Chapter One
Sam
“I like your boots.”
The compliment comes from the husky-voiced young thing with the tattoos, the exact person I didn’t want to sit next to me.
She’s speaking to me while holding one small Bluetooth earphone in her hand, like we’re about to engage in an important enough conversation that she needs to be all ears.
I don’t want this lady near me because those barely-there cutoffs caught my eye as soon as she breezed in the door of the jury selection room this morning. Hardly appropriate for court. And fifteen minutes late.
The summons I got in the mail—the one I presume Little Miss Short-Shorts also received—clearly said to arrive for jury duty at exactly 8 a.m. Dress code? “Business or business casual,” it read.
Not that I’m a huge fan of the government telling me when and where to show up for things. But I’ll do my part for the justice system. I don’t mind fulfilling my civic responsibilities, even though I have a ranch to run and several new ranch hands to train. I did leave my tried-and-trusted ranch manager, Smitty, in charge. He’s like the son I never had. But still, it’s calving season; I hate to miss things.
I probably won’t be chosen to serve on a jury anyway. I’m a cranky old dude who probably looks like he regularly shouts at kids to clear off his lawn. The kind of guy who has no patience for fancy legalese.
I’m not actually like that, but I don’t mind if I look a little scary.
I can’t imagine the tattooed young lady has huge demands on her time. Looking like a free-thinking little rebel chick, she’s perfect if a criminal attorney is in need of a jury of peers for her client. A very pretty, nice-smelling peer who flits about as if she could be carried off by the slightest breeze.
All that bare skin is making me uncomfortable. Her proximity, and now her talking to me, is making it difficult for me to mind my own business and concentrate on the book I’m reading.
“Thank you,” I say, giving her a nod and glancing down at my feet. They’re not the fancy kind of country singer boots, just basic brown. But they do shine up nice and seem appropriate for court, unlike my usual shitkickers.
This wisp of a woman has eyes that are impossibly violet, and they’re locked onto me as she leans back in her folding chair. She crosses her legs, one foot resting on her bare knee. I think she’s waiting for me to pay her a compliment in kind.
I blurt out, “I uh ... like yours too.”
This is a lie. I don’t like her boots. They are knee-high, lace-up monstrosities with a four-inch platform and look like they’re from a costume for Frankenstein’s monster. They don’t suit her thin frame at all, nor her overall ethereal glow. Before I can stop myself, my eyes travel up her leg and land on her right thigh, which is just barely brushing against the outside seam of my jeans. Why are these chairs so close together in here? Can’t the county afford to spread these seats out an inch or two to let people breathe?
The tattoo on her nearest thigh appears to be Latin and says something about bastards. It feels familiar but I can’t put my finger on it.
Sure would like to put my fingers on that bare thigh and let her explain it to me, though.
Shit. Five minutes back in civilization and this is what happens. I’m already having inappropriate thoughts about a younger woman. When I’m on the back of a horse, I don’t think about anything but taking care of the land and taking care of my animals. Being all alone in wide open spaces suits me much better than being stuck in this windowless box, rubbing up against this punk pixie siren.
“Thanks,” she says. That low, sexy voice doesn’t seem suited to a tiny thing like her either. She looks like a person who might have a Minnie Mouse kind of voice. Minnie Mouse with an attitude.
I glance around to see if there’s an empty seat I can escape to. Anywhere but next to this woman, with her strange, silvery-lavender hair and herbal scent. She looks like one of those protestors who once tried to break in through my gate to free some of my cattle. I wonder if I’ve ever had to call the cops on her or some of her friends. Wouldn’t be surprised.
The only other other open seat in the room is in front of me, next to the corny guy. A minute ago I heard him comment to his neighbor to the other side, “I guess it’s time to hurry up and wait,” and then guffawed at his own joke like it was the first time anybody had said that.
All right fine, I’ll stay where I’m at. As painful as it may be. I’m just gonna read my book.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the young lady cock her head to read the cover of my Wild West novel, but I keep my eyes trained on the words in front of me. Maybe Louis L’Amour will be enough to ward her off from trying to talk to me.
He seems to do the trick.
She sits back in her chair and takes out her phone, then tucks her earbud back into her ear. That’s right, darlin’. I’m boring as shit. Just keep your thighs to yourself. I mean eyes. Not thighs.
Suddenly, I hear a strange voice, one that’s definitely not from these parts. A highbrow kind of British accent from one of those PBS programs where fancy folks laze about a manor house and give each other knowing looks while discussing the weather. I mean, I don’t watch those shows, but I’ve seen them advertised. And I might’ve caught a minute or two, here and there. And maybe I’ve lingered, if something interesting is happening, such as a lady turning down a proposal of marriage from some oily dude. Anyway, how could a guy like me resist looking at well-mannered English women wearing historical costumes that show off their tits?
And then my brain registers what that British male voice is saying. And it for sure ain’t a costume drama on public television.
“Take it out and hold it in your hand. It’s quite massive, isn’t it? Now, pet, you’re going to do as I say and put it your mouth.”
People seated around us give themselves whiplash as they swivel around trying to locate the source of this filthy narration. Some of them stare at me and the young lady, but she’s just sitting there staring at her phone screen, perplexed. Someone nearby titters. Some old lady in the row in front of us gasps, horrified.
The sounds of smut continue, the breathing becomes heavier, and the invisible British man is getting bossier now. “I said, stroke it and tease the tip. Be a good girl, now, and you’ll get your reward.”
I realize what’s happening. The young lady is listening to something filthy on her phone and she doesn’t realize the Bluetooth connection isn’t working.
Jiminy Christmas. What in the world is she listening to? And where can I find the female-voiced version of it?
“Ma’am,” I say, shifting toward her although it’s the last thing I want to do.
She ignores me. Must be noise cancelling headphones.
I don’t want to touch her, but I tap her gently on the shoulder.
She turns her head and her mouth drops open, giving me a questioning look.
“What?” she says, a little too loudly.
I point at her phone, and then at her ear, and shake my head.
Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes what has happened.
Rushing to stop the track playing on her screen, she fumbles the phone and it clatters to the floor. Meanwhile, the words broadcasting from it become more graphic with every passing moment.