Jensen:: A Military Bad Boy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 1) (2 page)

Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. There are a handful of men speaking in hushed tones to each other, or sitting quietly by themselves.

“These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim explains, as he sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.

One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.

His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off of a
Día de los Muertos
/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.

The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.

What in the world was that
? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity curses through my veins.
I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type
.

I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos.
And I’m engaged
, I remind myself, as an after- thought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at his brown hair, brown eyes, and constantly flexed muscles.

“It’s amazing how many military personnel are arrested while serving or shortly thereafter,” Tim is explaining, handing me a thick binder full of information.

Veterans’ Legal Alliance, Inc.
, it reads on the front cover, and then:
How to represent a service member or veteran charged with a crime in state criminal court
.

“I’m not really knowledgeable about…” I begin, but Tim holds up his hand and smiles kindly at me.

“We know you don’t have criminal law experience,” he says, easing my fears. “But since you routinely handle complex commercial litigation and white collar crime- type fraud suits between business partners and the like, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly. These kinds of cases are more difficult in some ways but the basic procedures will be a cakewalk for you. And we are here to train you and provide you with all the support and resources you need.”

“‘We’ being…?” I ask, looking around the room and noting the lack of any other lawyers.

I suddenly feel a presence immediately behind my right shoulder and jump, realizing that Mr. Not My Type is standing directly behind me. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. I feel goosebumps spring up all over my body, and it’s not because I’m afraid, or cold.

“Myself, as director of the organization,” Tim continues, “and all other staff and attorneys. I must admit we run a slim ship, just due to the lack of willing personnel, but those that do help are incredibly passionate and talented at what they do.”

“I see,” I say, trying not to blush and hoping that Mr. Not My Type can’t tell what an inexplicitly powerful effect his presence has on me.

He clears his throat and says, “Mr. McDonald?” in a polite yet bold tone of voice.

I can literally feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck, as if he had whispered his question right there in public, in one of my most intimate spots.

“Yes, Jensen?” Tim responds, with a smile. “Call me Tim. And this is Riley Morrell. She might be volunteering temporarily with our organization. Riley, this is Jensen Bradford.”

“Hello,
Riley
,” says Jensen, extending a well-built forearm in my direction. There’s something about the way he says my name that sounds so foreign and new, as if I’ve never been called it before in my life. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, reaching out to meet his grasp.

He shakes my hand like a lumberjack and I wonder how tall he is. Definitely quite tall. But his eyes remain focused on Tim’s.

“Mr. McDonald,” he continues, dropping my hand and leaving it to feel suddenly completely empty. “I’m wondering if Dylan is here? He said he’d talk to me about my arraignment hearing before it starts, and that’s relatively soon.”

“I believe he was held over in court,” Tim answers. “He has a busy docket today. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

“All right, thank you sir,” Jensen says. “I’m glad to hear it because I’d really like to talk to him.”

He returns to the table on the far side of the room without so much as glancing back at me, and I feel slighted, even though I have no idea why I want this prisoner to talk to me, as eloquent and polite of a prisoner as he may be.

Sure, he’s tall, athletic, muscular, and gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should have an instant crush on him, I remind myself.

I’m engaged, even if that fact is easy to forget these days. After protesting against my choice of
pro bono
work, Brian didn’t even bat an eye this morning when I told him I’d be late to the office because I was meeting Tim McDonald in the jail first.

In fact, I don’t know if he even heard me, even though I’d repeated myself. I have to admit that ours has always been a relationship built on politics and convenience more so than on passion or romance, but lately Brian has become more distant than ever.

I try to focus on Tim’s explanation of the process for representing veterans. But I can’t help sneaking glances at Jensen. And a couple times, he meets my gaze and stares back at me unabashedly. It’s enough to cause my heart to race just as fast as when I’m delivering a closing argument in trial.

“Many of our veterans aren’t used to life after the military,” Tim explains. “They’ve been taught different ways of handling conflict than the rest of society. Sometimes they experience flashbacks or fight- or- flight reactions due to PTSD, either already diagnosed or as yet undiscovered.”

“I see,” I say, nodding my head but wondering how I could represent a client that seems unpredictable if not dangerous.

I’m really not sure this
pro bono
gig is for me. I guess Brian will be happy to hear that, if he’s listening when I tell him.

“Much of our work involves educating the judge on the effects of war and the symptoms of PTSD,” Tim continues. “It’s our most common defense and applies to most situations.”

“I see,” I say again, distracted as Jensen— all six foot six inches of him, if I had to guess— stands up and nods towards the doorway.

Someone— I’m assuming the lawyer named Dylan— approaches and shakes his hand. Then they head over to a small lawyer/ client meeting room. Just before heading into the room, Jensen turns around and winks at me. And I feel like a Disney princess starring on Broadway.

What the hell has gotten into you
? I scold myself.
You meet a prisoner and you’re suddenly swooning and turning into some air head? Straighten up! Be professional
.

“Ms. Morrell?” Tim asks me, his eyebrows burrowed together in concern. “Is that an indication that you have to think about it?”

I can only assume he had asked me if I was ready to sign on as a lawyer. I clear my throat and open my mouth, ready to tell him that I’m not sure. It doesn’t really seem like the place for me.

Although I
do
need the relevant military representation experience for my firm, and so far no other organization has called me back. And
maybe
I might get to see Jensen again, even though he already has Dylan as the lawyer assigned to his case.

“Take all the time you need to think about it,” Tim continues, not letting me speak. “I understand that right now you just want to volunteer a few hours a week to meet your firm’s
pro bono
requirements. But if you find that you enjoy this type of work— which many lawyers who try it out surprisingly do— then there might be room for a new staff attorney, at least part-time, and that’s a position you could be paid for. Granted it’s not nearly as much money as you’re used to but it might be a bit more fulfilling than…”

He trails off, obviously not wanting to offend me, but I know where he was heading.
More fulfilling than representing rich old dudes and helping them fight with other rich old dudes about who screwed over whom financially
? I want to say.

Instead, I just smile at him, because he’s a nice guy, although a bit misguided. He looks like a hippy from California or Vermont. He doesn’t have fire-breathing dragons for parents, always standing over his shoulder harping on him about his career choices and salary and opportunities for professional advancement. He can afford to follow his dreams. Heck, he can afford to
have
dreams.

“I’ll think about it, Mr. McDonald,” I say, standing up to shake his hand. “I do appreciate you meeting with me today.”

“I need to meet with a few of the men here now,” he says. “But I’ve arranged for a guard to escort you out.”

I start to think about how crazy it is that I’m in a place where I need a guard to escort me out. But as I begin to make my way back towards life as I know it, I can’t help having a little bit of a fantasy of being locked
in
with Jensen. I bet he’d know how to rough me up in ways that Brian’s never thought of. And I bet I’d enjoy every second of the new and different experience.

Chapter 2

What am I doing here
?

That was my first question upon my arrival to jail, and it still plays over and over again in my head. I can’t believe I’m in jail, for the first time in my life, over some stupid fist fight. I’ve had so many in the past, but I’ve never been ratted out by my opponent like this loser ratted me out.

Then again, I’ve never fought such a loser. And the fight certainly wasn’t voluntary.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a Bradford, and we’re known for causing trouble. There were things I did in high school that were less than okay, and even more things I did in the military, but luckily I’ve always gotten away with them.

I’ll add this experience to my long list of WTF moments, and I shouldn’t be surprised that my actions have finally caught up with me. It makes no difference though. I would gladly beat up that bastard all over again if given the chance, no matter the punishment. I just hope this doesn’t affect my career too negatively.

On that note, I glance around, wondering where Dylan is. He’s my lawyer from the Veterans’ Legal Alliance, and I’m waiting in the holding area for him to finally show up. My arraignment and bond hearing is quickly approaching, and this dude’s nowhere to be found.

I sigh, trying to hide my disgust that my lawyer is MIA. But then I see that Tim McDonald, the director of the organization, is here, and I have hope that he’ll know where Dylan is. He seems to be the only guy in this place who has a clue about what’s going on.

And then I notice the chick sitting across from him at the table. When I say notice, I mean that it would be impossible to miss her. She’s all decked out in a fancy suit, her hair meticulously curled into blonde waves that cascade down her shoulders.

Damn
. Blondes are my type. And I love long hair. I just want to reach out and grab it, and not in a friendly way either. In a “let me show you who’s boss” type of way.

And that ass. I can see part of it from this angle and it’s full and curvy, just like I like them.
My cock needs your curvy ass
, I want to tell her.

But that’s ridiculous. I’m in jail, and she’s likely in the legal field, since she’s meeting with Tim and since she’s dressed like she’s auditioning for an episode of
Law & Order: SVU
.

Besides, even if she weren’t completely out of my league, she’s not my type. I mean, yeah, sure, her
looks
are my type— I’d hit that, in a second, and then throw her out of bed and never talk to her again— but her personality clearly isn’t.

I’m into laid-back girls that I can easily talk to, and do a lot of other things with as well. Such as smoke a blunt with. Share a beer or whiskey with. Have a threesome with.