He’s right, and it’s worked really well for me . . . until now.

“Do you know why I do that?”

He nods. “Yes.”

Then nothing.

Fucking therapists. All about the head games.

I lift an eyebrow. “Care to share with the class?”

He clears his throat. “You experienced a severe trauma at a young age. Unlike most teenagers, you never underwent the ‘invincibility phase’—the time in an adolescent’s life when they hold the unreasonable belief that nothing bad will happen to them, regardless of any unhealthy behavior. Because you knew all too well that bad things do happen. That safety is an illusion, and awful events strike at random, through no fault of our own.

“The loss of your leg left you with two impressions that you carry with you to this very day. The first is that life is unpredictable and cruelly short. So you seize it, squeezing in as many experiences as you can, accomplishing goals with almost frenetic energy—because you never know when your time will run out.

“The second, which is emotionally counterproductive to the first, is you guard your feelings—for women in particular. You keep a tight rein on your affections because you never know when their time will run out. And the pain of possibly losing someone you love—that is your greatest fear.”

His words bounce around in my head. And they sound spot-on.

Which doesn’t mean I have to believe them.

“I’ve met someone.” I take a sip of water from the glass on the table in front of me. “Well . . . I’ve become reacquainted with someone would be more accurate, I guess.”

Now it’s Waldo’s turn to sit forward. Because he’s never heard me talk about any woman in the tone I’m using right now.

Serious. Desperate.

I tell him all about Kennedy. About our childhood, boarding school, the Longhorn case, and everything that’s happened between us since I saw her again at that party. I tell him how much I want to make things work with her, how I want to protect her and fulfill her every dream. And mostly, I talk about how badly I don’t want to screw it all up. Including the Longhorn case.

After I’ve caught him up to speed, I ask, “Do you believe in soul mates, Waldo?”

He does the eyeglass-cleaning thing. After he slides them on his face he replies, “I think the more appropriate question is—do you believe in soul mates, Brent?”

“I do now.” I try to put my surging thoughts into words. “All these years, Kennedy’s never let anyone else in. She has her reasons, but the bottom line is, there hasn’t been any guy who’s gotten past her fire-breathing dragon. And what if . . . what if the reason I’ve never let myself fall in love with a woman is because I didn’t have anything to give? Because I’d already given my heart to her when we were seventeen years old? And all these years . . . I’ve just been waiting for her to come back to me with it.”

We’re silent for several long moments; the only sound is the ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

“What do you think about that, Waldo?”

Slowly, he smiles at me with pride. And confidence.

“Well, Brent—I think of our two theories, I prefer yours.”

15

“God . . . yessss.”

Kennedy’s hips jerk as she rides me—the smooth strokes turning rough and desperate. I palm one tit, pinching the pointed nipple, while I suckle the other enthusiastically.

“Oh . . . oh!”

Her chin falls to the top of my head as she comes, her muscles milking my cock mercilessly—and I explode inside her with an unrestrained shout.

A few minutes later we lie tangled up—her head on my chest, our slick limbs and sweaty torsos clinging to each other in a soothing way. My fingers slide up and down her arm.

And I think.

Kennedy rested her case against Justin Longhorn a few days ago. I put my new computer expert on the stand the following day, to at least suggest some form of reasonable doubt. Now, all that’s left is Justin. He’ll testify in his own defense . . . and then it’ll be done.

And I wonder if this is how Serena Williams or Peyton Manning feel when they compete against their siblings. So fucking conflicted. I want to win the case—for Justin, for my own throbbing sense of competition. Yet I don’t want Kennedy to lose.

I blow out a breath and start with, “So listen . . . I know you think you’re winning the case . . .”

Kennedy’s voice is velvet to my ears, the way she always sounds after I give her three orgasms. “I don’t think. I know I am.”

I squeeze her arm gently. “Right. But, the thing is, tomorrow—your case is gonna implode. I’m going to put Justin on the stand, and there’s no way a jury will send him away for twenty years after they hear him testify. You haven’t given them the option of a lesser charge, so it’s going to be twenty years, or an acquittal. You need to make a plea deal with me, Kennedy.”

She sits up and stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me.

“You rotten bastard!”

And you know how the rest of that conversation went. She takes a swing at me, I toss her clothes out the window, etc., etc.

• • •

“Now listen up, buttercup.”

I look down at her beautiful, infuriated face, locking my eyes with hers.

“I’m falling in love with you.”

Kennedy goes completely still beneath me.

And I shake my head. “No, I am in love with you. When I look at you, think about you, I can’t decide if I want to fuck you, strangle you, or just hold you in my arms. Usually all three. And if that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”