“It’s more of a fuck you and kiss my ass kind of relationship. But, like I said, we’re working on it.”
He seemed to bristle when I cussed, but said nothing about it directly.
I wanted to ask him what his story was, but I didn’t get the chance.
Instead we were hustled back to the courtroom for a long afternoon where only one witness was examined and cross examined. It was pretty intense. The witness we heard from was the first responder to the scene of the crime, who described Senator Jacobsen dead in his bed.
Based on his testimony, we learned that there did not appear to have been a struggle, but there was a bottle of sleeping pills left out next to the bed.
When asked, he said that “Mrs. Jacobsen seemed distraught but not to the degree that most loved ones appear to be at the scene of their spouse’s death.” There were some objections and some were sustained, others were overruled. I didn’t understand all of it.
It’s a lot to take in. He described the state of the house when he arrived, the state of the bedroom, the appearance of the victim, and the bed clothes—everything in exhausting detail.
During dinner at Chili’s with the other jurors, somebody brought up the fact that they wouldn’t be able to sleep after the day’s testimony. Juror Number 3, as if waiting for this moment her whole life, suddenly brightened up and told the entire table that she happened to have a cure for that.
“I have all kinds of remedies for anything bothering any of you, all you have to do is ask. I brought my entire case of oils with me, and I have no problem sharing.”
I kept my head down and ate my black bean burger. I wanted to roll my eyes in Sam’s direction, but he had been driven back to the hotel early, saying he was tired.
“Seriously,” said Number 3, who introduced herself as Betty. “Lavender will help you sleep. And I have all kinds of blends for anxiety, the flu, arthritis.”
I bit my tongue so hard I thought it might bleed. She might have had a point about lavender, but real illnesses need more than just essential oils.
I tuned her out eventually, reminding myself I’m going to have to get along with all of these people for the foreseeable future, so I should keep my mouth shut.
Later that night, in my room, I finished the Fuck Off cross stitch and added a tiny flower. I had tried working on my next cross stitch design, a Christmas-themed vagina, but it didn't hold my attention.
I can’t very well play a board game by myself, so I knocked on the door of the juror named Betty, one door down from me. She opened it a crack and looked me up and down. “Yes?”
“Jenga?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Wren, I mean Juror Number 11. You know me.”
“We’re not allowed to talk to each other when our security detail isn’t watching.”
I reminded her, “We can talk to each other but just not about the c—“
But I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence because she’d already closed the door.
Rude. Paranoid and rude.
I padded over to where the security guard was sitting at the end of the hall. “Hey, Officer Max, you wanna play Jenga?’
“I’m working. You should go back to your room.”
“Is that the rules?”
“Well, it’s not the law, but….”
“Great. So let’s play.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“Fine,” I sighed and tried the next door down from the rude lady.
And who in the world should answer it but the man himself. Sam.
“Jenga?” I ask.
He waits a beat. And while he does, it gives me a chance to study his face. He looks shocked, angry, surprised, and flushed.
And shirtless. Holy shit, he’s shirtless in his Wranglers and I think i might die. I knew he filled out them cowboy shirts quite nicely. His broad shoulders and defined pecs, tanned and sculpted over years of hard work, are even easier to look at than I’d imagined. Unencumbered by a shirt, his treasure trail tempts me to let my gaze drop lower, and linger below his navel.
“What’s that?”
“Huh? Oh! It’s a party game. Can I come in?”
His face blanches. “No! I mean, no, you cannot come in.”
“Oh. Well you wanna come to my room and...?”
“Heck no.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I was in the middle of a workout. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt.”
“Oh. OK. What kind of a workout?”
“Nothing. No kind of workout.”
“What?”
He pushes into the hallway. “Can I help you with something?”
“I just wanted to know if you wanted to play Jenga. I’m bored and I don’t have anyone to talk to.”
Sam’s eyes narrow. “Try reading a book. I have several that ought to put you right to sleep.”
I sigh. “I guess I just need some company.”
“Well, it ain’t polite for me to be alone with a woman in a hotel room unless she’s my wife.”
I have to put my hand over my mouth. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard, Sam.”
We have what appears to be a mini staring contest before he growls and gives up, heads back into his room for a moment to grab a shirt, and follows me down the hall.
“Hi, Officer Max,” I chirp. “We’re just going to go down to the lobby to party.”
Sam sounds exasperated. “We’re not partying. It’s games. Party games. That’s it.”
Officer Max shakes his head and talks into his radio. He says some coded numbers and stuff. “OK, you can head on down and the security officer on the main floor will meet you in the lobby.”
Sam puts his hands up. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
I slip my arm through his to guide him along. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
He’s blushing but I’m not totally sure why. We walk down to the main floor where we are greeted by a new security officer, who leads us through a vending room. “Snacks!” I shout and make a beeline for the nearest machine that has Cool Ranch Doritos. “I have a little bit of change. Officer, do you want anything? Sam?”
They both decline.
All of these grumpy men who are part of my life for the foreseeable future had better loosen up. “Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug. My steps have a little more pep as I carry my soda, Doritos, as well as some gummy worms into the lobby area. We seat ourselves around a posh looking coffee table in the modern lobby and I explain to him how to play the game.
“Fine, let’s get this over with. I’m tired,” Sam says.
I laugh. “It’s like 9 p.m. What time do you normally go to bed?”
I start the game by taking my first turn, and we chat back and forth comfortably. He seems to relax as long as he’s not making eye contact.
“I go to bed at 9. Get up at 4.”
“Oh my god, why?”
“Because I have three hundred head of cattle to tend to. Why? When do you go to bed?”
I shrug and move another piece. “Oh, it depends. I have to be at work at 7 a.m., so I go to bed anywhere from 11 p.m. to 1 a.m., depending on how much fun I’m having.”
Sam moves a tile. “What kind of fun is keeping you awake at those hours?”