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Blood in the Water (Dixie Mafia Series Book 2) Page 15
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“Yes, with a girl named Rachel in college.”
Byron spit it right back out. “Fuck me, you had sex with a girl.”
“Only the once.” She stood and dabbed at the mess he’d made on the floor with one of the leftover napkins from their meal. Jane couldn’t stand being in a room with a spill or a stain. “We were friends and roommates. One night, we went to a party together. I had a lot to drink, and so did she. I was inquisitive, and it just happened.” She had a hazy memory of the night, but it was blurry in a pleasant sort of way. “Though it ultimately wasn’t for me.”
After she sat down once more, Byron laid down across the foot of the bed. Somehow, it seemed much smaller now. He propped his head on one hand. “I want to hear the story—in glorious, 3D, surround-sound detail.”
Jane realized she’d overshared yet again. Honestly, why did everyone have so many hang-ups about sex?
“No, I’ve talked enough for one night.”
“You can’t tempt a man with a tale about lesbian lust in college and then clam up on him.” Byron ran a hand down the length of his body, and for some reason, her foolish fingers itched to do the same.
“I think I just did. What about your first time?”
Instantly, his face shuttered.
“Come on. I told you my story.”
“In high school, a good friend of my father’s took me to see a woman in Dallas. She owned a house.”
“Oh, you mean a brothel.” Jane was aghast. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
Yuck. “Old enough to bypass statutory rape laws, but still—”
“Believe me, darlin’, I wasn’t a victim. She was twenty and had lovely red hair.” His smile was lazy, but Jane got the impression it was all for show. “The lady showed me a real good time, and I got no regrets.”
“So you frequent prostitutes?” She didn’t even bother keeping the disdain from her tone.
“Look at me.”
Jane did. “Yes…and?”
“You think I gotta pay for it?”
“I guess not.” He was awfully handsome. Was it possible he was getting more attractive?
“You guessed right. Since then, it’s been on my terms.”
“I find romance draining. I honestly don’t understand it. Sex can be fun, but all of the silliness surrounding it isn’t.”
In college, she’d watched the girls in her dorm get all dressed up every Saturday night—fussing and primping in front of a mirror for hours when they should’ve been studying. Jane never lost sight of her goals and ambitions.
“A bit of romance now and then never hurt anyone. I ain’t sayin’ I’m goin’ whole hog like this town, but I like some magic and moonlight.”
“If you say so.” Sounded like a waste of time to her.
“Maybe the right man hasn’t put the moves on you yet.” He nodded to the decorations. “Even you gotta admit, it’s enchantin’.”
“Sure.”
“Hasn’t anyone tempted you? Made you want more?”
There was something enthralling about the man. Jane wouldn’t admit it, though. She had to deflect his charm or fall victim to it.
“Nope, I’m in love with the law, and it’s a forever sort of romance. Attorneys aren’t built for happily ever afters. Haven’t you heard the old joke?”
“What joke?”
“A lawyer doesn’t say ‘I do’ when she gets married. Instead, she accepts the terms and conditions.”
Byron didn’t laugh.
Strange. Most people love a good lawyer joke. Jane had practiced them for office cocktail parties.
“I’m certain someone could tempt you.” Again, he crooked a finger. “C’mere.”
And once more, Jane only wanted to get closer to him.
“No.”
“I’m gonna romance you a bit.”
“We should go to bed…to sleep.” Jane sputtered the words. She felt inexplicably hot, anxious. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow in the prison system.”
“We do, but I’m cravin’ another taste. I know you enjoyed it earlier.”
This has “bad idea” written all over it.
“We’ll kiss tomorrow. I don’t want another one tonight.” It was a lie. Jane hoped she pulled it off.
His jaw clenched, and for a second, she thought he’d argue with her. Then he heaved a sigh.
“As the lady wishes. I suppose we should get ready for bed.”
And yet Jane felt a stab of disappointment at his words. Why? Because she’d wanted to play with fire? The last thing in the world she needed right now was a tryst with Byron Beauregard.
Byron stood and unbuttoned his shirt.
She gasped. “What are you doing?”
“What’s it look like?”
All of a sudden, Jane had a lump in her throat. Ogling him didn’t strike her as polite, but she couldn’t look away.
"I should step outside and give you some privacy.” Yet her legs weren’t working.
Why aren’t I sprinting out of here? Maybe because I’m enjoying the show.
Oh, no.
"Ain’t a problem, darlin’, I’m not shy. You sit tight.” He folded his coat, tie, and shirt on the chest beside him in a neat little stack. Then he bent down to untie his shoes. “Did I ever tell you I used to go skinny dippin’ in the creek?”
At the mental image of him swimming in the nude—all rippling muscle and fluid grace—her throat seized, and Jane coughed.
He shucked off his white cotton undershirt. Byron had a well-defined torso, his abs looking as though they’d been fashioned by razor blades, gleaming golden skin over muscle.
Her mouth fell open, and she snapped it shut at his pointed, self-satisfied smile. Jane wished she could slap it right off his face.
“I wasn’t looking.”
“Darlin’, who are you trying to kid? Yeah, you were. And you like what you see too. Why wouldn’t you?”
Maybe Georgia was right, and she did like the man. Heaven help me.
“Unless you want some shock and awe, I suggest you avert your eyes.” He brought his hands to the button of his fly.
Shock and awe. A little laugh bubbled up, but she glanced away from his hands…and other parts.
“Er, you could sleep in your clothes.” At this rate, any clothes would do.
“Darlin’, I ain’t gonna wrinkle this thousand-dollar suit, and I sleep naked as a jaybird anyhow.”
So, all night, he’d be beside her in the bed, naked.
Jane gulped.
He caught her eye and winked. “Besides, you’re enjoyin’ the show.”
The whir of his zipper somehow sounded very loud in the room.
And then he was wearing nothing—not a stitch, but she refused to look anywhere below his navel.
Byron stretched out on the bed again, lying on his back, arms tucked beneath his head. She couldn’t help but admire the sleek way he moved.
She wanted to stroke every inch of his smooth-looking skin, feel the muscles, trace the path of the gold hair bisecting his abdomen and trailing down lower, so much lower.
“I’ve shown you mine.” He raised a brow. “You gonna show me yours?”
Jane swallowed.
For a second, she imagined it. Throwing off her clothes and getting into bed with Byron, the devil himself.
Jane wasn’t a prude. She enjoyed sex—on her own terms, even if she wasn’t actively engaged in it like most people were. Right now, she wanted to sleep with him—lay beneath him, surrender to him. And she couldn’t think of a single reason why she’d waited this long.
Then Jane mentally slapped herself back to her senses. Yes, it’d be a night like no other, but it’d lead to so many other complications. Her life was already a mess, she didn’t need to add to the chaos.
“No!” Jane leaped to her feet, raced to the chair, and grabbed her clothing. Then she made a mad dash to the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
Byron’s laughter followed her.
/> ***
“No, don’t!”
Jane jolted awake.
Byron muttered under his breath, moving his head side to side. She’d always been a light sleeper. Lying next to the naked mobster wasn’t exactly conducive to getting rest.
When she’d returned to the room, after stalling for the better part of two hours, she’d found him in bed already, the sheets tucked around his waist. Jane didn’t get into bed until after she’d thrown on an extra hoodie.
She grabbed her cell from the nightstand and hit the button, waking up the screen for meager light. It was 5:36 in the morning.
“Stop it, Dad. Don’t.” Byron’s eyes were tightly closed, and he shook his head.
She clutched his shoulder, intending to gently shake him awake, but he shot up in bed with a hoarse shout and grabbed a gun he must’ve tucked under the pillow.
Jane dropped the phone and raised her hands. “It’s me, Byron.”
Blinking, he placed the gun underneath the pillow once more and then ran a hand down his face.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
She flipped on the bedside lamp.
Despite his assertion, Jane doubted him. His eyes were wide, and his breath came in pants. Whatever he’d been dreaming about disturbed him.
“You were having a nightmare.”
“Yeah.” Byron pushed his fingers through his hair. For once, he wasn’t quipping. She’d never seen him this quiet and contemplative. Byron always projected a tough front. She’d never seen the vulnerability lying beneath it, until now. It was surprising, refreshing. Unnerving.
Jane didn’t know if leaving it alone or talking about it was the more polite thing to do.
“Were you reliving your mother’s death?”
After a second, he nodded. “Yeah, it’s happenin’ a lot lately.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Hell no.”
Jane couldn’t imagine the trauma he’d experienced.
The confluence of events never failed to surprise her—twists and turns which led to tragedy on an otherwise normal day. She’d seen it hundreds of times in her line of work and in her own life. What would’ve happened if her mother had refused to go along on the robbery? If Jed hadn’t adopted her? Those kind of questions could drive a person mad.
“Growing up without a mother must’ve been hard.”
“You’d know what it’s like.” His voice was rough, gravelly.
“Yes, but yours was taken away from you in a violent manner and you witnessed it.”
“Like I said, don’t wanna talk about it.” Byron blew out a rasping breath.
Jane felt useless. Georgia would know exactly what to do. “Sorry, I don’t know how to handle these situations.”
He squeezed her hand. “I think you did just fine. I appreciate the concern, darlin’.”
“You’re welcome, and if you ever want to talk, I’ll listen.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Right now, I need…,” he trailed off.
“What?”
“Jane, can I hold you?”
It wasn’t a scandalous sort of request. She figured he needed to be close to someone, like she’d needed the security of a tight embrace after being both threatened and propositioned by Oscar Valentine.
Denying him the same courtesy was out of the question. Jane slid closer slowly, cautious about his nudity, but determined to comfort him.
He gathered her against his side, and she curled into him. His skin was warm, and he felt better than she’d imagined. Jane was back in his arms again, and she was struck once more by how good it felt, how right and familiar, as if she’d been cuddling with him for years.
Enfolded together, they drifted to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Grand Prairie Prison
The imposing structure looked the same to Byron—steely and foreboding.
The next afternoon, they’d driven to the prison to speak with Benjamin Jessup during visitor hours. Sniper towers surrounded the recreation yard, and razor wire wrapped around the fences.
Being here always rattled him. Byron had accepted he’d wind up here, or someplace worse, under very different circumstances. Probably because of that jackass lawman, Thorne.
Forget Beauregard Manor, this was home, his real home. The stench of sweat and piss, the clang of metal bars. The hard, cold concrete floor beneath his heels. How many Christmases and birthdays had he spent at a small, chipped Formica table with the man who’d murdered his mother?
The guards hassled him every time he visited his father, trying to listen in on their conversations, taunting him—telling him it was only a matter of time before they locked his ass up too.
Yes, Buckley Beauregard’s son had evil deep in his bones, in his blood—and he’d certainly lived down to the family name. He deserved no less. Byron had killed, assaulted, bribed, and blackmailed his way through life. One day he’d have a needle in his arm or a shiv in his back.
He supposed it was inevitable, but he’d give fate a run for its money. Better six feet deep than this godforsaken hellhole and better than death row. If Byron had his way, he’d go down fighting. Jon Bon Jovi style—“Blaze of Glory,” baby.
“You really want to do this, Jane?” They stood in line, waiting to be frisked by grim-faced guards before they headed inside.
While Jane had noble intentions, the only thing he gave a damn about was keeping her safe and safeguarding her professional reputation.
“Yes, and I’m not going to change my mind, so don’t even ask. Get your ID ready and don’t make any sudden movements. The guards are jumpy here.”
“I know the drill, darlin’. My daddy did his time here.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, right, so you’ve done this before.”
“Yeah, it ain’t my first rodeo. What’s the plan?”
“I’m offering to represent Jessup. I called the warden yesterday and asked for one of the meeting rooms.” Prisons had a set of conference rooms attorneys used to see their clients.
Mindful of the guards and other visitors around them, they kept their voices low.
“And what happens down the line when some defense attorney workin’ for Valentine subpoenas the visitor records and pokes around?”
“Then I’ll have some explaining to do. However, I’ve been questioned before, and I know how to shade the truth with my own connotations. There’s a reason I make a lot of money.” Her mouth twisted. “And if I go down? Well, I deserve to be disbarred, anyway.”
“You don’t.”
“The Bar Association disagrees with you.”
“Because they’re idiots. How are you gonna explain my presence?”
“I’ll say you and Mr. Jessup have a common legal interest. Therefore, privilege still applies to the conversation we’re about to have.”
“And what’s our common interest?” The way she maneuvered the law fascinated him.
“Since you’re both criminals, the courts aren’t going to probe too deeply.”
Byron grimaced.
“What?”
“You were a touch rude again.”
“Sorry, but it’s true.”
“They can’t because of privilege, correct?”
“Ironically, yes.” She frowned. “Unless Mr. Jessup waives it.”
“Well, we’ll impress on him the importance of the situation.” Byron smirked.
“You’re not going to threaten him.” She whipped around to fix him with a stern look.
Hard not to find her ire a turn on.
“Oh, yeah?”
She stepped closer, poking him in the chest. “Yes, because he’s my client and under my protection, and if you interfere, you won’t like the consequences.”
It was the first time he’d ever found a threat adorable.
“Yes, ma’am.” Byron tossed off a salute, and she backed off.
Her bravado crumbled. “I’m trying to do the right thing. I know you don’t under
stand any of this, but once you hear about the case, you’ll change your mind. As Georgia says, it’s seriously hinky.”
“You’re right about one thing, I don’t get it. Ain’t you ever heard the axiom, ‘no good deed goes unpunished’?”
“I don’t care.”
Dear Lord, save me from do-gooders.
“Believe me, it isn’t quite a smoking gun, but I can spin it. Jessup’s only got a few days before his sentence is carried out. The Innocence Project is working to get him a stay of execution while they push for another trial.”
Byron had heard of the project. Lawyers around the country worked on cases where they believed justice hadn’t been served. It didn’t always mean the criminals were innocent. Sometimes a trial was mishandled. Other cases had no DNA tying the accused to the act.
“You really believe in this cause, don’t you?”
“Since 1973, nearly a hundred and fifty people have been exonerated who’d already been executed. Their deaths are black marks against the legal system, and their blood is on the state’s hands. If I can save this man, I’m going to do it.” Jane squared her shoulders. “I’m an officer of the court, and when I find a miscarriage of justice, I’m duty-bound to right it.”
Despite himself, he found her crusader nature appealing. They were polar opposites in so many ways, yet being around her made him feel…something. Content? At ease? He idly wondered if, together, they somehow balanced the scales. She was innately good, a heroine, and he’d always been a villain.
“Let’s do this, then.” Byron held up his hands and approached the guards.
Half an hour later, Jessup was brought to the meeting room. It was an antiseptic environment—overly bright fluorescent lights overhead, a stainless steel table and stools which were welded to the floor, greenish-blue tile lined the walls. The harsh smell of industrial-strength bleach burned his nostrils.
Jessup was a ragged-looking man—thin and missing two teeth. As he’d learned from his father’s situation, prison dental care wasn’t the best, and they’d probably yanked the fuckers out rather than fill them. His hair had gone prematurely gray, and his nails were bitten to the quick.
Victim—that was Byron’s assessment. Byron always sized up his opponents because anticipating another person’s actions had allowed him to live longer. He needed to know whether or not someone was a threat. This poor bastard didn’t have much fight left in him. Byron could tell by the drooped shoulders, the darting eyes. Jessup was a walking punching bag.