Page 60 of Shared By the Highest Bidder

Kinsey was called hours ago that I’ll be here.

He’s lucky this wasn’t arranged yesterday. Usually, prisoners are dragged from their beds before dawn, driven here, and stuck into a holding cell. No food. No water.

After locking up everything except a legal pad, the case folder, and a pen, which is all I’m allowed to bring with me—no phone or laptop even, I pass checkpoint, after checkpoint, like I’m back in Afghanistan.

I reach the assigned visiting room and get into the cage. Odd reversal, the lawyers behind bars while the shackled inmates walk up and down a row of stools.

Admittedly, if I hauled my ass to Rikers, despite that being an all-day event for me, I’d be able to meet Kinsey in a closed office.

Not in this piss hole.

When I see a female brought in, I groan.

Females and males can’t mix here. I’ll have to wait until she’s done and then they can bring men in again.

I click my pen and start making deep, aggressive scribbles on the legal pad, my wrist swiping down and up. I don’t mean to draw anything, but I’m staring at... Bernadette’s jawline.

I’m sure it’s her.

Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m so attracted to her.

I admire the hell out of her. She’s in trouble and keeps a smile on her face and stays strong.

If I’m going to make some kind of commitment to a woman, I need someone strong with the power to bring me to my knees. That’s so fucking sexy.

I keep digging into the pad, Bernadette’s face so ingrained in my mind. Next, waves of her thick, rich hair in the form of brushed lines create her silhouette. I never knew I could draw like this. Her face sharpens on the page more and more.

Lost in my own world, I’m startled at the banging on the dirty plexiglass.

I look up, and even though I had a sense of what Michael Kinsey Douchebag Extraordinaire looks like based on his driver’s license, he’s more handsome than I gave him credit for.

Even with a shaved head and busted-up face. Everyone looks shitty on their license. I can see why Bernadette was attracted to him.

A guard assists him in getting settled into the chair facing me.

I immediately hate this guy, and it burns my stomach that I have to help him. This asshole means nothing to me. I’m here to destroy Pratt Sterling’s perfect record. Fuck him and his chance to be D.A.

I glance down at the very rough sketch of how I see Bernadette, big trusting eyes gazing at me like I’m a hero. Anger melts away the more I look at her. I imagine how good she and Ashton and I will look fucking in my bedroom’s mirror.

Calmness settles over me. I can face this mess with a clear head. Make practical decisions without angerclaiming its pound of flesh.

Even ruining Pratt Sterling feels hollow now that I’m talking to Ashton again.

Sterling is the villain here. Not Kinsey, who’s just my vehicle. Sterling still needs to pay, even if it means this scumbag who hurt my Bernadette is going to walk.

Wait... She’s not mine.

Fuck, why does she feel like she belongs to me?

Maybe because she’s mine to care for and protect this month.

“Nice suit. Armani?” Kinsey says, finally seated.

“None of your business,” I snap. “If you were paying my fees, fees that would pay to get this baby drycleaned, maybe I’d tell you.”

My suit is a five-grand custom number. Like most of my suits.

“Bernie the blubber came through?”

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