back on. âYou expect me to believe youâre the only person on the planet that happens to? This isnât the first time youâve done this.â
âIâm sorry.â She sighed, reaching out to him. He leaned away. She felt awful. She regretted pushing away. She should have just gone through with it even if it wasnât what she really wanted. âI just feel sluggish. I can make it up to you in the morning.â
Justin didnât respond as he got out of bed.
âWhat are you doing?â she asked. âI know youâre mad, Justin, but shit, Iâm sorry. Maybe in the morning, we can . . .â
âDonât do me any favors,â Justin said as he snatched his laptop. Without looking at her, he turned and left the room. âIâm gonna be downstairs. Donât wait up for me.â
âCome on,â she called after him. âItâs not that serious.â
âYou started it, Sherise!â He slammed the bedroom door behind him.
Now she really regretted not following through. What was wrong with her? She had resolved to make love to Justin before leaving Cadyâs room just moments earlier. She wanted him, but it just fizzled. She wasnât feeling it from herself. Or was she not feeling it from him? It couldnât be him. He was upset that they werenât making love.
âWhat is wrong with you, girl?â she asked herself as she reached over to Justinâs side and turned off the lamp. She was in need of some serious groove therapy.
3
B illie wasnât sure what she had been expecting, but she hadnât been expecting what she got. As she entered one of the smaller conference rooms in her law firm offices where her new pro bono client was waiting for her, she stopped at the door. Standing at the other end of the room, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the room overlooking Farragut Square, was Ricky Williams.
He turned to her and started walking toward her. He was a very good-looking, milk chocolateâcolored man with a clean-cut, clean-shaven look. He had piercing black eyes, a strong nose, and rigid jaw. His short dark hair was cut close to his head and he looked a few inches over six feet. He was sharply dressed in casual khakis and a blue and white striped button-down neatly tucked inside.
âYou must be Billie Carter,â he said in a deep voice.
Billie quickly pulled herself together and met him halfway. She shook his hand as firmly as she could. He had a strong grip. âYes, I am. And you must be Ricky Williams.â
âWell,â he said. âYouâre . . . I saw your picture on the law firm Web site and, well, it doesnât do you justice. Youâre very pretty.â
âThatâs nice,â she said, feeling a little uncomfortable. No, a lot uncomfortable all of the sudden. âItâs very nice to meet you.â
âI donât know if youâre going to feel that way for long,â he joked.
She gestured for him to sit down at the conference table behind him. âAre you telling me that youâre a nightmare client?â
âIâm probably nothing like some of the people youâve defended.â
She joined him, sitting at the corner of the table, placing her file folders down. She studied him for a second. No, he wasnât at all what sheâd expected. âSo youâve been researching me?â
âI know you used to be a public defender,â he said.
âWell, this isnât a criminal case,â she said, âso thatââ
âNot yet,â he interrupted.
Billie paused, intrigued. âYou planning on breaking the law?â
âI feel like itâs already been broken,â he said. âNot by me, but by the government. Just donât get your hopes up. Iâm not.â
âI always get my hopes up,â Billie said. âItâs a personality flaw. I believe in my client. I fight for my client. And I