Hardass (Bad Bitch) (7 page)

Caroline

I couldn’t wait to be alone with Mr. Granade again. Parts south tingled at the memory of his mouth, and I couldn’t forget his gravelly voice—the sheer desire that coated each and every note.

“You’re doing that thing again.” Terrell sized me up in the mirror as I finished my makeup. He wore a black velvet jacket, a button-down shirt open at the top, and some dressy jeans. Handsome as always.

“What thing?” I dropped my mascara and stood, as ready as I was going to be.

“The thing you’ve been doing for the past two days. Where you space out and your cheeks pink up like a hooker wearing too much rouge.” He smoothed a hand over his close-cropped curls and turned back to me. “At least you look hot tonight. Just try to stay present. If you zone out and Trent catches you drooling, we’ll have a problem.”

“I don’t drool.” I ran my hands down my black dress. I didn’t have far to go—the hemline was almost scandalous, and the neckline wasn’t much better. I was already having second thoughts about wearing it.

“Well, let’s not test the theory. Make a good impression.” He twirled his finger at me in the mirror. “Let me see the whole thing.”

I did as requested and turned around, giving him the entire three-sixty. When I stopped and looked up at him, waiting for him to say no, he smiled. “Perfect. Now, what shoes were you thinking?”

“Maybe black pumps?”

He snorted. “No. Unless you have some Louboutins you haven’t told me about?”

“That’s the funniest thing you’ve said in weeks.”

“We both know that’s a lie. I’m the cleverest person you know.” He was right. His dry wit had gotten many a laugh out of me over the years.

I peeked over my shoulder at my ass in the mirror. It was acceptable, the dress’s slinky fabric draping nicely. My hair hung down my back in a blond curtain. It had taken me half an hour with the flat iron to get it all straight.

Terrell went to my barely walk-in closet and flipped on the light. He took two steps inside and perused my shoe collection. It was respectable, but not fabulous by any means.

“No, no, no.” He ticked off a list of negativity as he studied the shoe rack.

“That’s all I got, Terrell. I don’t have any Lynch money to buy new ones, so choose wisely.”

He pushed some of my suits to the side and let out an “ooohh.”

I rolled my eyes. I knew which ones he’d found. “I’m not wearing those.”

He pulled out the red stilettos with the strap around the ankle. “Yes you are.”

“I’ll look like a prostitute!” I reached past him and grabbed a more dignified pair of black patent pumps.

He slapped my hand, and I dropped the black shoes at his feet.

“These are perfect, Caroline. Trust me.”

“I can’t go to a firm party wearing red hooker heels.” I put my hand on my hip and shook my head.

“You still have that red necklace I got you last Christmas? With the matching earrings?”

“Yes. I just don’t wear them much because they’re too fancy for work.”

“You’re finally right about fashion. Correct answer. They’re perfect with this outfit, though. So get them.” He pulled my black wool coat from its hanger and shooed me out of the closet.

I retrieved the jewelry, and he fastened the necklace—silver accented by red gemstones, with a longer strand down the front that ended between my breasts. The earrings were matching teardrops.

I strapped the shoes on my feet, grumbling the entire time as Terrell tapped his oxford on the wood floor. “Come on. Fashionably late is turning into dick late.”

I stood and managed to walk without a wobble. The straps at the ankle gave a surprising amount of stability. Though I was curvy, the dress hit me in all the right spots. Terrell was right. The shoes really made the whole ensemble.

“My ugly duckling is finally a beautiful swan.” He helped me into my coat.

“I’ve never been an ugly duckling.” The coat at least gave me some semblance of modesty. Terrell might have to force me at gunpoint to take it off.

He kissed my forehead. “I know. It’s called hyperbole. Read a book sometime, Caroline. Now let’s go.”

I spent the ride over fidgeting with my coat and trying to figure out what Mr. Granade might think about my dress. It was hard to concentrate with Terrell talking to his latest boytoy on the Bluetooth. TMI didn’t even begin to cover the sexual-tension-laden conversation between the two. I kept shooting daggers at Terrell with my eyes, but he just put his finger to his lips to silence me and smiled.
Fucker
.

By the time we reached Mr. Palmer’s house, Terrell already had a date right after the party was over. I envied his ability to snare lovers. I had never been so lucky. I’d had boyfriends here and there but nothing serious, especially not once I got to law school and only had time to study, work, and sleep.

Cars were lined up along the street, several with European insignias and outrageously smooth lines. Money was everywhere in the legal community, just not in my pocket yet. I intended to change that. Staying at Palmer & Granade, and hopefully one day making partner, would be the key to rising in the ranks. Would I be able to afford a Ferrari? Probably not, but I’d be a player all the same.

Terrell dropped me off in front of the Palmer home—a three-story Victorian in one of the poshest neighborhoods in New Orleans. It was done in the painted ladies style, colorful and overly embellished with ornate woodwork. The windows glowed warmly, and the sounds of the party drifted on the air as I stood at the end of the driveway and waited.

“Ms. Montreat?”

I whirled at the sound. Mr. Granade had walked up behind me as I watched Terrell’s taillights disappear down the block.

“Hi.” My cheeks warmed. He always got that reaction out of me. It was as if I were a teenager again and had seen my crush in the hallway. I shoved my hands in my pocket and looked up into his eyes, dark in the night. He wore a deep emerald dress shirt with an open collar, a dark brown blazer, and jeans. Casual yet somehow also refined. His clean scent washed over me, vying with the night-blooming jasmine in Mr. Palmer’s yard.

My heart relocated to my ears, the beat a steady thump as I let my gaze wander down to his lips, his open collar, the broadness of his chest.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Oh, um, yes. Terrell is parking the car.” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis and then dropped it when I realized I looked like an idiot.

A cool wind whipped by and up my skirt. I shifted on my heels, trying to close my legs against the chill. My thong didn’t grant me much of a reprieve.

His eyes narrowed before he looked away toward the house. Then he sighed and took my elbow as if it were his duty. “Come on. Let’s go in. You’ll freeze out here.”

“Well, don’t do me any favors. Terrell will be here in a minute.” I pulled my elbow from his grip right as another breeze blew by, even stronger than the first. My lady bits protested, but I wasn’t going in with him when he was acting so . . . so much like his hardass self.

“Fine.” He took two steps away from me, then stopped. His shoulders rose and fell, and I’d swear I heard him sigh. He turned back around. “No, not fine.”

“Excuse me?” I tilted my chin up and met his eyes. There was no looking away this time.

He ran a hand through his hair, the perfectly smooth locks now mussed just like I liked them. “I’m sorry. It’s not a favor. I’d like to escort you in if you’ll let me.”

I considered his outstretched hand and peeked over my shoulder for Terrell. No dice.

“I guess so.” I walked past him, not taking his hand, and he fell into step beside me.

“Your hair looks different.”

Was this small talk?
“You don’t like it?”

“No. I mean, yes.” He put his hand to my lower back as we climbed the steps to the front porch. “I mean, yes, I do like it.”

The voices grew louder as we approached the wide front door.

“Thanks.” I glanced up at him, the light from the transom window painting him golden.

He spread his fingers along the small of my back, pressing through the thick wool coat and the thin fabric of my dress.

“It’s beautiful, is what I meant to say.” His voice seemed an octave lower.

My skin tingled under his hand despite the layers between us. I leaned toward him, my heels giving me more height than usual. His hand moved around to my side and pulled me close enough that his scent became a heady delight.

His gaze darted to my lips and stayed there. We were close and moved closer still, his warm breath tickling my cheek, my lips. My heart hammered as if I were running a footrace.

The door opened and the moment was broken. We stepped away from each other. Mr. Palmer was speaking to someone in the house and turned his head only after Mr. Granade and I had separated. He smiled warmly and ushered us inside.

“Ms. Montreat, welcome to my home. Wash, come on in.”

The house was even more beautiful inside than out. The floors were a dark, polished wood, and the walls were covered with a variety of art. Chandeliers and sconces bathed everything in warm light, and several people milled around in the foyer, the adjacent living room, and deeper in the house.

“Let me take your coat.” Mr. Palmer held out his hands.

I hesitated, but another glance around the crowd showed several women wearing cocktail dresses, some of which were far more risqué than mine.

“Thank you.” I undid the oversized buttons up the front and shed the coat, handing it to Mr. Palmer.

“Wash, you want me to get yours?”

“No. I’m good.” His voice was anything but “good.” It was tight, strained. I glanced at him, but he was looking through the crowd. “Beer in the kitchen?”

“Anything you want. Got a bar set up in there.”

“Great.” Without so much as a “see ya,” Mr. Granade prowled through the crowd and disappeared.

Wait, did he just run away from me?

The door opened at my back, the cold air sending chills over my exposed skin.

“Terrell, welcome.” Mr. Palmer handed my coat to an attendant and shook Terrell’s hand.

“Thanks for having me.” Terrell smiled warmly.

“Glad you’re here. Now you two get to mingling, and don’t forget to say hello to Judge Lane.” Mr. Palmer winked at us. Was he drunk?

“Yes, sir.” Terrell guided me through the crowd in the same direction Mr. Granade had gone.

I smiled at everyone we passed, trying to give the appearance of confidence while fearing I looked more like the Joker than anything else.

“You’re doing fine. Relax,” Terrell whispered in my ear. He knew several of the people milling around, so we stopped periodically to shake hands and say hello until we finally made it to the kitchen. It was modern to a fault—everything stone and stainless steel. Toward the back, in what looked to be a sunroom, an attendant poured drinks and handed out beers.

“Jackpot.” Terrell beelined for the booze.

I wasn’t opposed. After the awkward moment with Mr. Granade, and how he fled from me afterward, I was in the mood for a little white, a little red, and a lot of alcohol amnesia. I didn’t see him, which only made my alcohol mission more pressing. Had he left the house entirely just to escape me?

I craned my head back to Terrell and whispered, “You sure I look okay?”

“Have I ever steered you wrong?”

Good point. “No.”

“Okay, then. Shut up and go with it.” Terrell moved forward and got two glasses of white. We clinked glasses and downed them just like always. Then he got us more. We had a system. It worked. Who was I to question it?

I wanted to tell him what had happened with Mr. Granade on the front porch, but that was impossible. I hadn’t even told him about the office romp, so it was already a given that he would be pissed I withheld that tidbit. I had to stay the course and keep it secret. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on between Mr. Granade and me, anyway.

“Come on. I need to show you off in that dress. Make your money, ho.”

Terrell pulled me into his side, and we walked to the nearest group of people chatting. Terrell’s easy charisma had us at the center of attention in short order. We had perfected our comedy act over the years—he would play it straight and I would provide the witty, sarcastic commentary for the punch line. We worked the room, getting names and rubbing elbows with some of the biggest players in New Orleans legal circles.

Still, I kept glancing into the crowd, looking for Mr. Granade. I would know him anywhere, his height and—who was I kidding—his voice, his hair, his scent, his everything. I finished my third glass, and Terrell wasted no time in getting refills for both of us. Whatever the server was pouring was far better than the swill I could afford on my budget. After the next glass, I stopped keeping count.

We continued making our way through judges and lawyers, telling jokes and charming as we went. The booze made our jokes a bit more off color, but they were still well received. We finally arrived in the front parlor, where Judge Lane was holding court. His cheeks were even pinker than mine, alcohol slurring his words as he smiled and laughed a little too loudly.

“Ready for the money shot?” Terrell led me through the crowded room.

“Always.” I gripped his hand and followed, the bodies closer in this room than the others. Bits of conversation drifted in and out of my hearing, and things were more than a little fuzzy.

We arrived in the circle surrounding Judge Lane, and Terrell pushed me forward before situating himself behind me, one hand on my hip.

Judge Lane was early sixties, silver-haired, and from an old-money family in New Orleans. He’d been on the bench for twenty years and would, no doubt, be there until he decided to retire. He was regaling the room with tales of his hunting exploits, mainly trips to Africa or other locales to shoot protected animals.

I nodded along and smiled at all the right times. He took another swig from his monogrammed flask and swung his gaze to me.

“What have we here?”

Mr. Palmer detached himself from his conversation at Judge Lane’s back. “This is Caroline Montreat and Terrell Lynch, associates of mine.”