Friction by Sawyer Bennett
"Excuse me?" I ask. I think I know what she means, but I need to make sure.
"The extra weight and movement of the double Ds, not to mention the back pain, made pole dancing difficult, so much so that I had to cut it out of my routine. Men tip better when you dance on the pole, so it seemed the smart decision to make."
I nod in understanding. "Just so I'm clear then . . . is it safe to say you had the breast reduction done so you could increase the money you would make by being able to strip on the pole again?"
"Yes," Jenna says quietly, her face flaming red.
I dare a glance at Leary, and she is livid over these questions, but she also knows they're legitimate. She can't stop me from asking them, and I can't worry that it's pissing her off. I hope to God she remembers her own words--that we don't let our sexual relationship affect this case and vice versa. She might be pissed at me after this is over, but her ass is still coming home with me this afternoon, and I'm not letting her out of bed until the morning.
I flip through my notes, ask a few more questions dealing with Jenna's job. I don't ask about the prostitution allegations I found through the criminal background check of the club's owner, because I haven't been able to verify that Jenna was involved. I have an investigator interviewing past employees, so maybe something will turn up I can use. Until then, I stay away from that, because I know in a million years, Jenna would never admit it.
After Jenna walks me through how she was paid, I prod her a bit on whether or not she paid taxes on her income. Leary jumps in with a well-placed Fifth Amendment objection and instructs her client not to answer. This is a bone that I can pick if I want--the law isn't clear, and it's possible we could get a judge on the phone to let us argue whether or not she has to answer.
But I let it go.
I don't have the inclination to extend this deposition longer than necessary because I'm impatient to get Leary back to my house. I mentally wince over that thought, because contrary to what we agreed upon, I just let our sexual relationship interfere with this case.
Oh, well. The information isn't crucial and I can get it by other means.
I set my pen down and smile at Jenna. "That's all the questions I have. Thank you for your time today, Jenna."
Jenna smiles at me and the court reporter lowers her mask.
"I actually have a few questions," Leary says.
The court reporter raises her mask again as I blink at Leary in surprise. Although she's certainly allowed to ask questions, it's normally not done. My goal during this deposition is to gather as much information as I can while Leary hopes I don't find everything, hopes I stay in the dark. Thus, her asking questions only increases the risk that more information will be revealed that might lead me to learn something dangerous to her case.
I pick my pen up and flip to a blank page on my legal pad and push back from the table a bit. After crossing one leg over the other, I lay my pad on my lap so no one can see what I'm doing. I write the words Leary Cross-Exam across the top and underline them twice. Then I doodle a little picture of a cock with two balls and an open mouth beside it. Clearly, I'd rather be thinking about that blow job than sitting here in this deposition.
"Jenna," Leary says gently, "Mr. Holloway asked you several questions about the reason you had this surgery."
Jenna nods in agreement.
"You admitted that you would make more money stripping if you had the surgery done."
"Yes," Jenna says quietly.
"Why is making more money important to you?" Leary asks in a soothing tone.
"Because my son is severely autistic," Jenna says sadly, and my head jerks up from my doodling. "He has state-assisted insurance, but it doesn't pay for much of his therapy, plus I need qualified sitters to watch him when I'm working. I have to pay for that out of my own pocket."
"Are you married?" Leary asks, and it's with shame that I realize I have no clue whether or not Jenna is married. It didn't seem important to me.
"No."
"Does your son's father help to contribute to the child?" Leary pushes.
"No."
"So you are the sole means of support for your family?"
"Yes."
"What's your education level?" Leary gently pries.
"I graduated high school."
"Do you have any other job skills?"
"No."
"Have you tried to apply to other jobs?"
"Yes. Many times. It's hard to get hired with no work experience, but even if I did I doubt I could leave stripping. The money is too good. It's really the only way I can pay for Damien's treatment and other expenses."
I swallow hard, for the first time understanding how devastating it was for this woman to lose her job.
And that was directly related to the results of the surgery my client performed.
I shoot Leary a glance, hoping to convey to her that I understand what she's doing. That I don't need her to go any further, but she refuses to look at me.
"Why did you lose your job at Pure Fantasy?" Leary asks Jenna, this time not so gently and with a little anger in her voice.
"My breasts were too deformed to dance," Jenna says as her voice breaks.
I stare at Jenna, unable to look away from this woman to whom life has not been kind. I have a job to do. It's my job to prove that she wasn't injured due to my client's negligence. It's a tough pill to swallow sometimes, but it doesn't mean I can't commiserate.
I do.
Truly.
"Stand up," Leary says, laying her hand gently on Jenna's back.
Jenna stands up from the table, and I sit up a little straighter, not sure what Leary's getting ready to do. Tom is sitting next to me, slouched down in his seat, and in my peripheral vision, I can see he is surfing on his iPhone. He's not moved in the slightest by Jenna's tale.
"Take off your shirt," Leary orders her softly, and Tom actually jerks to attention, his face now rising toward Jenna.
I don't know if Jenna knew this was coming so she could prepare for it, but she doesn't hesitate, swiftly unbuttoning the navy-blue blouse she paired with a matching skirt.
"Leary . . . that's not necessary," I say softly, and I see Jenna's hands still against the buttons.
"Oh, I think it is," she snaps at me and then points to Tom, who goes deathly still now that Leary is focusing on him. "Mr. Collier hasn't paid a damn bit of attention during this deposition, as he's clearly more interested in playing Angry Birds."
"We need to go off the record," I say to the court reporter.
"Don't you dare put that mask down," Leary growls at the court reporter, who slaps it back to her face in fear.
Turning back to Jenna, Leary pats her on the arm. "It's okay. Take your shirt off and show them what Dr. Summerland did to you."
"I'll lodge an objection for the record. It's not been proven that Dr. Summerland committed negligence," I say quickly.
Leary glares at me, and I'm seeing my chances of getting laid tonight dwindling.
Jenna finishes unbuttoning her shirt, and Leary helps her to slide it from her shoulders.
"Your bra, too, Jenna," she says.
Jenna reaches to a clasp in the front and releases it, pulling the cups back wide. I don't look at her breasts at first, instead keeping my eyes on Jenna's face. I wait for her to raise her head, then she pins me with a direct stare, lifting her chin up in defiance.
Finally, I lower my gaze, and I've never struggled with anything more in my life than I do to not let a look of disgust cross my features.
Jenna's chest is truly mangled.
I've seen photos of the results, but they don't do justice to the damage done. I let my eyes rove over the C-cup globes, still beautiful in their shape and roundness. But that beauty is completely marred by the left nipple, which is pulled grotesquely to the side by contracted scar tissue around her areola. There's a large dimpled crater on her right breast, just below and to the right of her areola, two more smaller craters to the left, and wo
It's hideous, and my stomach churns for this poor woman, although I'm not admitting this has anything to do with negligence at this point, as Dr. Summerland and our expert witnesses agree he did nothing wrong in the surgery, and that this is just a normal risk of the procedure that can happen with scar tissue.
"Oh no, you don't," I hear Leary hiss, and my eyes leave Jenna's mangled breasts. Leary is glaring at Tom. "Don't you dare avert your eyes. You had the balls to deny this claim, landing us in this very room. You can at least have the balls to look upon this woman, who's putting all of her pride aside to show you the horror of her life."
"Leary," I warn, knowing she's crossed over a line now that's not going to be acceptable to any judge. The last thing she needs is for Tom to report her behavior, which has gone from crusading to downright unprofessionally obnoxious.
She doesn't even look at me but continues to pin Tom with her stare, daring him to look at Jenna's breasts.
He refuses.
"I'm done here," Tom mutters, pushing up from his chair. "I'll call you tomorrow, Reeve, and we can discuss filing a motion for sanctions."
I let out a sigh of frustration and run my hand through my hair as Tom storms from the room. Gravity seems to pull me down into a dejected slouch in my chair.
"You can get dressed, honey," Leary says gently, and I don't raise my face, allowing Jenna the privacy to put her clothes back on. The court reporter quickly packs up her equipment and leaves, promising to have the transcript ready in two weeks and sliding the bill for her services across the table to me. I take it, jam it into my briefcase, and then watch as Leary walks Jenna to the conference room door.
"You did great, Jenna," Leary says softly, and then much to my surprise, she pulls Jenna into a hard hug. Leary holds on to her for a while, and I see Jenna's fingers clutching Leary's suit jacket almost in a desperate fashion. When they part, Leary squeezes Jenna's shoulders and murmurs, "I'll call you tomorrow. Get some sleep and kiss Damien for me."
My eyebrows rise over this display of care and affection Leary has toward her client and her child. It's not natural, not in the normal course of business, but then again, Ford told me that the personal nature of this case to Leary goes far deeper than I could ever imagine.
When Jenna clears the door, Leary closes it and, with a tired sigh, makes her way back to the other side of the table to collect her belongings.
"What the hell has gotten into you?" I ask, not in a threatening manner, but genuinely confused by her bizarre behavior.
She shrugs as she starts laying documents on top of one another into one pile. "No idea what you mean."
"Come on, Leary," I say as I stand up and grab my briefcase. "You don't have clients strip in depositions. There was no purpose, and it was nothing more than a stunt. It wasn't even on video for the jury to see. You did it to embarrass Tom, and I want to know why."
"You know why," she snaps at me, eyes blazing. "He's a prick. He denied the claim and then couldn't even be bothered to look Jenna in the eye when she was answering your questions."
"You went too far," I admonish, not to make her feel bad, but to make sure she doesn't do something like that again. "I'm going to have to talk Tom down off the ledge, but I think I can get him to let go of this stupid idea of sanctions."
"I don't need you defending me," Leary says quietly, and I'm taken aback by the soft conviction in her voice. "I handle my own battles, and I pulled that little 'stunt,' as you called it, knowing damn good and well I could be sanctioned. I did it not caring if I get sanctioned. It was worth it to me to see that look on Tom's face when I called him on the carpet about it."
"What did you think about the look on my face?" I ask quietly.
Leary's gaze lowers down to the table. She straightens the papers as she says, "You were empathetic to Jenna. It was subtle, but you were horrified by what you saw."
"That I was," I say tiredly, still sick at heart for what this woman endured and now perturbed that I'm worried about Leary getting sanctioned for her behavior. "Let's get your things packed up and head out."
"You still want me to come to your house?" Leary asks in surprise as her head snaps up.
"Well, yeah . . . I thought we discussed this."
"But that was before I just pissed you off with my stunt," she points out.
"You pissed me off earlier playing footsie with my cock, and that didn't stop me from fucking your mouth, did it?"
Her lips turn upward and her eyes shine with amusement. "I suppose not."
"Then rest assured, your little stunt isn't going to stop me from fucking your pussy with my tongue and then my dick when we get to my place."
I take immense pleasure in seeing Leary suppress a physical shudder that ripples through her body as her eyes grow hot.
"Then what are we waiting for?" she asks impishly.
I motion with my hand for her to precede me to the door. Just as she reaches it, I ask her something that is frankly driving me nuts. "What's your relationship with Jenna?"
Leary doesn't even stop to look at me. She pulls the door open. "She's my client."
"She's more than that," I assert as I follow her out.
"Yes, she is," Leary says softly.
"Are you going to tell me?" I ask again.
"No, Reeve. I'm not," she says with a firm tone that effectively shuts me down. And because we agreed that this is just physical, no-strings sex without the complications of commitment and all the other fuzzy things that might go with actually dating someone, I let it drop.
CHAPTER 9
LEARY
"Um . . . I need to warn you about Mr. Chico Taco before we go in," Reeve says as we walk up the sidewalk to his front door. We'd taken separate cars--at my insistence--so I won't be stranded if I want to leave. I've seen enough of Reeve's domineering ways to know that if he doesn't want me to leave, he'll just refuse to take me home.
"Mr. Chico Taco?"
"My dog," he says as he searches for his key ring to unlock the door. "He's a little, um . . . exuberant."
As Reeve slides the key home, I start to ask what type of dog, but the big, booming bark that comes from the other side of the door stops me in my tracks. I'm pretty sure it's not a dog, but a T. rex on the other side.
Looking over his shoulder at me with his eyes shining bright, he says, "He's really nice, but he gets excited when I come home."
And then a strange and slightly unwelcome thought comes into my head. If I was with Reeve, in a relationship, I would probably be just as excited for him to come home to me. I'm pretty sure he could make me bark like a dog.
Reeve pushes the door open but we can't move inside because a huge, massive beast with shiny gray fur and a head the size of a basketball jumps up on him. Laughing, Reeve actually hugs the dog as he puts his gigantic paws the size of salad plates on his shoulders and starts whining in pleasure to see his master. His head hangs over Reeve's shoulder, and light-blue eyes stare at me with a happy grin on his face that causes his tongue to loll out of his head.
"All right, buddy," Reeve says and, with a big heave, pushes the dog off him. With a gentle but firm command, Reeve says, "Sit."
The dog, which I recognize as a Great Dane, flops his butt to the floor, his eyes pinned to Reeve in adoration. "Come say hello to Mr. Chico Taco."
I step forward hesitantly. "Do I have to address him by his formal name?"
"Nah," Reeve says with a laugh. "Chico is fine."
"He should be called Brutus," I mutter as Mr. Chico Taco cocks his head at me in curiosity. "He looks more like a Brutus."
"Now that's just mean. He takes offense to that," Reeve chides.
I reach my hand out and bring it to the big dog's head. "Hi, Chico. I'm Leary."
I scratch him a few times, but when I try to withdraw my hand, his head bumps against it
"Now that I take offense to," Reeve says over his shoulder as he walks into his living room, pulls off his suit jacket, and tosses it onto the back of a dark-blue suede couch. He pulls at his tie and loosens it enough so he can pull it over his head.
Throwing the tie on top of his suit jacket, Reeve turns to wink at me. "I might tie you up with that later."
God, I hope so.
Reeve continues to walk through the living room, so I follow him. Mr. Chico Taco walks at my side, continuing to bump my hand with his head for attention. Turning left, Reeve is momentarily gone from sight, but when I round the corner, I find him in his kitchen, rooting around in the refrigerator.
His kitchen is gorgeous, all stainless steel and granite with dark-cherry cabinetry. "What are you doing?" I ask uncertainly, because the way things went back at the office, I was pretty certain that Reeve brought me to his house so we could have sex.
"Going to make us an early dinner. I'm thinking lemon pasta with blackened chicken."
"You're going to cook?"
Reeve stands up, pulling a pack of chicken and three lemons from his fridge. He gives me a knowing look with a touch of sympathy. "Yes, I'm going to cook."
"I don't understand," I say as I cock my eyebrow at him, and Chico nudges me again. I absently pet the dog's head.
"I'm going to cook," he says again with an annoying smirk.
"You're going to cook?"
Throwing the chicken and lemons on the counter, Reeve walks up to me. His hands rest lightly on my waist. Bending down so his nose almost touches mine, he says, "This conversation is a little redundant, so let me clarify for you. I'm going to cook us an early dinner. I'm loading us up on protein and carbs, because after said meal, I intend to take you back to my bedroom, and then I'm not letting you out of said bedroom until morning. With me so far?"
I can't help the tiny smile that pops forth, and I give him an understanding nod.
"Good," he continues. "When we get into that bedroom, there's going to be very little rest. I'm a fast recharger, so there's no telling how many times I'm going to fuck you tonight. Plus, I have toys. Lots of toys that I want to play with. Thus, we need fuel before we fuck. Clear?"
"Clear," I whisper, now so completely turned on that I want to beg him to take me right here in the kitchen.