When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss (Aspen Grove)

Chapter 6

T he next afternoon, I pull up to the apartment building Christian and his mom live in to find him waiting outside on the curb.

He’s sporting the baseball cap I got him at a Yankees game last year that keeps his shaggy blond hair from falling in his eyes. He has an athletic build with broad shoulders from playing football and baseball.

I cover the cost for him to explore any extracurricular activities he’s interested in, wanting him to have every opportunity I never had growing up.

“Hey, Dawson,” he says, grinning.

I hop off my bike and give him a fist bump. “Hey, kid.”

“When are you going to give me a ride?” He adjusts his baseball cap as he admires my limited-edition Confederate FA-13 Combat Bomber. “I’d be the coolest kid at school if you dropped me off on this thing.”

He’s only fourteen, but in many ways he’s more focused and disciplined than most adults. With his mom working long hours as a nurse at the local hospital, Christian helps with the household chores and cooks so she has a meal waiting for her after a long shift.

“Sorry, Christian. I promised your mom I wouldn’t take you on my bike.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well, I’m still going to keep asking.” He runs his hand over the bike. “One of these days she’ll come around.”

I’ve got to give him credit for his perseverance.

I pull out an envelope from my leather jacket and hand it to him. “In my opinion, this is even better than going for a ride.”

Christian gives me a skeptical look when he opens it up, his eyes growing wide when he takes out the booklet of tickets. “Are you serious? Is this what I think it is?” He’s grinning from ear to ear.

A swell of pride fills me as I see his face light up. After everything he’s been through, witnessing the joy in his eyes means everything. I’ll always go the extra mile for this kid, no matter what.

“If you guessed season tickets to the Mavericks, you would be right,” I say.

“This is incredible. Thanks, Dawson—you’re the best big brother ever,” Christian exclaims, throwing his arms around me in a hug.

I pause briefly before wrapping one arm around him in a side hug. Growing up in foster care, most of the physical touches I received were harsh and impersonal, aside from the occasional handshake or hug from a case worker, and even those were few and far between.

Christian and I might not be part of a Big Brothers Big Sisters program, but it became a running joke when we started hanging out. Before long, he was calling me his big brother and I’ve found that I don’t mind it.

I tousle his hair. “Sure thing, kid.”

“Can I go show Koda? He’s our new neighbor and loves the Mavericks too.”

“Yeah, I’ll wait out here. You still down to get tacos and ice cream?”

“Hell yeah.” He grins. “My mom’s shift ends in an hour. Can we get her something, too? She loves tacos.”

“Of course, but watch your language,” I warn.

He crosses his arms, a stern expression on his face. “How come? You swear all the time.”

“I’m allowed to because I’m an adult. Plus, if your mom thinks I’m being a bad influence, she won’t let us hang out anymore.”

“Fine,” he mumbles.” But someday, I’ll be an adult, and then you can’t tell me what to do.”

I chuckle. “We’ll see about that. Now go show Koda your tickets so we can go. I’m starving.”

As he runs off, I can’t help thinking about how far he’s come since we met.

Two years ago, Colby called and asked if I could help one of his former colleagues at the New York City Public Defender’s Office with Christian’s juvenile case.

Christian had been caught shoplifting a pair of earrings from a high-end boutique on the Upper East Side, and the store owner was insistent on pressing charges. He told the police that his mom was working three jobs to make ends meet, and he just wanted to get her something nice for her birthday.

Generally, petty theft doesn’t warrant a stint in juvenile detention. But the judge handling Christian’s case was the same one I had when I was falsely accused of stealing shoes and wanted to make an example of Christian.

I agreed to help with the case pro bono, unwilling to stand by and let him be unfairly punished by the same man who nearly ruined my life. After some digging, my team uncovered that this judge owns a stake in the juvenile detention center where he sends most offenders. The more kids he sends there, the greater his financial kickbacks.

Armed with a dossier brimming with blackmail, I paid the judge a visit. He publicly announced his retirement the next morning. Within a month, his life fell apart—his reputation was tarnished by a high-profile investigation, his bank account in the Cayman Islands was drained, and his luxury vacation home in Malibu was seized to pay his legal fees.

What can I say? When someone crosses me or those I care about, they suffer the consequences.

After Christian’s case was dismissed, I asked his mom for permission to spend time with him. What started as monthly meetups evolved into a weekly routine. We usually grab a bite to eat and attend sporting events, and I go to his games when I can. I’m determined to make sure Christian has the chance to pursue his passions and build a future he’s proud of, like Colby and Martha did for me.

My phone pings in my pocket, and I check to find I have a message from the firm’s team chat system. I’d sent Reese a message earlier requesting her review of the discovery documents from the opposing counsel on the Irving case and that she create an index for easy reference.

I wasn’t expecting a response from her until Monday, but I can’t deny the boost my mood gets at seeing her reply.

Reese: I just saw your email. I’m not at home today, or I’d get to it sooner.

Dawson: Did you read the whole email?

Reese: Yes.

Dawson: Then you saw my note about handling it on Monday?

Reese: I did.

Dawson: So, you’re messaging me over the weekend because you miss me? I’m touched.

Reese: Don’t flatter yourself.

Reese: Rob expects me to reply to emails over the weekend, so I assumed you’d want the same.

A growl rumbles from my throat. Rob has a habit of taking advantage of employees, and if I find out he’s been mistreating Reese, he’s finished. Fuck my promise to Maxwell to keep him on at the firm.

I run my fingers through my hair, frustrated with my line of thinking. There’s no rational explanation for why Reese has this kind of effect on me. She’s just a paralegal who happens to work for me, or at least that’s the story I’m sticking to.

Dawson: You’re officially banned from working on the weekends.

Reese: What if I like breaking the rules?

Dawson: If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to rile me up, Ms. Taylor.

Reese: Now why would I want to do that, Mr. Tate?

I groan at her use of my last name, recalling how it sounds when she says it in person. Damn, this woman is fun to spar with, and the best part is, she gives as good as she gets.

While most people cower in my presence, she boldly puts me in my place. Toeing the line between playful banter and stepping over it is a dangerous yet exhilarating game.

Dawson: Of course you are, Ms. Taylor. Forgive me.

Reese: See you on Monday.

Dawson: Looking forward to it, Red.

As I tuck my phone back into my pocket, I realize that for the first time in ages I’m looking forward to going into the office on Monday.