Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt #3)
Whitney Gracia Williams
Denial (n.):
A statement in the defendant’s answer to a complaint in a lawsuit that an allegation (claim of fact) is not true.
A few days later…
Andrew
I was officially out of my damn mind.
I was in my bathtub, and Aubrey was sitting on top of me—panting as she came down from another orgasm.
She was spending the night at my condo for the third time this week, and it was pointless to even pretend like I minded.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but she’d definitely gotten to me. She was infiltrating my every thought, and no matter what I did to try and come back to my senses—to remind myself that this could only be temporary, she slipped deeper into my life.
“Why are you so quiet tonight?” she asked.
“I’m not allowed to think?”
“Not when a naked woman is in your lap.”
“I was giving her a chance to relax.” I slid my hands underneath her thighs. “What unnecessary bullshit do you want to talk about today?”
“It’s not unnecessary,” she said. “It’s about your family.”
“What about my family?”
“Are they still in New York?”
I prevented myself from clenching my jaw. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” She raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean you don’t know? Are you estranged from them?”
“No…” I sighed. “I just don’t have any parents.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Then why do I remember you telling me a story about your mom the first month that we met?”
“What story?”
“The story about Central Park and ice cream.” She looked into my eyes, as if she were expecting me to say something. “You said she took you to some children’s fair, I think? It was something that happened every Saturday. But the one you remembered most happened when it was raining and she still took you, and you stood in line for an hour just to get a scoop of vanilla.”
I blinked.
“Is that story not right? Am I mixing it up with something else?”
“No,” I said. “That’s right…But I haven’t seen her since.”
“Oh…” She looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I trailed a finger across her lips. “I turned out just fine.”
“Can I ask you a few more things?”
“You have a daily question quota starting today.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do all the “E” and “H” pictures in your hallway stand for?”
I felt a sudden ache in my chest. “Nothing.”
“If you hate New York so much and you don’t like talking about your past or what you lost six years ago, why do you have so many mementos hanging on your walls?”
“Aubrey…”
“Okay, forget that question. And the Latin quote across your heart? What does it mean?”
“Lie about one thing, lie about it all.” I kissed her lips before she could ask me anything else. I was starting to wonder why she hadn’t wanted to be a damn journalist instead of a ballerina.
“It’s your turn,” she said softly. “You can ask me questions now.”
“I’d rather f**k you again.” I lifted her with me as I stood up and helped her out of the bath tub.
We both dried off and went into my bedroom. Just as I was pulling her against me, my doorbell rang.
I sighed. “Dinner’s early.” I slipped into a pair of lounge pants and a T-shirt and headed to the door with my credit card.
The second I opened it, I was confronted with the sight of the last person on earth I wanted to see. Ava.
“Don’t you dare f**king slam it on me this time,” she hissed. “We need to talk.”
“We don’t need to talk about shit.” I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. “How many times do I have to tell you that you’re not wanted here?’
“As many times as it’ll take you to actually believe it, which you don’t.” She scoffed. “Ask me why I came to Durham to see you, Mr. Hamilton. Appease me and I’ll finally go the hell away.”
“You’re going the hell away regardless,” I said flatly. “I really don’t give a f**k why you came here.”
“Not even if it’s to sign the divorce papers?”
“You could’ve sent that shit in the mail.” I gritted my teeth. “And since I’m sure you’re running out of loopholes for contesting it, I’m willing to wait until all your options run out. I’m sure your lawyers will drop you as soon as they find out what type of client you are.”
“All I’m asking for is ten thousand a month.”
“Go ask the man who was f**king you in our bedroom while I was at work.” I glared at her, livid. “Or better yet, ask the judge you only “fucked for a favor,” or hey, if you’re up to it, f**k my former best friend. Sleeping with him always seemed to make you feel better, right?”
“You weren’t Mr. Perfect either.”
“I never f**king cheated on you, and I never lied to you.”
Silence.
“Five thousand a month,” she said.