No joke, it was a graduation present for me. My brother and sister think he was trying to buy me, but I actually think it’s to keep tabs on me.
Then again, I sometimes get the feeling he doesn’t even care enough to want to keep tabs.
He’s a confusing man.
Dad doesn’t question my tale of how I got the black eye. “Thought I’d check in on the Steinfeld case.”
“Just catching myself up on it.”
“Do you think you’re ready for it?” His question sounds supportive, but it’s a trap.
If I say no, he’ll crack a joke about going into environmental law.
“The associate in charge of it picked me for a reason.”
“I know why Annabelle picked you. I’m wondering if you think you’re ready. It’s a big case. It’ll have media presence, and you’ll need to hold yourself in a certain way. Come across strong. Not get affected by the nature of the trial.”