Leather Pants

  Sarah exhaled and closed her eyes. “Yes. I really do.” And it wasn’t a game. How could she, in good conscience, allow anything further to happen when at the end of the day, it would mean chucking her goals and dreams out the window? She could not date a guy like Colt and be nominated for state supreme court. Not to mention if her little indiscretion got out, there would be real consequences.

  “I’m trying to help. Why do you want me to leave?” he asked.

  “I will respond with my own question: Why do you feel the need to clean my apartment when I can handle it on my own?”

  “I may have suffered a brain injury, Sarah, but I’m well aware that you helped me first.”

  She stared, waiting for him to elaborate.

  Taking the cue, he added, “I know you could’ve gone much, much harder on me, but you didn’t. You could’ve given me jail time.”

  Sarah felt her heart cave in on itself. God, what a horrible person she was. It wasn’t exactly her doing that he’d gotten off so easily. It was Wright’s.

  He went on, “So while I could give you some idiotic excuse about my hope of finding my original notebook here in your destroyed apartment, it would be a lie. I’m here—still here—because today, singing about you with those kids, is the first time I’ve been able to play a guitar since the accident. It makes me feel good to be around you. Nothing more, Sarah.”

  Really? No guitar in a year? But he was known for that. His guitar playing was almost as insanely captivating as his voice.

  His honesty and sincerity only made her feel shittier for keeping the truth from him. I have to tell him about the video and Judge Wright. Even if he forgets, I have to tell him. “Colton—”

  “Please, call me Colt. It’s actually my real name. My mother was a fan of old Western movies—my first agent thought that it made me sound too much like an NRA fan—fuck! Look at me; I remembered something new.” He reached for her waist and spun her around in a hug. “See. You are my lucky charm, Sarah. I knew it.”

  What? No! She wasn’t his lucky anything.

  “Colton—Colt, put me down.” She held a brittle smile across her lips. He obeyed, but beamed down at her. No, no, nooo… “Hey, stop that!”

  “Stop what? Feeling happy? You did this to me, Sarah.”

  “No! Don’t get all mushy and googly-eyed on me.”

  He frowned.

  “There’s something I need to tell you. And part of me hopes you’ll forget and never write it down, but I think you should know that—”

  The doorbell buzzed, followed by a loud pounding on the front door downstairs, startling them both.

  “Jesus.” She looked up at Colton, or Colt. Whatever! “Stay here. I’ll be right back.” She turned to head for the door, but Colt sidestepped her and marched down the stairs.

  “What if it’s the person who broke in?” He reached for the handle.

  “No!” She tackled him and they ended up in a heap on the small landing.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Colt snarled.

  “Like hell you’re opening that door. You can’t be seen here!” She hopped to her feet and peered through the peephole. She saw a van with a satellite dish and a small crowd of reporters.

  “Oh, God. I’m fucked,” she mumbled.

  “Why the hell did you tackle me?” said Colt, rubbing his shoulder. “And where the hell did you learn to sack a person like that?”

  “The press is here, probably to cover the break-in.” Sarah let out a breath and squeezed her eyes shut before sinking down on the stairs and covering her eyes. The hum of voices outside filled the air. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  Colt sat next to her and patted her on the shoulder. “Sarah, I’ve been dealing with this for years. They’ll leave after a few hours.”

  “And if they don’t? I have to be at work in the morning.”

  “Then go. They can’t stop you.”

  “What about you? They can’t see you here.”

  “I’ll stay put until they’re gone,” he offered.

  “You need to be at Luci’s, ready to work bright and early. That’s the rule. Legally binding.”

  “Then I’ll leave, Sarah,” he said impatiently. “It’s not as if I’ve actually done anything wrong by being here, now have I? And it’s a free country; I can visit who I like.”

  She jerked up her head. “You. Don’t. Get it. Do you? If they see you leaving here, they’ll know we know each other and they’ll assume we’re involved.”

  “So?”

  “I’ll lose my reputation, my bench—I won’t even be able to practice law.” She covered her face, holding back the tears. “Fuck.”

  “I think you’re making this a much bigger deal than it is.”

  She stood up, trying her best not to punch him in his pretty face. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m a judge. And not just any judge, I am your judge. And here you are, nine o’clock at night in my apartment. I can’t be seen with you.”

  “You’re behaving like I’m some sort of criminal.”

  “Colt, don’t be so naïve. You can’t be seen with me either. And technically, you are a criminal.”

  “All-fucking-right, Your Honor. Enough. I can be a sympathetic man, but even I have my limits at sucking up insults from women who are a little too big for their britches.”

  Oh. Oh. Ooooh… “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. Your supreme ego exceeds the maximum weight allowed for the planet.”

  “How about speaking nonmusician for me?” she scowled.

  “You think you’re better than everyone else. I’m a fucking multiplatinum recording artist and my head still isn’t as big as yours.”

  She glared. “Screw you.”

  “No. No, thank you. I don’t happen to be into women who have bigger dicks than me.” He stood up. “I think I’ll go now.”

  “What! No! You can’t leave.” She pushed him against the door so he couldn’t open it.

  “You do that again, little woman, and I’ll walk out that door and tell everyone what a wonderful hostess you were.”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  “Fine. Go ahead,” she said, calling his bluff.

  He reached for the door handle.

  Dammit! “Wait!” She stopped him. “Don’t.”

  “Then apologize for calling me naïve. And a criminal. And for bodychecking me. Twice.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry,” she said begrudgingly.

  “And for overreacting,” he added.

  “I’m not overreacting, Colton. It will ruin me if anyone sees you here—they’ll make assumptions.”

  “Assumptions like we fucked?”

  She gave him a look.

  Add to that, Wright would throw in the towel and release that video, claiming it was from before, when Colton first came into her court, making it look like they were involved from the beginning and/or she’d exchanged her leniency for her sexual favors.

  “Trust me on this,” she said. “You being here is as bad for you as it is for me.”

  “I still say you’re overreacting, but fine.” Colton slipped his cell from his pocket.

  “Who are you calling?” Sarah asked.

  “My brother. According to my phone, I think he’s a giant prick, but he’s my go-to man when I have problems.” Colt held up his phone so she could see the caller ID. Brother Mike. Asshole. Call for emergencies.

  “Nice,” she said.

  “You should see what I’ve written about my manager and PR guy. Apparently, I don’t like them much either.”

  “So you’ve surrounded yourself with horrible people. Good to know. So what will Mike—”

  “Mike,” said Colton, holding up his index finger at Sarah, “hey, I have a problem.” Pause. “Yes, another one. But I pay you a lot of money. At least that’s what it says in my notes.” Pause. “Yeah, fuck you, too.” Pause. “I’m at a friend’s house and—” Pause. “Yes. A lady friend. And I can’t be seen leav
ing—it’ll be bad press.” Pause. “No, she’s not married. I’ll explain when you get here.” Pause. “Yeah, the press is outside—completely unrelated issue. Nothing to do with me, but I need to get out.” He listened and turned away. “Great. I’ll text you the address.” Colton ended the call and handed her the phone. “Text him your address. He’ll be right over.”

  “Your brother lives in San Francisco?”

  “Yes. I was up here from LA, visiting him on business when that incident with the police happened.”

  She hit send and the brother responded right away with, Be there in ten. Put your dick away, asshole.

  Sarah handed back the phone. “Lovely. Can’t wait to meet him.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. She’d already texted Maria and apologized for the mess outside. Sarah’s best guess was that the press wanted some footage to go with the story about her place getting trashed. To her, it wasn’t newsworthy, but why else would they be here?

  Sarah looked through the peephole to find a tall man in a sweatshirt and baseball cap, standing on her porch. She cracked open the door, but didn’t stick out her head. “Who are you?”

  “Mike, the brother.”

  Sarah opened the door, but he remained on the other side. “Come in. Hurry!”

  The man slipped inside, and she slammed the door shut behind him. He wore sunglasses—yes, at night—how discreet and non-sketchy—and carried a duffle bag.

  “Hi.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Sarah.”

  Colt’s brother slipped off his glasses, revealing the most stunning hazel eyes. Wait. He looks familiar. Where had she seen him before? He had short, caramel brown hair with gold streaks, and slightly full lips similar to Colt’s.

  “So you’re his brother, huh?”

  “We’re twins, actually. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “N-n-no.” She shook her head from side to side.

  “We’re fraternal twins. And according to my baby brother, I’m the bigger asshole.”

  “You are an asshole!” Colt yelled from upstairs. “Says so right on my phone.”

  Mike flashed a quick smile. “Charming, isn’t he?”

  Sarah couldn’t look away. She definitely knew Mike from somewhere.

  “Uhhh…may I?” Mike jerked his head, indicating upstairs.

  “Oh. Sorry, yes. Come on up.”

  Mike followed her up the flight of stairs.

  “So do you come on rescue missions often?” she asked.

  “My role is generally contained to the courtroom or legal matters, but Colt’s staff—including his manager and PA—are down in LA.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and stood at the edge of her still very destroyed living room. Colton had gone back to sweeping up broken glass in her small open kitchen.

  “Ohmygod.” Sarah snapped her fingers. “You’re his lawyer.” How odd that Colt’s twin was his lawyer. On the other hand, she knew that Colt didn’t trust many people. “Yes. And you’re Judge Alma, and I’m now realizing why Colt had me come.” He looked over Sarah’s head at Colton. “What the hell were you thinking coming here?”

  “She stole my notebook!”

  Mike frowned at Sarah.

  “I didn’t know,” she said defensively. “I was at the ranch, checking on our rebel here, and saw it on the ground. He nearly killed the property manager’s son for touching it, so I thought I’d teach him a lesson.”

  Mike chuckled and rubbed his stubbly square jaw. “Well, that was probably not a good idea.”

  Sarah continued looking at Mike. Now that she knew they were brothers, she could definitely see some similarities. One could even say he looked like a slightly less hot version of Colt, but with a respectable job and short hair.

  “Do you have a criminal record?” she asked, really wondering if he might be single, too.

  Mike frowned at her. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Colton appeared at her side and threw his arm around Sarah’s shoulder. “Back off, Mikey. She’s mine.”

  Sarah’s head whipped in his direction. “I am not.”

  “I wrote a song for you. And by musician law, that makes you my property.”

  Sarah scoffed playfully. “It was a terrible song—almost as terrible as your made-up law.”

  Colton leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Maybe you didn’t like my song, but you sure as hell liked my dick.”

  Sarah’s smile melted away. “That was not nice.”

  “Yes. It was,” Colt said smugly.

  Mike shrugged his brows. “Well, I think it’s time for us to go before things get any more awkward.” He threw the duffle bag at Colton’s feet. “Put on your costume.”

  “Can I change in your bedroom?” Colton asked.

  “Sure. Just don’t touch anything. It’s so neat and tidy,” she said sarcastically and looked at Mike. “It’s a mess. I’ll need a week to clean it all up.”

  “I was home watching the report on the news when he called. Then I pulled up to your house and hoped to God Colton wasn’t involved.”

  “No. He showed up after.” Why would he assume Colt had anything to do with this?

  Wait. You did at first.

  “Any idea what happened?” Mike asked.

  She shook her head. “No. And nobody downstairs saw a thing. But so far nothing’s missing.” They hadn’t found Colt’s notebook, but it could be anywhere; the place looked like it had been attacked by a rabid blender. She would call the insurance company in the morning, but most of her stuff wasn’t replaceable. Her table was a one-of-a-kind piece—an old wooden door made into furniture. Her couch was an antique she’d had reupholstered. The planters were from an estate sale and probably fifty years old. It had taken her years to find all this stuff.

  “You’re extremely calm, Judge Alma—”

  “Please, call me Sarah. And I’m actually not calm at all. I’m only good at pretending.” Also, in comparison to having Colt in her home with a swarm of press outside, the property damage somehow seemed less critical.

  “Okay, Sarah,” said Mike, “if anyone asks, I’m a friend who came to help with the damage. In fact, if you need some help, I’m happy to stay.”

  “Like hell you’re th-taying.” Colt appeared from the bedroom, carrying the duffle bag, his hair tucked up inside a short brown curly wig. He had on big thick glasses, fake buck teeth, brown cords, and a seriously horrible-looking cream-colored velour shirt with a brown collar.

  Sarah burst out laughing. “What the hell kind of costume is that?”

  Colt smiled. “I know you wanth me,” he lisped.

  She covered her mouth, laughing. “Like a bad itch.” Colt looked like the nerd-master from planet of the nerds. The only things missing were his pocket protector and the tape on his glasses.

  “Here. Take my car.” Mike handed him the keys. “It’s the silver one parked out front, in case you forgot. I’ll take yours; where is it?”

  “Around the corner, I think.” Colt slid his notebook out of his pocket and flipped through a bunch of pages. “Yeah, in fwont of that Fuck It Rethaurant.”

  Phuket was a Thai place over on the other street. “It’s pronounced Poo-kay,” she said.

  Colt bent down and whispered in her ear, “I know. Justh wanted to see if I could get you to thwear. Turns me on when uptight women cuss.”

  “I am not uptight. Wait—are you sure they won’t recognize you?” she asked.

  “How should I know? Can’t remember anything.” Colt strutted down the stairs. Nerd costume or not, he still had swagger.

  “It’ll work,” said Mike reassuringly.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” she yelled out to Colt.

  “I hope so!” Colt disappeared out the front door, and the sound of voices calling out her name, not his, filled the air for a moment.

  “Should he really be driving?” she asked Mike.

  “Why not? You know there’s nothing really wrong wi
th him, right?”

  “Sorry?” Sarah wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him—at least not physically.”

  “You mean…?”

  Mike blew out a breath and ran his hand over the top of his head. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll explain.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sarah’s hands felt unsteady as she sat in a chair across from Mike, listening to him tell her about Colt’s condition.

  Yes, he’d been in a motorcycle accident.

  Yes, he’d sustained a head injury and concussion.

  No, he did not incur any detectable permanent damage.

  “So why can’t he remember?” she asked.

  Mike shook his head remorsefully. “Traumatic brain injury is a mystery. They know that when the head is injured it disrupts the brain’s chemistry and stretches or tears the pathways. Sometimes the swelling afterwards compresses them, too. But in Colt’s situation, where the short-term memory is impacted, there’s generally a reason—scarring or detectible damage to the white matter. But his doctor has done every test under the sun—can’t find anything physical.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he should have started to show signs of recovery after three or four months. The best explanation is that it’s psychological. He went through a traumatic event, and when he’s ready to remember, he will.”

  This was heartbreaking. Colt was a beautiful man. Sexy, strong, extremely talented—great at fucking in bathrooms, too—and over-the-top magnetic. How could this all be in his head?

  “He doesn’t do drugs or anything, does he?” she asked.

  “No. He doesn’t touch the stuff—alcohol only in moderation. And anyone on his road crew caught getting high or messing with drugs is terminated immediately. I know because I wrote and enforce all of the employment contracts.”

  So the drug charges a few months ago really were false.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I thought you should know, Judge Alma.”

  “Sarah. Please,” she reminded him.

  “Sorry. Sarah. My brother shouldn’t have come to your home. I’m his lawyer, too, and I know how inappropriate that was. Please don’t hold it against him; he’s used to doing whatever he wants, when he wants.”