She chuckles in a distinctly not-nice way. “Brent, Brent, Brent—I don’t make plea deals. Ever. It’s kind of what I’m known for. Oh, and I’ve never lost a case. I’m known for that too.”
I was wrong—this match isn’t anywhere near over. It’s just getting started.
“Justin Longhorn is seventeen years old,” I argue.
“Exactly,” she practically spits. “More than old enough to have known better.”
“It’s his first offense.”
“And he made a hell of a debut. I’m going for the maximum. Your boy is looking at twenty years.”
When we were young, Kennedy was intelligent, funny as hell, socially oblivious—but she was never spiteful. But looking at her now, there’s a ferociousness about her that’s new. Like a sharp-toothed Chihuahua that’s been stepped on one too many times.
Part of me finds this scorchingly hot. She’s not a girl anymore—she’s a fierce, strong, fully self-possessed woman. The kind whose hair I’d love to fist tight and pull while she’s deep-throating my cock. The kind who would moan for more while I pounded into her rough and hard against a wall.
But another part of me mourns that sweetness. The brave, innocent, beautifully wild creature who sat on a bike’s handlebars and trusted me to keep her safe while I was at the pedals. The one who took my hand and told me to dance with her wearing my unpracticed fake leg, because she thought she was strong enough to catch me if I stumbled.
Then there’s the professional in me who’s just straight-up pissed off—because she’s gonna be a pain in the ass about a case that should be an easy close.
I step in closer. “What the hell, Kennedy? The money’s been returned. It was a mistake. He’s a child.”
She raises her chin and looks at me, all fire and fight. “He’s a criminal. And a bully. He screwed with the life savings of a dozen innocent people. He messed with their heads and sense of security, just because he could. He willfully and knowingly stole thousands of dollars—returned or not—and I’m going to make sure he pays for it.”
“Wow. Hello, Inspector Javert.”
Kennedy shakes her head and chuckles. “You were always clever, Brent. So adorable. I hope for your client’s sake you’re packing more than cuteness these days.”
I bend my head, leaning down, just inches away from her shiny lips. “I haven’t had any complaints about what I’m packing so far.”
She stares at my mouth for one beat too long.
Then she blinks, shaking off her stare. “Good. Then I’ll see you in court, Counselor.”
“Bet your sweet ass you will.”
Kennedy brushes past me and struts away—leaving me no choice but to watch her go.
? ? ?
We don’t talk again after that. But I discreetly keep tabs on Kennedy the rest of the afternoon—where she’s standing, who she chats with. Tension prickles my skin if she’s out of my field of vision for too long, but when I find her again, relief detonates in my chest. For a long time—years—I wondered what she was doing, where she was, wanted so fucking badly to see her—the way an alcoholic craves just one more taste.
It wasn’t easy, but eventually I went cold turkey, gave up on her completely—because wondering and wanting are lost causes. So, as good as it is to be able to watch her now, I’m not thrilled to fall off the wagon just yet.
“I don’t want to go, Mommy!” Jonathon cries, yanking at his mother’s hand, trying to dig his heels into the grass.
Because Katherine just told her kids it’s getting late—time to head home.
Annie adds her own plaintive wail. “I wants da fireworks.”
I step up beside my cousin as her children join forces against her.
“We’re gonna miss the fireworks, Mommy!” Jonathon yells.
“Settle down, little man.” I tell him. “There aren’t any fireworks tonight. We only have them on New Year’s Eve.”
Every year, my parents go all out throwing a huge, formal New Year’s Eve party—they have since before I was born. There’s tuxedos and gowns, dancing, fountains of champagne . . . and fireworks at midnight that light up the sky and bathe the Potomac River in bright, sparkling color. Young kids in the family, like Jonathon and Annie, aren’t allowed to stay at the party all night. They’re sent to bed in one of the dozens of upstairs rooms before midnight. But Jonathon and Annie obviously know about the fireworks. They probably slip out of bed and watch the show through the window. That’s what I did every year, when I was their age.
Only—I didn’t watch from the window. And I didn’t watch alone.
“I’ll go first,” I tell Kennedy at the base of the ladder. “So I can open the hatch.”
Even though we’re both nine, she’s a lot smaller than I am. This is the first time we’ve gone up to the roof—and I’m the boy, so I should definitely go first. There could be rabid birds up there, or bats.