Up until then, I hadn’t spent too much time looking into the defendant, EJ Trevaunt. I’d been trying to get background information on his ex-girlfriend, our client, Lara Farrows. There wasn’t much to find on her because she seemed to have a relatively humble life. She was born in Wisconsin, moved to Vegas to attend a university on scholarship, and dropped out of school a few months after meeting Mr. Trevaunt.
I spent the better part of the afternoon going over the medical records after the incident involving the two. Mr. Trevaunt claimed they broke up on May 12th and on May 15th, Ms. Farrows was admitted to the hospital with a fractured cheekbone, some lacerations, and bruising along her face and arms. Kerri was able to give me a copy of the medical report, but it didn’t have the photos included, making it harder to work from a written copy of what she looked like. It’s true what they say about a picture: it is worth a thousand words. I just wished I had the photo, so I could use my own words instead of those of the doctor’s.
My eyes felt dry after hours spent staring at my laptop screen. I pushed away from the desk, resting my elbows on the glass as I rubbed my fists into my strained eyes. I’d been looking through notes of past cases to use as guidance, yet still felt no closer than I was when I opened my laptop.
“Now looks like a good time for a break. I made lunch,” Joel said, standing within the doorframe of my office. I seemed to always find him hanging out in the doorways, his distance making me more uncomfortable than when he was standing right next to me. It felt like he was able to see more of me that way, but there was also something that drew me to him. Perhaps, it was the same thing that had me staring at him at the club, just like all the other onlookers. He had a certain magnetism that couldn’t be ignored.
I didn’t know how long I stayed looking at him like that, but it must have been minutes because he finally broke away from the door, each step slow and graceful with a calculated approach. I felt like I was being stalked as my eyes watched his feet move closer. By the time my eyes landed on his face, he was wearing that shit-eating grin of his. If I was speechless before, I was practically comatose now. His hand reached over the expanse of my desk, his palm facing up, willing me to place my hand in his. That hand promised to take me places, to do things that I’d only ever fantasized about.
That hand was dangerous.
He was still wearing a smile, but this one was endearing. My lips twitched at the corners just from looking at him. I didn’t take his hand though. I couldn’t. There was too much temptation in touching him. All of the thoughts of that morning came flooding back—seeing a half-naked Joel in nothing but his boxer-briefs, his hand casually brushing his chest as if to coax me into partaking of his flesh.
“Well?”
He questioned with his hand still outstretched, breaking me from my thoughts. I stumbled out of my chair and he simply watched, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners as he looked back at the hand I bypassed. Apparently, he was amused by my blatant refusal at touching him. I didn’t really want to give him the impression that I had a problem with touching him; in fact, I didn’t want him to think about us touching at all, but it was too late. I tried not to dwell too much on it as he led me back to the dining room where lunch was already set for us.
***
“Sit on the couch while I grab something.”
While I continued to the couch, he hung a left to the kitchen. I took a seat uncertain of his intentions when I heard cupboards opening and closing in rapid succession as if he was looking for something in particular.
“You know, you really do have a way of making me feel like a guest in my own home,” I yelled over the clapping sound of the cabinets being shut. The clanking of glasses was my only response before he returned to the living room.
“Call it a talent of mine. I have a few other ones but you’ve already seen some of those.”
“Hardy-har-har. Now, why am I sitting here? The electricity is still out, so watching a movie is obviously out.”
He was still laughing to himself when I noticed the bottle in his hand. I couldn’t remember buying the bottle of whiskey or drinking it for that matter, but the way the liquid sloshed around the half-empty bottle like a lava lamp led me to believe that I bought it at some point in the past six months or so.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a survivalist or something?”
“Pfft. Ha! Now, who has jokes? Me, a survivalist? Why? Because I know a few things about food preservation?”
“Well, don’t they kind of go hand in hand?”
“I wouldn’t know. I saw this bottle when we were going through your kitchen. Figured we could use a little escape.”
“Isn’t that just going to leave us dehydrated? And we’re rationing water right now, so that doesn’t seem like the best idea.”
“It’ll be fine. Besides, if we run out of water, we can always recycle our piss.” My face soured at the thought. I hoped he was joking because there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would be drinking urine. Let’s hope this storm passes in a matter of days, not weeks, otherwise I don’t know how long I can hold out against that promise. “If drinking your own urine doesn’t seem to do it for you, I don’t mind sharing mine.”
He nearly choked himself with laughter at the suggestion, clutching the glass in his hand, holding it over his stomach as he keeled over. His whole body shook until he fell into the couch like a child. There was something admirable about how carefree he seemed to be, like he didn’t take things too seriously. That wasn’t the first time I’d wondered about his life outside of my house, but it was the first time I felt compelled to ask him. I knew I shouldn’t though. Nothing good would come from getting to know him. It was just supposed to be a one-night stand, and even though it turned out not to be, I was trying to treat it with the same premise.
No sex. No details.
“Blaire, you’re too stiff. Trust me. We’ll be fine. If it makes you feel better, I’ll make it an option. How does that sound?”
He sat across from me, one arm sprawled across the back of my couch and his ankle resting atop his opposite knee. His body, if not those eyes, tempted me to indulge in whatever he had in mind, regardless of his suggestion. I knew whatever words lingered on the tip of his tongue were ready to strike like poison, crippling me to whatever he desired. So far it’d been a struggle trying to resist him, but with alcohol entering the mix, I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to hold up my defenses.
“How does what sound? You still haven’t told me what I’m agreeing to.”
His eyes searched the room, roving over everything from the furniture to the little trinkets in the media console. I didn’t know what he was looking for, but when his eyes landed on mine again, he seemed to be satisfied by what he’d found there. I tried not to think of myself as one of those objects.
“Let’s play I Spy—”
“Aren’t we a little too old for that?”
“I wasn’t done. I was going to suggest we spice it up. What do you say? The loser has to either take a shot or remove an article of clothing.”
I looked down at my bare feet, for the first time wishing I didn’t like the feel of cool tiles beneath my toes. Maybe then I would have had more articles of clothing to part with. My disappointment must have been evident because he said, “And what you have on is what you play with. No changing.”
Something about him saying that made me wonder what exactly was beneath those shorts. He had said he liked to feel free. I might have a leg up after all.
There were so many things wrong about this I didn’t even know where to start, but time seemed to pass so slowly, and I convinced myself it wouldn’t hurt to look. I wasn’t acting on anything.