I want to puke. I no longer feel anything but animosity for that man, something that both surprises and relieves me. For the time we’ve been apart, I feared that the love I’ve always held in my heart for him would overpower my need for self-preservation. I thought I’d go running back to my husband. Now that I am semi-looking at him, I know nothing could be further from the truth.
But I am still tuned into what the judge is saying, after Laurel shot out of her seat and objected to the motion.
“Proceed,” the judge says to Shane’s lawyer.
“As you might be aware your honor, the officers on this case or the prosecutor’s office allowed photos from the file to be leaked to the media. Not only does that taint the decision of this case, but also public opinion of my client. We are asking you to dismiss all charges for what can only be described as a biased opinion of this situation.”
His logic makes absolutely no sense, and fury swamps me. This is why I hate the legal system, for the way it builds up defendants and smacks down victims. Those pictures are of my face, bloody and bruised, and yet Shane is using them to his advantage? Tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
Judge Brenner scrutinizes Shane’s lawyer, and then pulls her glasses off, pointing them at him.
“Mr. Vivant, that is the most illogical motion for dismissal I have ever heard. You have no proof that either of those offices leaked the photos in question, and if you’d like me to investigate further, I’ll have no choice but to include the defendant in the scope of that. Is that how I should proceed?”
The lawyer bends down to whisper something to Shane, and then straightens again, looking like a stricken puppy.
“No, your honor.”
“Motion denied, then. If there is nothing else, have your offices be in contact about moving to trial.” Judge Brenner is succinct, then rises as the rest of the room does and retreats to her chambers.
It’s over within fifteen minutes, and I’m floored that the judge just whipped through that so quickly. Laurel ushers me out in a hurry, not wanting to be stuck with Shane and his lawyers in the courtroom, or in a shuffle to get to the parking lot. We discussed it beforehand, that I should save any comments or emotions until I am shut up in my house or in her office. There is no way in hell I am giving Shane, or the paparazzi outside the courthouse, any crack in my armor.
As we make our way down the steps, camera bulbs and news cameras in our faces, I try to keep my head down. I picture my daughters, the women at the salon, Walker. Anything that will keep me from sinking to the sidewalk and dissolving into a fit of tears.
Today wasn’t all bad, at least they didn’t get the case dismissed. But it just means more court dates. More fighting. More publicity and a longer, drawn-out process than I want before I can move on with my daughters.
Before I can regain my independence and start to build my life the way I want it.
While I’ll have a massive emotional hangover after this, at least I realize one concrete thing; there is no part of me that wants to be married to Shane Giraldi any longer.
11
Walker
I’m in the lull of an athlete’s year.
My team just won the World Series, we’ve had our victory parade and celebratory articles written, and the media has all but packed up and shipped out. All of the endorsement deals that I’m signed to have been booked and shot, the campaigns already out there or ready to launch. Even my charity obligations don’t start up until next year. Right now, we just have the holidays, light training sessions, and not much else to look forward to.
As a professional baseball player, I still have to work out pretty religiously, but it’s nothing like my regimen when spring training or the season are in full swing. So, my life is … well, boring. Which is why I spend most every night at Hudson’s Bar & Grill, the well-known Packton restaurant with decent well drinks and local brews always on tap.
Hudson’s has a bit of a Pennsylvania Dutch vibe, and I’m a sucker for their schnitzel and the craft beers. Most nights during the off-season you’ll find me here, simply because I have nothing else to do. I’ve never been one for silence or alone time; despite the image my brother likes to paint of me, I thrive around people. Clark, a relief pitcher and one of my best friends on the team, is always down to be a wingman, even when I tell him we’re not here to meet women. Because, well, Clark is always anywhere to meet women.
“I can’t believe we’re going to be drinking this Christmas shit for a while.” Clark pulls a face as he drinks a sip of his cinnamon-spiced lager.
I shrug, leaning into the weathered oak bar top as I adjust myself on the all-too-familiar leather barstool. “I actually kind of like the seasonal beers.”
This one is still on tap since Thanksgiving, with the bartender trying to push the last of the dregs on unsuspecting customers. I don’t mind it, but I know soon they’ll switch over to eggnog and some kind of sugar cookie porter meant to rot your teeth. These are girly beers, as Clark and Hayes call them, but I rather enjoy them.
Thanksgiving was its typical circus; it’s usually hosted by my aunt Marina and boasts a massive forty-person table … or maybe split into five. There were kids running everywhere, Hayes attended for his first time with Colleen, and I ate way too much and then fell asleep on the couch while watching football. Even Sinclair showed up, to everyone’s surprise and delight. My brother might be the family screw up, but it only makes our relatives love him more, for some reason.
“It tastes like gingerbread. If I wanted that, I’d get one of those sugary lattes.” Clark grimaces again.
“You drink those?” I smirk.
He shrugs. “They’re delicious, like a dessert you can guzzle.”
“Some might call that a milkshake, or a smoothie.”
“I’m not drinking either of those in this cold.” He looks offended.
“Didn’t realize your delicate senses couldn’t tolerate ice cream during winter.” I snort as we’re served our burgers on the bar.
“You forget I’m a Texas boy, born and bred. I’m not used to this cold. My bones belong in the Lone Star State.” My friend lays the accent on thick for emphasis.
“You’ve lived here for nearly five years, give me a break. You just like coffee that tastes like a cookie, you don’t have to deny that.”
Clark wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ll wear it loud and proud, brother. Plus, it gives me a leg up when buying coffee for a woman. They all eat that up … which bodes well for my chances.”
He’s nothing if not a playboy. I bite into my burger, shaking my head, and glance up at the hockey game on TV.
“Hey, Colleen is here.” Clark nudges me, and my head swivels toward the entrance.
My cousin walks in, wrapped in her scarf and coat, and trailing behind her is … Hannah. It’s strange, seeing her in this setting, because I don’t think I’ve seen her without her daughters or in a bar in … hell, I can’t even tell you the last time. But my heart, my eyes, and of course my dick, all light up as she walks in.
She looks windblown, her inky curls all twirled around by the cold, and she’s wearing this long camel coat over jeans and a sweater. And fuck me … are those knee-high boots? My mind conjures a very dirty image of bending her over in nothing but those black velvet boots.