I turn to Chelsea. “You grab Thing One. Let’s go.”
Her voice stops me. It’s a whisper, quiet and inquisitive.
“Jake?”
It’s the first time she’s said my name. One small syllable that makes my gut tighten. That makes me want to hear her say it again—in a moan, a gasp. A pleasure-spiked scream.
“Can I ask you something before we go?”
“Sure.”
She searches my face with an honest curiosity that could pierce body armor. “If it’s not the money . . . why are you helping us?”
It’s an interesting question. I’m not the noble type. I’m more of an “every man for himself” kind of guy. So why the hell am I helping them?
Because I want in her pants, of course. Doing Chelsea a favor is the most direct route to doing her. Really not that complicated.
I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”
And because I just can’t hold back any longer, I reach out one hand and gently stroke the ivory skin of her cheek. It’s softer than I ever could’ve imagined.
“And for a pretty face.”
• • •
We walk out to the parking garage and as Chelsea buckles the kids into their seats, I check out her truck. Her gigantically large dark blue truck. She notices my gaze and remarks, “It’s my brother’s truck.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Your brother—the environmental lobbyist—drove a gas-guzzling Yukon XL?”
She climbs up into the driver’s seat. “With six kids, a bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”
I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where Rory was taken after his arrest this morning. I don’t have a lot of experience in family court, but I’m familiar enough with the process to fill her in.
“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges and his history, and make a recommendation to the OAG. The probation officer decides whether he’s released to you today or has to remain at the Youth Services Center until trial. They’re also the ones I’ll talk plea deal with.”
The good news is, I know one of the probation officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.
A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”
“Office of the Attorney General. That’s who would prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”
Juvenile cases are very different from adult ones. The system still has hope for delinquents—it’s all about rehabilitation and redemption. Saving them before they’ve gone too far down that dark, wrong road to nowhere. In criminal courts, the main question is, did you do it? In family court, it’s all about why you did it. An orphaned nine-year-old dealing with his parents’ deaths by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joyride.
The Moultrie Courthouse is an intimidating concrete building with a cavernous maze of hallways. After passing through security, we’re ushered into a waiting room with a dozen nondescript tables and chairs scattered around and vending machines along one wall. A few other visitors occupy the room, heads huddled, speaking in hushed whispers.
Chelsea and I sit at an empty table. I put the infant carrier with its sleeping cargo on the table, and the blond, baby-haired Regan squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in with Rory, who’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, a navy blazer.
His young lips are set in a hard frown, his dark blue eyes so full of resentment you can practically hear the “screw you” thoughts. This is not the face of a sad, little soul who knows he messed up—it’s the face of an angry cherub, desperately trying to look badass, who’d rather go down in flames than admit he was wrong.
For a second, I reconsider helping him—a few days in juvenile detention could be just what the doctor ordered.
But then Chelsea wraps her arm around him and kisses his forehead, looking both elated with relief and like she wants to strangle him. “Thank god you’re okay! Everything’s going to be all right, Rory, don’t be scared. What the hell were you thinking? A car? You’re never leaving your room again—ever!”
I lean back in my chair, just watching.
He brushes her off with a rough shrug. “Get off. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings, too. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”
“Well, I didn’t, okay? So stop freaking out.”
I’ve seen enough.
“Chelsea, go get Regan a soda or juice.” I pull a couple of bills from my wallet and hand them to her. She hesitates. I tilt my head toward Rory. “Give us a minute.”
Still looking unsure, she sets the two-year-old on her feet and leads her away.
Once we’re alone, Rory sits down. “What are you doing here?”
“Your aunt wanted a good lawyer. Lucky for you, I’m the best—and I happened to have the afternoon free.”
“Whatever.”
I pin him with an assessing stare. “You’re in deep shit, kid.”
So sure he knows everything, he scoffs, “I’m nine. What’s the worst they can do to me?”
“Keep you here for the next nine years. At least,” I tell him simply.
Her voice stops me. It’s a whisper, quiet and inquisitive.
“Jake?”
It’s the first time she’s said my name. One small syllable that makes my gut tighten. That makes me want to hear her say it again—in a moan, a gasp. A pleasure-spiked scream.
“Can I ask you something before we go?”
“Sure.”
She searches my face with an honest curiosity that could pierce body armor. “If it’s not the money . . . why are you helping us?”
It’s an interesting question. I’m not the noble type. I’m more of an “every man for himself” kind of guy. So why the hell am I helping them?
Because I want in her pants, of course. Doing Chelsea a favor is the most direct route to doing her. Really not that complicated.
I shrug. “I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”
And because I just can’t hold back any longer, I reach out one hand and gently stroke the ivory skin of her cheek. It’s softer than I ever could’ve imagined.
“And for a pretty face.”
• • •
We walk out to the parking garage and as Chelsea buckles the kids into their seats, I check out her truck. Her gigantically large dark blue truck. She notices my gaze and remarks, “It’s my brother’s truck.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Your brother—the environmental lobbyist—drove a gas-guzzling Yukon XL?”
She climbs up into the driver’s seat. “With six kids, a bicycle wasn’t gonna cut it.”
I give her directions to the Moultrie Courthouse, where Rory was taken after his arrest this morning. I don’t have a lot of experience in family court, but I’m familiar enough with the process to fill her in.
“Rory will be assigned a probation officer who’ll review the charges and his history, and make a recommendation to the OAG. The probation officer decides whether he’s released to you today or has to remain at the Youth Services Center until trial. They’re also the ones I’ll talk plea deal with.”
The good news is, I know one of the probation officers at Moultrie intimately. We used to bang frequently until she got engaged. Our parting terms were friendly.
A soft V forms on Chelsea’s forehead. “The OAG?”
“Office of the Attorney General. That’s who would prosecute his case, but don’t worry—it’s not going that far.”
Juvenile cases are very different from adult ones. The system still has hope for delinquents—it’s all about rehabilitation and redemption. Saving them before they’ve gone too far down that dark, wrong road to nowhere. In criminal courts, the main question is, did you do it? In family court, it’s all about why you did it. An orphaned nine-year-old dealing with his parents’ deaths by stealing a car will garner a shitload more leniency than an eighteen-year-old boosting a joyride.
The Moultrie Courthouse is an intimidating concrete building with a cavernous maze of hallways. After passing through security, we’re ushered into a waiting room with a dozen nondescript tables and chairs scattered around and vending machines along one wall. A few other visitors occupy the room, heads huddled, speaking in hushed whispers.
Chelsea and I sit at an empty table. I put the infant carrier with its sleeping cargo on the table, and the blond, baby-haired Regan squirms on her lap. A guard opens a door across the room and walks in with Rory, who’s still wearing his school uniform: tan slacks, a white button-down shirt, a navy blazer.
His young lips are set in a hard frown, his dark blue eyes so full of resentment you can practically hear the “screw you” thoughts. This is not the face of a sad, little soul who knows he messed up—it’s the face of an angry cherub, desperately trying to look badass, who’d rather go down in flames than admit he was wrong.
For a second, I reconsider helping him—a few days in juvenile detention could be just what the doctor ordered.
But then Chelsea wraps her arm around him and kisses his forehead, looking both elated with relief and like she wants to strangle him. “Thank god you’re okay! Everything’s going to be all right, Rory, don’t be scared. What the hell were you thinking? A car? You’re never leaving your room again—ever!”
I lean back in my chair, just watching.
He brushes her off with a rough shrug. “Get off. I’m fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” She grimaces, and I see a flash of hurt feelings, too. “You could’ve killed yourself—or someone else.”
“Well, I didn’t, okay? So stop freaking out.”
I’ve seen enough.
“Chelsea, go get Regan a soda or juice.” I pull a couple of bills from my wallet and hand them to her. She hesitates. I tilt my head toward Rory. “Give us a minute.”
Still looking unsure, she sets the two-year-old on her feet and leads her away.
Once we’re alone, Rory sits down. “What are you doing here?”
“Your aunt wanted a good lawyer. Lucky for you, I’m the best—and I happened to have the afternoon free.”
“Whatever.”
I pin him with an assessing stare. “You’re in deep shit, kid.”
So sure he knows everything, he scoffs, “I’m nine. What’s the worst they can do to me?”
“Keep you here for the next nine years. At least,” I tell him simply.
