Leather Pants, Page 2

Colton’s lawyer stood. “If Your Honor doesn’t object, I will be representing Mr. Colton and presenting arguments.”

  Dammit. I said Colton, didn’t I? Focus. Focus, Sarah.

  She smiled stiffly. “Yes, I meant to say counsel for the defense. Please proceed.”

  “If I may, Your Honor,” said the DA—a bald, gangly man with deep frown lines and thick glasses, “new evidence came to light five minutes ago. I request that we recess and confer in your chambers.”

  Relief washed over Sarah. She needed a quick break to gather herself. If only she’d known about today’s special guest, she could’ve prepared herself—freezing her panties and maybe a lobotomy.

  “Recess granted.” Sarah picked up her gavel and gave it a whack. “The jury will return to the jury room while we leather—I mean recess for fifteen minutes.” Jesus, Sarah. She stood and tried not to appear hurried, but she needed to make it to her chamber to gavel herself in the head a few times before the lawyers got there.

  She entered her office, dug a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge in the corner, and slugged it down. Okay. I can go to Wright and ask him to assign another judge. Wait. No, she couldn’t. Wright, the presiding judge who oversaw the courts in this county, hated her. Big time. He’d use any excuse to damage her career, including malicious gossip to prevent her from being considered for the state supreme court, her ultimate goal.

  Crap. I have to stick this out.

  Feeling woozy, Sarah took her seat behind her immaculate desk in her pristine office—floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one side, big window on the other, walls covered in her degrees and recognitions for public service—all overlooking the back alleyway of the building.

  Colt’s lawyer entered her chamber first, followed by the DA, who quickly informed her about a video that had just come out. It showed that Colton Young had been falsely accused of grabbing one of the officers’ guns and striking him in the face.

  The DA tapped on his phone and showed the screen to Sarah. “The video does show, however, that Colton Young urinated in public and relieved himself on the other officer’s leg.” The video looked to be filmed from behind a pile of boxes in a back alley, possibly behind a restaurant or something. How lucky. Maybe a fan had been following him.

  “Well,” Sarah said, lacing her fingers together on top of her desk, “this certainly changes things.” No trial. Yes! She held back the urge to do a victory tap dance. Not that she could tap dance.

  “We’ll be dismissing the felony charges,” said the DA, “but the defendant is a public figure and must be held accountable for his actions against the other officer. Especially in light of his track record.”

  He referred to Colton’s auto theft trial from three months ago. The jury found him innocent after the owner of the vehicle came forward, claiming he’d been drunk and had forgotten that he’d actually given Colt permission to borrow the car. Wanting to make a name for himself, the DA tried to make the charges stick by discrediting the owner of the car, who’d contradicted himself in the police report. A big fail. The jury could only find Colton Young guilty of wrecking a tree on public property, for which Sarah sentenced Mr. Young to pay a small fine. All this meant that the DA wasn’t going to let this go.

  The DA went on, “We want to continue with the trial and ensure justice is served for the fine people of California, who are tired of the entitled few getting away with this kind of illegal behavior.”

  Sarah wanted to roll her eyes. This guy acted like he was on TV, trying to impress the world. Idiot. Who had time for showboating? Their courtrooms were bogged down with so many cases—murders, rape, drug charges—it would be a waste of taxpayer dollars to hold a juried trial for a misdemeanor moistening of an officer’s pant leg, famous defendant or not. Especially when one policeman had brought false charges under very suspicious circumstances, a much, much bigger issue for the DA to spend his time on.

  Sarah looked at the DA. “While I am a devoted supporter of our police force, I suggest you do the world a favor and drop all charges.” In all likelihood, the charges wouldn’t stick anyway. Colton Young looked sauced and the jury would find said peeing infraction an accident.

  “I can’t do that,” replied the DA. “It sends the wrong message to the public.”

  So he’s worried about looking weak. Some days the politics of this job drove her insane. They were here for one thing and one thing only: to serve justice.

  Sarah looked at Colt’s lawyer, a very handsome man, and noticed he looked familiar. She’d probably had him in her court before. “Well?”

  He gave her a nod. “I’ll speak to Mr. Young. He’ll be changing his plea to guilty.”

  Strange. “Don’t you want to talk to your client—”

  “No. My client will plead guilty.”

  Normally, the defendant’s lawyer would want to discuss the situation with their client. On the other hand, the sooner this ended, the better. She wouldn’t have to stare at Mr. Hotti-hotastic in his smokin’ hot leather pants for a week and risk looking like an idiot—correction—a bigger idiot. The public would be served by eliminating a costly trial. Mr. DA would feel like he’d served his fat ego. Everyone would win.

  “Excellent.” She looked at her watch. “We’ll reconvene in five minutes.”

  The two attorneys left and Sarah plopped her forehead down on her desk. Thank God. All she needed to do now was accept Colt’s plea without fucking that up, and then she could worry about sentencing in three or four weeks.

  God, what was all that in there? I can’t stand his type. And she hated pompous jerks who reeked of entitlement even more. But that man…that man…

  She would never forget the first time she’d seen Colton back in college, when he had his first hit record. Her roommate kept playing this song of his—“A Love Song”—about a man who kept trying to find love, but every woman who walked into his life refused to see the real him.

  You want the money

  You want the fame

  How about wanting me, baby?

  After hearing the song five hundred times, Sarah began plotting to make sure her roomie, Melissa, and that damned boom box disappeared. Quicksand. Deep well. Accidental fire. She’d go mad if she had to hear that tune one more goddamned time!

  And then it happened.

  Sarah caught a glimpse of Colton Young in a music video. She remembered being unable to look away. Those sensual lips, those hazel eyes. She’d never seen a man like that. And the way he moved those hips and that body? So sexy. So confident. A complete badass.

  Sarah like. Sarah want. Sarah neeeed…

  Which was why she’d remained a fan all these years until he walked into her courtroom a few months ago for that auto-theft case. His empty gaze and lack of emotion instantly shook her. He didn’t seem to care about anything around him or anyone.

  Not at all the passionate alpha stud I thought him to be. Still, she couldn’t help getting all flustered in his presence—a mental hangover from years of being a huge fan.

  Sarah cringed, resenting the effect he had on her. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of throwing him in jail for two months. Wait, make it three. Because regardless of the current situation, Colton Young was not innocent. He’d been given every chance to live a very privileged life. He had the sort of money and opportunities given only to a handful. Yet he wanted to piss it away—literally—by acting like a lawless rebel and getting arrested every few months.

  Yes, Colton Young waved the bad-boy flag high in the air. And he definitely fell into her “throw the full book at him” category.

  Hot or not. She would serve justice and make that man cry.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Oh, crap! Please tell me you’re joking, Sarah!” screamed Taylor from across the table, the throbbing bass of the dance music making it difficult for Sarah to hear. Taylor, one of Sarah’s best friends since childhood, had organized the little birthday get-together tonight. During the day, Tay was an HR consultant, best known for recently m
arrying the infamous Bennett Wade, a billionaire turned philanthropist. Tay was also eight months pregnant and looked like she was about to pop in her chair.

  Sitting across from Tay, Sarah shook her head and sipped her whiskey sour, trying not to take offense from Taylor’s amusement. “I wish I were joking. But I really did tell him to ‘proceed with your leather pants.’”

  “Can’t wait to see the video!” Taylor’s big eyes filled with tears while she refrained from bursting with laughter.

  “Oh, stop.”

  “It’s just—you never lose your cool. Ever. You’re the most boringly responsible and calmest person I know.”

  “Gee, thanks, sweetie.” Sarah shot her a frown. “But it’s not funny. Wright’s going to hear about it, if he hasn’t already, and I have no doubt in my mind he’s going to make a stink.” Wright had done it the last time Colton Young came into her court. So what if Sarah had gotten a little tongue-tied and asked the famous rock star to remove his pants? Everyone knew she’d meant “hat.” Yes, hat. The guy had had the nerve to wear one in her court.

  “I’m screwed.” Sarah sighed and looked out over the ocean of people on the dance floor below, pumping their fists in time to the strobing lights. Everyone looked so happy. And, technically, she should be happy, too. She’d turned thirty-four today and had achieved everything on her list ahead of schedule. Yeah, that list. The one that spelled out her life’s goals along with the timing to hit each milestone. She had achieved everything to date with the exception of meeting Mr. Right while at Harvard Law School because, as her mother once put it, “You can’t stand men who always think they’re right.” It only brought out her argumentative claws. So, after law school, Sarah revised her goal to simply meeting Mr. Responsible and Interested.

  Stupid idea.

  There’d been zero time for men between her case load at Miller, Miller and Miller, a prestigious law firm, and later the Public Defender’s Office, where she’d quickly realized her calling was not being a lawyer, but being the one to ensure justice was served properly. Long story short, from that moment on, she dedicated every waking hour toward becoming a judge and lowered her romantic expectations to finding a respectable bed-bud until she could figure out what her real man-goal would be.

  Yeah, but you completely failed on the sex-buddy goal, too.

  Oh, be quiet. I’m working on it. She simply needed to get out more and work a little harder on her appearance so it communicated the right message to men.

  Tonight, for example, the message was “I am desperate for sex. ’Cause I have cobwebs down there.” And with her new red dress—a strapless number, too tight for panties—no man would mistake her for a responsible workaholic who believed in discipline and sacrifice to achieve one’s goals. Oh, no, no, señor. This outfit screamed wild, reckless, and easy. In other words, fuck me!

  “Well, try not to worry about work tonight.” Taylor rubbed circles on her black dress, right over her stomach. “Besides, I’m sure Judge Wright can’t get you fired over a few misspoken words.”

  “Trust me. Monday morning, I’ll be summoned to his office, where he’ll effectively make a shit mountain out of a molehill.” And she hated his office; it reeked of stale cigars and crotchety old man farts.

  “What’s up his ass anyway?” Taylor shook her head in disgust. She had a pet peeve about bosses who abused their power.

  “My hypothesis is he’s a woman hater. Prefers to see us all barefoot and pregnant—no offense.”

  “None taken. And see!” Tay stuck her foot out from under the table, showing off her sensible flats. “I gots me some shoes on!”

  Sarah laughed, polished off her drink, and raised her index finger in the air. Their waiter, who stood on the sidelines of the VIP table area, gave her a knowing nod. Refill time. “Fuck it! Bring me a pitcher!” She mimed a giant mug in her hand and pretended to guzzle. The waiter took the hint and scurried off to make her birthday wish come true.

  Too absorbed in problem solving, Taylor didn’t notice. “This is insanity. I’m telling Bennett when he gets here. He has to know someone who can get Judge Wright to back the hell off.”

  Taylor’s new husband, Bennett Wade, probably knew everyone on the planet, and if he didn’t know someone, they knew him. Which was how Taylor had scored this VIP table at the most exclusive club in San Francisco. Bennett—Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome with blue eyes—would be showing up any minute to keep an eye on the very pregnant Taylor. Holly, Sarah’s other best friend since forever, plus Taylor’s brother Jack would be joining them, too. Sarah had met Holly when Sarah’s parents rented the house next door. Holly then introduced Sarah to Taylor and the three of them became inseparable. As for Jack, a recently divorced plastic surgeon, he’d been like a brother to Sarah, mostly because she spent a lot of time at Taylor’s and he loved dishing out the noogies.

  Sarah looked across the table at Taylor. “Thanks for the offer, but I can’t have your rich, famous husband going anywhere near this—it would make me look weak, and that can’t happen.” She’d either survive this and reach her goal of becoming a state supreme court justice, or she’d sink. There was no middle ground.

  “Don’t be stupid! You can’t lose your bench. It’s too important to you,” Taylor said.

  True. Being a judge wasn’t simply a miracle—she was one of the youngest women ever to be elected to such a position—but it was her calling, too. Since the age of nine, when her own father went to prison, falsely accused of embezzlement, she’d understood the importance of justice being served. The damage done to her life because of one incompetent lawyer had been a key factor in her decision to study law.

  Now, she was the last chance for the innocent and for good people who’d simply made a mistake. Yes, sometimes people deserved second chances.

  But then there were the others. The people who’d had their chances and didn’t take them. All of which made her think of Colton for the hundredth time today. Why would a man who had everything seem hell-bent on throwing it all away?

  In the last year, he’d wrecked his motorcycle, nearly dying. Then there was a dismissed drug charge stemming from some Hollywood party in his hotel room. And, of course, he’d had another run-in three months ago, landing Colton in her courtroom that first time.

  And now this. Don’t see Bono running around peeing on policemen. Of course, Colton Young was much younger—in his mid-thirties—and more of an indie rock star, who sang everything from edgy folk-flavored pop songs to grinding Queen-esque anthems to heartbreaking angsty ballads about getting his heart ripped out. More of a Lenny Kravitz meets fun, meets the Stones. He seemed to love his variety of music as much as he loved his variety of hot water.

  Ugh! Why am I thinking about him?

  “You know what?” Sarah groaned her words. “I’m an idiot for talking about work when we’re supposed to be having fun and focusing on what’s important tonight: me.” She smiled and rose from her seat, holding on to the edge of the table to keep from falling. “And staying upright. I love upright!”

  Taylor laughed. “How many have you had?”

  Much tipsier than she’d realized, Sarah held up two fingers, then three. “Be right back!”

  “Wait a sec. Don’t go yet! I got you something.” Taylor reached for her purse and dug out a flat golden box with a white ribbon around it.

  “I gotta pee! I’ll be right back!” Sarah bellowed over the music.

  “No. You have to open it now! It will come in handy.”

  “Is it toilet paper? A pouch of wet wipes to sterilize the bathroom?”

  “Just open it!” Taylor stood and shoved the box toward Sarah. “Hurry up!”

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “This better be good, because I’m about to make a puddle on the floor.” She grabbed the box, untied the bow, and pried off the lid. Inside was a large cookie with a yellow smiley face and small envelope.

  “Oh God, you didn’t.” Sarah groaned.

  Taylor bobbed her head and grinned mischi
evously.

  Gack! No. This wasn’t just any old cookie. It was one of Ms. Luci’s famous Cupid cookies baked at the one and only Happy Pants Café in St. Helena, California. Getting your hands on one was akin to finding the golden ticket in a Wonka Bar. Women (and the occasional man) traveled from all over the world during “cookie season,” which came only once a year, and waited for hours to score one. Why? Because many people foolishly believed that if eaten, true love would be theirs in seven days. So silly. But everyone swore by them, including Taylor, who’d eaten one and had fallen in love with her now husband.

  Silly, silly, silly. Although, the mass wedding Ms. Luci threw every summer for her new believers was completely fun. Sarah had gone last year with Taylor.

  “Now eat it! He could be in this very club.” Taylor rubbed her baby bulge again, making little circles as if summoning the power of Buddha.

  “Nooo…” Sarah swiped her hand through the air, not wanting to admit that she thought the cookie was the biggest BS to end all BSs. “I’m going to save it in my freezer for a rainy day!”

  “Eat. It,” Taylor growled.

  Whoa. “O-okay there, pregnant demon. Your loyal subject Sarah is going to obey.” Sarah unwrapped the cookie, took a big bite, wrapped it back up, and stuck it in the box. “Mmmm…yummy. I’m already ovulating in anticipation!”

  Taylor’s brown eyes flickered with mock annoyance. “You dare speak ill of the cookies? I’m calling Ms. Luci!” She reached into her cleavage and pulled out her phone.

  “In your bra? What else do you have in there?”

  “Pregnant lady stuff. Now finish the cookie or I’m calling!” Taylor began punching numbers on the tiny screen.

  “No! No Luci.” That old woman was scary as hell. At Taylor’s very small and private wedding last year, Ms. Luci had baked the cake, and when Sarah didn’t eat any—zero-carb diet—Ms. Luci gave her the cursed Mexican stink eye all night.

  “Look! See!” Sarah reached into her purse, grabbed the cookie, and shoved the entire thing into her mouth, doing the sad drunken imitation of the Cookie Monster. “Mmm…” Sarah chewed, the crumbs falling down her cleavage.