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  He continues staring black daggers at me, waiting for my response, along with the other two men in the room.

  "I haven't heard your side of the story, seen any of the reports, or evidence yet." I force my mouth to respond with a politically correct response.

  "Are you going to ask me?"

  "Well, of course we'll need to get your statement," I respond, annoyed when my shaky voice makes me sound like an uncertain little girl.

  "Mr. Malone, why don't you and I head to my office to discuss the general procedures and timeline we're looking at while Page and Jackson get to work. The attorney-client privilege is severed whenever there's someone other than the client and attorney present during confidential communications," my dad explains, narrowing his gaze at me in warning when he stands up as if to leave.

  My heart is suddenly racing in my chest with the onset of my panic. He's leaving me in here? Alone with an angry rapist? I'm so surprised that he's abandoning me in this situation that I'm too paralyzed to react. Without a backward glance, the two men leave the room before I can think of an excuse to ask them to stay. The door clicking shut makes me jump, instantly putting me on edge. The room falls silent and I can't yet find any words for several awkward seconds.

  "So," I finally say, and have to pause to clear the fear from my throat. "Let's start at the beginning." I poise my shaking fingers over the laptop home row keys in front of me, the cursor sitting on a blank Word document on the screen, ready to take notes.

  "The beginning of what?" the delinquent asks, leaning back casually in his chair like he's posing for a photo shoot.

  My father just threw the file in front of me when I was ambushed, so I haven't had a chance to see what information it contains. I grab the folder and quickly thumb through the pages, but the only thing inside is a few emails about setting up this appointment, and a stack of the articles printed from various media outlets.

  "Well, what are you officially charged with?” I ask.

  The man suddenly rises to his feet, towering over the table, and I can't help my startled twitch. After he removes some papers from his back pocket, he practically throws them at me, making them slide across the table before he sits back down. "See for yourself."

  I try to take slow, deep breaths to calm down my galloping heart when I pick up the tri-folded documents to begin scanning them. The conditions of his release are listed on the first sheet, showing he posted a fifty thousand dollar secured bond. He isn't allowed to contact the victim, of course, and he can't travel out of his state of residence without the permission of pretrial services. Flipping over, the next page is a warrant for First Degree Rape. The New Jersey General Statute is cited word for word, along with the name of the victim, Christina Loftis. The second warrant is for Assault by Strangulation, alleging that the defendant wrapped both hands around the victim's neck during intercourse, squeezing until the victim couldn’t breathe. Wow, that is some sick stuff even for me, and I've unfortunately been exposed to some freaky fetishes.

  "How the fuck are you going to represent me if you think I'm guilty?" The criminal practically snarls at me, startling me with his tone and profanity.

  "I didn't say I think you're guilty." I'd only thought it.

  "You didn't have to, it was all over your snobby face from the moment I walked into this room." He hangs his head with a sigh after calling me out, rubbing his temple like he has a headache. I know the feeling.

  "Look, I don't give a shit what you think. Are you going to actually help me or not? Because if you're not, I'll find someone who will."

  I want to beg him to take his case somewhere else, but if I let him walk, I'll never hear the end of it. According to my father, this is a huge case that our firm needs. Maybe, just maybe, if I show my dad that I can handle something so screwed up as this particular case, he'll actually let me start practicing law on my own, and give me a little credit for accomplishing something for once.

  "I want to help you," I tell him.

  His dark eyes narrow and cut to mine, likely trying to read my sincerity. "You want the free publicity? Trying to make a name for yourself? That's all fine with me as long as you don't fuck me over."

  "I won't…fuck you over," I respond, forcing the f-bomb past my lips, which earns me a small smirk. The slight lifting of the corners of his lips even manages to make him appear a little less frightening for a brief second.

  "Good to know," he mutters softly.

  I may not be able to sleep at night knowing I'm trying to help a beautiful monster get off scot-free after doing something so abhorrent, but ethically…well, I'll do what I've been hired to do. Defend him to the best of my abilities.

  "Okay, so let's get to work. Who's Christina Loftis?" I ask.

  He shakes his head and scoffs. "A cage cunt I wish I'd never met. Or fucked."

  Oh God, that chicken salad I had for lunch is threatening to spew all over the conference room table.

  "Consensually," the criminal adds, probably after seeing my stricken expression. "I didn't even remember who the bitch was until I went back through my phone on the way here. I think she first threw herself at me after a fight I won back in April in Atlantic City." The man's ego knows no bounds. "I'm pretty sure we went back to my hotel room, and well, you know…" he trails off.

  "Actually, I don't know, so you need to be honest and tell me everything. Something you may feel is a minor detail may actually be important to your case. What happened in the hotel room in April?" I forced myself to ask as I type up a few notes.

  He stays silent for a minute, and when I lift my eyes back to his, he gives me a cocky, lecherous grin before he continues. "The slut was on her knees trying to suck my cock before the hotel door shut."

  Holy cheese on rice! I gulp, swallowing that crass little tidbit down, and hope my eyes aren't bulging like a cartoon character.

  "If she's the one I think she is," he continues. "I'm pretty sure I pulled her mouth off of my cock, hiked her skirt up, and fucked her against the wall. Without her protest."

  My cheeks suddenly feel sunburnt. Hearing about this man's sexual exploits is so freaking uncomfortable. I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to do this after all.

  "Afterward, we both undressed and got into bed. I think I fucked her from behind, if that detail's important, and then we fell asleep. The next morning I had an early plane to catch, so she gave me her number," he says, then pauses, reaching up to scratch his head like he's thinking. I don’t drool over the sight of his massive, flexed bicep like it's a three layer chocolate cake. I was just um, really thirsty, that's all.

  "Actually," he continues. "I'm pretty sure she put her name and number in my phone herself, and told me to call her. She must have gotten my number out of there, too."

  "Okay, so did you…talk to her again after that?" I ask, while my fingers click rapidly over my keyboard to keep up with his story.

  "Not until recently. I remember her name showing up in my call log a few times over the last few weeks. I ignored all of her text messages and voicemails just like I do to all the other sluts. The next time I was in Atlantic City was for my brother's fight last weekend. I still have the voicemail she left me saying she knew I was in town since she'd seen me in the crowd on TV, and she wanted a repeat. After the fights were over I was...bored, and decided to call her back. She asked to come up to my hotel room. We met up about thirty minutes later," he says.

  "Which hotel were you staying at?" I ask him.

  "The Trump Taj Mahal both times, which is where both the fights were hosted, too."

  "Got it. Keep going with as many details as you can remember," I encourage.

  "I knew she was drunk when she walked in. Her speech was slurred and she was staggering. I remember smelling the alcohol on her breath. She bitched about me not calling her before she tried to push me backwards toward the bed. After I sat down she climbed on me and unzipped my pants to start trying to fuck me. I had to stop her to grab a condom because she was in such a hurry she
was trying to get it in without one. When we were finished she asked if I wanted her to stay. I told her she got what she came for and that I was going to sleep, so I didn’t give a fuck either way. She called me an asshole and left. The next thing I know, two Montgomery County cops show up to my apartment and arrest me last Friday. They took me to the local shithole jail, and since it was the weekend, I was held there for three goddamn days on a writ before the Atlantic City PD finally showed up to take me into their custody. Late last night I went in front of the magistrate and was finally given a bond. My dad said he got there early this morning to post it, and the bastards took until noon to release me."

  "Okay," I say, thinking through the next step of gathering evidence based on what he's told me. "I'm going to need you to get me the hotel receipts, plane tickets, and your cell phone records. Also, I'll need copies of all the voicemails you have, and screenshots of text messages from her. Oh, and we should probably hurry up and get a subpoena ready for the hotel to see if they have any surveillance video from that night before it gets recorded over. So that we can narrow it down for them, what time was it when she arrived at your hotel room and when she left?" I ask as I type up a to-do list. I'm greeted with silence for so long I finally look back up at his startlingly beautiful face, meeting his dark stare. "What?" I ask insecurely.

  "Um, yeah, sure. I can probably get you all that," he finally responds. "And she got there about midnight and left probably before one."

  "Great. So what about witnesses? Anyone see you with her that night?"

  "Jude heard me on the phone with her on the way back to our rooms. His room was next door to mine, so if she had protested he would've heard through the thin-ass walls."

  "Jude?" I ask. "What's his last name?"

  "Malone. He's my little brother," he says, sounding softer and much less hostile than most of the previous conversation.

  "Is he at least eighteen years old?"

  "Yeah, even though he still acts like a juvenile, he just turned twenty." The criminal snorts, and I swear it looked like he almost smiled.

  "Do you think he'd be willing to sign an affidavit swearing he didn't hear anything…unusual?" I ask.

  "I'm sure he would," Jackson says immediately like his brother would lie and say it, even if it wasn’t true. Relatives are crappy witnesses because they always side with their family members, but it's better than having no witnesses.

  "Are you friends with this woman on Facebook, Twitter, or any other social media site?"

  "Hell no."

  "Well, if you can give me some details about her, it'd be worth doing a search to see if we can find her profile and print any public pictures or posts. Do you have any social media accounts?" I ask.

  "Yeah, there are some fan pages but the coaching staff maintains them for me."

  "Is there anything negative, harmful, or damaging to the case on any of them? Because if there is you should shut them down."

  "Um, I don't know. I'll have them double check."

  "Okay, but do it as soon as possible, and I want printed copies of all of them to see for myself. The prosecutor's investigator is probably printing off every word on there as we speak."

  "Fine."

  "Any questions?" I ask, even though I'm not qualified to answer any with my very limited criminal defense experience.

  "No. I just…you've got to make this shit go away. I can't fight until the case is over, and I need to fight."

  "We'll do our best," I tell him, standing up and walking to the door to show him out.

  "Good," he says as he follows me to the door.

  Even at my gigantic, unfeminine height of five-eight, not including my three inch heels, standing beside Jackson Malone makes me feel petite. He's hovering so close, looking downright dangerous with muscles twice the size of most normal men. Although, his midnight eyes aren't quite as menacing when he makes his parting comment. "You might actually be worth the fortune I'm paying you."

  Chapter Two

  Jackson "Jax" Malone

  What a fucking week. It's not that I never expected my ass to get thrown in jail. After my trouble-making and brawling youth, I'm sure everyone who knows me is surprised that it took me to the ripe old age of twenty-seven before I was put behind bars. It's a shame, however, that my first arrest is for complete bullshit.

  I head for the lobby of the big, fancy law office to wait for my dad to finish up in his meeting. Sitting down, I pull out my phone to type a list of all the shit the uptight, elitist bitch lawyer asked me to bring her. Her disgust and instant judgment had pissed me off, but I have to admit, she does seem to be really damn smart. And she's hot as fuck.

  With her long, lean legs and light blonde hair pulled back in a neat little bun, she looks like a Playboy pinup or a Victoria's Secret model dressed up to do a naughty attorney photo-shoot. In my fantasy of her as a centerfold, she'd be unbuttoning the professional suit jacket to reveal thin pieces of black lace that barely cover her perfect tits.

  Okay, so maybe I'm a little horny after going four days without getting laid. That had to be a record for me. While I was locked up it was hard to think about fucking when I feared for my life every goddamn second.

  I'd thought the local jail was bad until they threw me in general population in Atlantic City. Both smelled like dirty, sweaty men, shit, and piss, but in AC the floors of the crowded cell actually contained dirt, piss, and shit. There were only two bunks for four dudes, so the unlucky two of us won the lottery to receive roll out mats. I leaned against the wall last night rather than risk floating away in the river of filth. Also, I didn't want to close my eyes and get attacked or shanked. The crackhead trapped in the cell with us couldn't stop scratching himself or fidgeting. He said all kinds of delusional shit, like the cops hid cameras in his apartment, and he knew for a fact that one of us had snitched on him. After that he alternated staring at me and our other two cellmates with his unblinking crazy-eyes and a goofy-ass smile that had me convinced that he'd kill us in our sleep just for shits and giggles.

  Thank God I was only in AC for one night. I never want to see the inside of that type of cage again in any district. I'll probably have nightmares from the trauma of the last four days.

  I'm a badass motherfucker, spending the last seventeen years training to fight. It's not that I'm worried about taking on any of the punks in there, or even three or four of them at a time. But the feeling of suffocating because it was so goddamn hot, with the air rank and stale in such a small box? That's some scary shit.

  I swear there was a lack of oxygen, and more carbon dioxide than can possibly be healthy in that bitch. I'll probably have to sleep with all my doors and windows open with the air conditioning on full blast for the next few weeks.

  So despite how much this whole situation sucks, I'll do whatever it takes to avoid going back to that hell hole. I’ll even follow the orders of the blonde, bitchy lawyer.

  Finally, after what seems like forever, my dad and the father of the prude ice princess come out of one of the offices.

  I hate seeing my dad so upset, and I'm still not sure if he and Jude believe I'm innocent or not. They both know my battle with rage better than most. The anger I've been struggling with since I was ten years old, beating and bloodying anyone and everyone who said a wrong word to me. That's the reason I got into legitimate fighting in the first place. The classes were a bribe to motivate me to stop getting suspended from school. So it's probably not a stretch for them to think I'd do this type of thing.

  As a newly single father raising us on one income, my dad scraped up money we didn't have in order to give me some type of outlet to constantly grapple with my demons. And Jude, well, he's taken the most punishment over the years. The fucked up part is he always kept coming back for more, no matter how many times I knocked him down or out.

  I'd like to think that in some way I've been helping Jude get his fighting career to where mine is today, or more like where it was a week ago. But for the first few years wh
en he started training with me, that thought never crossed my mind while I was repeatedly beating the shit out of my younger brother. I'm not sure which is worse; being angry at him or feeling guilty for taking my jealousy out on him.

  I can't say I'm real happy about the loss of income while this shit drags out, or the dent I just made in my bank account either. A huge chunk of my hard earned money flushed down the toilet all because some cage cunt decided it'd be fun to ruin my life.

  Before my dad posted my bond and my feet even hit the ground, Mack Miller, the President of the IFC, the International Fighting Championship, had left me a voicemail saying that my contract with him at the largest and best MMA promotion company has been put on hold until the disposition of the case. When I talked to Coach Briggs on the way here, he told me that just like the IFC, all of my sponsors have dropped me until this nightmare ends.

  I'm not worried about making ends meet, just pissed I'm throwing money away. As the reigning middleweight champion of the world for the past five years, between promotion purses and advertisers, my bank account sits comfortably with seven figures, even after this unexpected hit. I'm worried that I might not ever be able to get in the cage again, and I have to admit that the idea of ending up behind bars for the long haul is scary as fuck.

  "Jackson, did Page get your statement?" the arrogant, white-haired attorney asks. I'm pretty sure the old man's scared of me. I'm an expert at reading people's fear in and out of the cage. He avoided eye contact with me, and ran out of the conference room like his ass was on fire. His daughter's got more balls than him. Even though she was practically shaking with nervousness being alone with me, she held her ground and didn't run scared.

  I stand up when they approach and nod in response before taking a few steps toward the old man to test my theory. "Yeah, pretty much."