Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I bolted for the kitchen, Parker followed, we started arguing. You have to understand, between the catering staff and guests wandering in and out, it was chaos. So we’re arguing, and I…I may have pushed two chaffing dishes onto the wood floor and, umm, you know those little thingees under––”
“May, or did?” he interrupts, eyebrow lifting into an arrogant arch.
“Did.” His silence urges me to continue. “It was the party sludge! How was I supposed to know someone had spilled a bottle of booze on the floor?!”
The floor looked flambéed. It was kind of funny. Until it wasn’t. Until the flames reached the drapes and the fire got out of hand.
“Nobody could find the fire extinguisher. Seconds later it reached the drapes. The rest you know.”
Another full minute of silence ticks by. In the meantime I can feel his judgment all over me. Far worse than being considered dangerous, I’m being tried and convicted an idiot. In his eyes, I will forever be a screw up of the highest order, a bunny boiler, the crazy chick that almost burned down her ex’s parents’ house. And I couldn’t even get that right. Put a bullet in me and call it a mercy killing.
“Who the hell hangs drapes in the kitchen?!!” I screech in my defense. All things considered, it’s a miracle I haven’t started bawling my eyes out yet.
A long, tortured sigh escapes my supposed lawyer. “Okay, this is the deal. You’re being charged with arson in the fifth degree. Which is a Class A misdemeanor, the least serious. However, it still carries a possible jail sentence of a year if they can prove that the fire was intentionally set––”
Jail sentence? A year? This can’t really be happening. Never once did I think there would come a day that I would pray for someone to have slipped the date rape drug into my champagne, but that day has come. Right now, I’m praying and praying hard.
“What if I was rufied?”
His perfect brow wrinkles. “How much did you drink?”
“One glass of champagne.” I look up and, for the first time, find concern in his big brown eyes. “I wanted to keep my wits about me.”
“Did you pass out at any point?”
“Umm, no,” I reluctantly admit.
“We’ll proceed on the assumption that you weren’t. Do I need to explain that the Gregorys are pillars of this community? It’ll be your word against theirs––specifically Susan’s.”
“Susan never liked me. Parker was there. He knows it was an accident!”
“Regardless, it’s her property. Susan is running the show and it will be her word against yours.”
Chapter Three
Ten minutes later we’re being escorted down the hall to a small courtroom. I’m shaking. With each step we take, my body vibrates at a rate that could very well spin me off the planet. Vaughn’s steady presence beside me is the only thing preventing that from happening. Outside the courtroom, we sit on a bench and await our turn.
“Whatever happens in there, you are not to say a word.” Vaughn’s pointed gaze bores into mine. “Are we clear?”
I’m too tired to argue or defend myself. I’m too disillusioned with life. I nod and mean it as I briefly check him out. For the first time all night, I’m glad he’s here––even though I’d rather pull my nails off with a pair of needle-nose pliers than admit that to him. No one paints a better picture of respectability and competence than this guy. It’s got to lend some credibility to my cause…here’s hoping.
“Jones.”
My eyes snap up. “Hmm.”
His gaze travels over my upturned face. “You can count on me.”
Honesty and concern stare back at me. The concern surprises me. I’ve been around this guy a handful of times; we’re virtual strangers. And yet the concern is real. And not in a detached, ‘sorry your life sucks’ kind of way. No, it’s real in a way that looks personal, like he has something at stake as well.
“Can I?” I intone, most of me riddled with skepticism while a small part desperately wants to believe him. He has no idea what he’s asking. I don’t do counting on people. I never have. Except now I have no choice.
“Yes,” he unequivocally replies.
His quiet voice hits me in a soft spot I thought had grown callous. I can’t handle him being nice right now. I can take anything except nice. Squeezing my eyes closed, I fight back the wave of emotion that pushes up my throat.
“What about Cassandra?” My eyes blink open, and find him focused on me with a look of utter confusion.
“Who’s Cassandra?”
Minutes later we stand in a small courtroom. A tired, disheveled young prosecutor to our right. Before us, a judge that looks straight out of central casting. He’s about a century old, complete with bushy white eyebrows and a mustache. This is about right. This is my life in a nutshell.