Don't Call Me Hero (30 page)

A hand wiggled beneath my T-shirt, and she lightly raked her fingers down my abdomen. That same hand moved up to cup my breast over the bra. She squeezed, her touch remaining firm but light. I clenched onto the tops of her thighs and her movements beneath my T-shirt immediately stilled. Her eyes narrowed in warning until I released her toned flesh. With nothing else to cling to, I curled my fingers around the arms of the chair. I had a gorgeous, half-naked woman straddling my lap, but apparently I wasn’t supposed to do anything about it.

She slowly slid down my body until she was on her knees in front of the stuffed chair and me. I swallowed hard under her predatory stare. She ran her palms up the outside of my legs, across the tops of my thighs, and up my inner thighs. Perfectly manicured nails trailed over the seam of my jeans, and I chewed on my lower lip in anticipation.

The button of my jeans was popped, and it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. The zipper followed and my hips naturally canted up so she could pull my jeans down my hips and thighs. I did it without thinking and without questioning why this was happening, much like I’d done the first time she’d burst into my apartment, only months ago.

She tapped her fingertips against the inside of my thighs, and I spread my legs farther apart. “Good girl,” she hummed. She never spoke much when we had sex, but when she did, I could feel her words like an electric prong to my body.

Her hands were warm and dry against the vulnerable flesh of my inner thighs. She leaned forward and pressed soft kisses against me, starting at the insides of my knees and slowly working up. My legs quivered as she blazed a wet trail closer to my sex.

I clenched the arms of the easy chair to resist raking my fingers through her soft hair. Everything about this exchange told me I could look but not touch. She brushed the pad of her thumb over my underwear, focusing dedicated pressure on my clit. My hips jerked at the touch, and her generous mouth curled up on one side in a mischievous smirk.

I sucked in a sharp breath when she leaned forward and brushed her tongue against my clit through my underwear. Her teasing was torturous. She was gorgeous. She was perfect. But I didn’t know if I could continue because of the cloud hanging over us. The easy decision was to tangle my fingers in her dark hair and hold her where I needed her the most—that’s what my selfish body wanted, at least. My brain said otherwise.

Her fingers traveled the short distance to the elastic waistband of my underwear. Her fingertips dipped beneath, and she tugged upward rather than removing the garment. The material pulled taut against my sex, pressing into my clit.

“Julia,” I gurgled out.

Her dark eyes flicked to my face, but her mouth latched onto my clit over my underwear. I felt a finger press into me through the cotton material.

“Oh, God.”

She wasn’t playing fair.

I curled my fingers around her shoulders. “We should talk,” I somehow managed to pant. I dug my fingernails deeper into her blouse when she swiped my clit again with the flat of her tongue.

Her eyes fluttered closed. “We will,” she said thickly. “Later.”

Her finger pressed more firmly against me. I thought she might tear through my underwear. I strained against her single finger, but I would get no satisfaction with my underwear serving as a stubborn barrier. She pressed two fingers against me and wetly suckled my clit.

Any hope I had of mounting a continued complaint was erased when her fingers curled under the waistband of my underwear and she began to drag the garment south. My underwear briefly stuck between my thighs—my body’s final act of resistance—before she slid the cotton undergarment down my thighs and past my knees to fall at my ankles.

Naked from the waist down, I was completely at her mercy. Her palms rested lightly on the tops of my thighs, but I felt anchored to the chair. I yearned to touch her in some way, but I resisted knowing how she’d reacted earlier.

She stroked her fingers through my closely cropped hair. She cupped my sex and settled her fingers on either side of my clit.

“Jesus,” I panted. My legs twitched as though electrocuted.

She leaned forward and blew warm air over my already over-stimulated parts. My fingers went to her hair, and I dug my nails into her scalp. She slid a finger solidly inside of me and curled the digit up. I breathed out harshly in uneven, ragged gasps. This wouldn’t take long. She’d already teased me to a fervor.

When her mouth reconnected with my clit, it was all over.

“Cumming, Julia. Fuck, I’m cumming.”

My head fell backwards. I bit my lower lip and a quiet whine escaped my throat.

She used her thumb to wipe at the corners of her mouth. “Do you still want to talk, dear?” She looked unfathomably dignified for just having had her way with me.

I straightened myself in the chair. My clit throbbed, but I was hardly finished with her. “Later.”

My response seemed to surprise her.

I regained use of my legs in impressive fashion. I shot my arms forward and curled them under her armpits. A surprised noise escaped her throat as my inertia had her tumbling backwards. It was inelegant and her tailbone struck the floor as I scrambled to top her. My mouth covered hers before she could voice a complaint. I hesitated for only a moment, worried I’d been too rough, until I felt her lips pushing up to meet mine and her hands wrapping around my biceps.

I tore off my jacket, glad to finally be free of the garment. Her hands fisted the material of my shirt and then tugged at the bottom hem. I stopped kissing her long enough to dip my head so she could remove my shirt. It joined the rest of our clothes on the floor.

I held myself up in a frozen push-up. The wood floor felt gritty against my palms, and I grimaced at the thought of what she must be feeling on the backs of her thighs. I wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but in my defense, I hadn’t anticipated any of this.

“We should go on my bed.”

She canted her hips up into me. “No.”

The sun had set long ago, and Julia gathered her clothes from the floor. She reassembled her armor with her back to me.

“Do you really think he’s innocent?” I asked quietly from my place on the bed. We’d eventually made our way back there.

“That doesn’t matter.” Julia carefully buttoned up her dark blouse. “I have to defend him in court. He’s my father.”

“But won’t that be a conflict of interest?”

“I’m going to resign as city attorney.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “And I’m sorry, Cassidy. But I’m going to win this.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

David was already in the courtroom when I skirted inside. As the arresting officers, we were afforded seating in the front row, right behind the prosecuting attorney—the seat where Julia normally sat. Even if I hadn’t been subpoenaed, I still would have shown up for this trial. Other people in town must have had the same idea. The courtroom had been sparsely populated when David had been sued a month earlier, but there wasn’t an empty seat for Mayor Desjardin’s trial.

The jury box was empty, meaning the Mayor was to receive a bench trial. I assumed that he wouldn’t be on the witness stand at any point, based on his constitutional right to avoid self-incrimination. Julia was smart; she’d never allow it. This was not to be an impeachment.

The arraignment had happened earlier in the week. Because of his position as mayor, William Desjardin had been granted an initial appearance before the judge not long after David and I had made the arrest. He’d pled not guilty and he’d paid his bail, although the judge hadn’t set bond very high. Maybe if the presiding judge had known about the size of the Mayor’s personal bank account, he would have reconsidered setting bail so low.

The District Attorney’s office had talked about the possibility of a change of venue, but I’d heard from Grace Kelly Donovan that Julia had deemed it unnecessary. That bit of information had me worried. I didn’t know why she wouldn’t want to try the case in a neighboring county to give her father the fairest trial possible. It made me think she had an ace hidden up her designer sleeve.

The District Attorney’s office had sent in an Assistant D.A. to try the case. I didn’t recognize him from around City Hall or town. My first impression of the man was that his suit was poorly tailored. On wardrobe alone, Julia would have this guy beat. More unsettling, however, he looked scared, bringing to mind the eighteen-year-old kids I’d witnessed getting dropped off in the middle of a sand-smothered war zone.

Until the date of the criminal trial, I had done my best to immerse myself in work, even more so than I had before the arrest. I didn’t run into Julia—not at the grocery store, not at Stan’s, not at City Hall, and most certainly not at one of our homes. It was clear that we were avoiding each other. But even though I sought ways to escape her physical presence, she was still there. It was the worst at my apartment—the defiant spider plant that thrived despite my ignorance of horticulture and the dream catcher that hung from the headboard of my bed. I could have easily thrown them both away, but they remained, as did my vivid memories of her.

I tried being mad at her, but I just couldn’t do it. Every time I thought about what I’d do in her situation—if my own dad had been accused of a crime—had me doing the same thing as her. Blood was the thickest bond of all.

Julia knew how to make an entrance. She walked into the courtroom with her father shuffling behind. Her head was held up, chin slightly elevated. Her black hair shone in the natural light of the courtroom, and her heels clicked on the laminate flooring. The volume of the courtroom seemed to lessen with the click-clack of each step until the room was practically silent when she reached the defendant’s table. It was like a teacher walking to the head of the classroom.

“All rise,” the court bailiff instructed.

The presiding judge, a handsome man with a square jaw and salt and pepper hair, walked out of his office to take his place at the front of the courtroom. Julia’s entrance had already silenced the capacity crowd, so the judge had little wait before he could begin the trial.

I lost focus during the Assistant D.A.’s opening statement. His voice was monotone like my seventh grade health sciences teacher, and he used unnecessary multisyllabic words to basically explain that it was his job to convince the judge that William Desjardin was a bad guy. Because ours was a criminal prosecution and not a civil case, the ominous of burden of proof was the prosecution’s responsibility. Mayor Desjardin was innocent until proven guilty.

As the Assistant D.A. gave his opening statement, which he’d probably practiced in a mirror to himself, my eyes were on Julia. From my seat I could really only see the back of her head and a sliver of her profile, but it was still a nice view.

When the Assistant D.A. finished his speech, the judge opened the floor to Julia. She didn’t stand from her seat as her counterpart had done.

“Your Honor,” she said, raising her voice in volume, “I will not be presenting an opening statement at this time.”

A quiet murmur erupted among those seated in the gallery. The judge struck his gavel block. “Order,” he called. “Ms. Desjardin, are you sure you’d like to forfeit that right?”

Julia inclined her head. “Yes, your Honor. The Defense will not be giving an opening statement.”

I shifted anxiously in my chair. What was she up to?

The Assistant D.A. looked similarly perplexed, but he regained his composure and continued the presentation of evidence by calling a number of witnesses to the stand. Both Chief Hart and David gave testimony for the prosecution as representatives for the police department. I was glad that David had been subpoenaed as the arresting officer instead of me. I had been dreading the thought of being cross-examined by the defense’s attorney in front of all these people.

It turned out, however, that I didn’t have anything to worry about. Each time the Assistant D.A. finished questioning one of his witnesses, Julia refused the opportunity to cross-examine the individual. With each rejection, the courtroom became collectively more and more anxious, myself included. Her strategy was unorthodox and unsettling.

I didn’t know how to be angry with her. I was more worried for her than anything. She’d resigned as city attorney as soon as City Hall had opened for business the day after her father’s arrest. What would happen after the trial? Would she return to being the city prosecutor or had she forfeited that job? And if she was no longer defending the city, would she move away? All of these questions and more plagued me as the prosecution continued to lay out its case and Julia refused to participate in the trial.

At the end of another line of questioning, the judge cleared his throat. “Ms. Desjardin? Your witness. Again.”

Julia didn’t look up from her legal notepad. “No questions at this time, your Honor.” She sounded almost bored.

The judge looked as confused as the rest of us. He turned his attention back to the Assistant D.A. “You may call your next witness, Mr. Woodson.”