Shacking Up Read online

  The female juror answers no.

  The questions continue. Everyone gets asked about any ties to domestic violence, if they or anyone in their family has ever worked in law enforcement, or been involved in politics. If anyone they know has ever experienced a death of a suspicious nature.

  The longer the void dire goes on, the more intrigued I become. Judging by the kinds of questions she’s asking, as well as the questions coming from the defense team, I deduce this isn’t just any trial. We are being interviewed to be jurors for a murder trial.

  Holy shit, I think, biting my tongue so I don’t cuss out loud.

  I glance around the room. Down the row from me is Sam, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes cast downward. He’s disappointed. He really doesn’t want to be here. Maybe he’s got a girlfriend or important things to do at the ranch.

  Me? Aw, hell yeah. A murder trial…this is a fucking dream come true.

  And who knows? Maybe, in addition to performing my civic duty, I’ll find some way to cheer up my friend Sam in the process.

  Chapter Three

  Sam

  Why in the Sam Hill did they pick me?

  I curse under my breath as I press my last pair of Wranglers, hang them on a hanger, and unplug my iron. A few pairs of good jeans and starched button-up shirts should be enough to last me for a few days, but what then? What if the trial’s not done yet? Should I pack for a week? Two weeks? And what do they think they’re going to feed me? Because I can’t live on sandwich shop food. I need my red meat.

  Ah shit. Who am I kidding? Not only did I just get picked for a trial, but for a murder trail.

  And not just any murder trial, but the murder of that state senator a few counties away from here. I heard about it on the news last year.

  Even worse, the judge decided that because this a high profile murder, the state must use our tax money to sequester all of us jurors in a hotel for the duration of the trial. Turns out the local jury pool was too influenced because the victim was their state senator, so they moved the trial here to my county.

  I slip my jeans into my garment bag and zip it up, then examine the contents of my old suitcase that lies open on my bed. Surveying my belongings, I remember the last time I got this travel gear out.

  The memory of packing and unpacking these bags and suitcases before my would-be honeymoon all those years ago twists my stomach into a knot. I try to forget it by choosing to focus on the current situation.

  I’m not a fan of anyone telling me where I can and cannot go. There was a time if someone told me I couldn’t go home, I’d bash them right in the bread box.

  I’m a slightly wiser, less feral man now.

  I just want to tend to my cattle, read my books, and be left alone. I don’t mind serving on a jury. But getting locked down in a hotel for who knows how long? Judas Priest.

  I slam shut my suitcase and twist the tiny key in the miniature padlock. After I toss the stuff in the back of my pickup, I decide to stop at the library for something to read.

  While I drive, I wonder if it’s too late to try to get out of jury duty. I’ve never tried to get out of it before, but this is going to be miserable.

  Maybe I could say something crazy and get myself kicked off. Start spouting off about conspiracy theories. Nothing illegal, just enough to get me excused and bump up one of the alternates.

  But you’d better keep your mouth shut, ‘cause you know you want to keep looking at her.

  The thought of that little chick who sat next to me in the jury pool room yesterday keeps floating into my head. I should cut it out; she’s gotta be half my age—maybe even younger. But the more I try, the more I remember the sassy quirk of her smile, her violet eyes full of mischief, her odd but beautiful hair. And those bare legs like a ballerina, with shorts so short I could see all the way up to her nether region. Or, imagined I could.

  When I arrive at the library, my ranch manager Smitty texts me, and I send back some last minute instructions.

  “We got you covered, boss,” he says.

  Smitty is a trustworthy sort of guy. I hired him when he was just a kid. A runaway from an abusive home, I was approached by the juvenile group home many years back and asked if I’d consider giving him a job. I gave him a chance and I was immediately impressed. He never complained about the messier aspects of ranch work, the long hours, or the inevitable heartbreak that comes once you start thinking of your farm animals as pets.

  I would trust Smitty with my life. He’s come so far from the out-of-control teen he was. In a weird way, I’m almost sad he’s not a kid anymore; he’s probably the closest I’ll ever come to raising a kid. “I know you do. Still, you know how to get in touch with me if things go sideways,” I text back.

  “Yeah, boss. But don’t worry, they won’t.”

  I chuckle and reply, “Sounds like you’re trying to put me out of a job.”

  “Only when you’re ready to sell.” This lighthearted conversation is one that Smitty and I have had several times before. Maybe it’s time to start getting serious about selling to him and retiring.

  The truth is, I’d have no problem selling the ranch to Smitty when I decide to retire. He’d do a bang up job. I just worry he’s a workaholic. He’s got nothing else going on in his life besides the ranch. If he had a partner and some kids, then maybe I wouldn’t worry about him so much. I already know he’d be fine with me keeping a couple of acres down by the creek to build my cabin, and with me keeping my own horses in the barn. I could do nothing but fly fish, hike, ride horses, read my books, and relax. But when the time comes, who knows if I’ll actually be able to let go.

  As I exit the truck, I catch sight of my own ring finger.

  You got no room to worry about Smitty’s lack of a wife when you yourself don’t have one—and never will.

  I pick up a tall stack of novels from the library. We’re not going to be allowed to watch TV or read the newspaper, so books it is. On a whim, I grab a thick paperback historical romance and add it to the pile. Turns out, there’s a good number of ‘em set in the Wild West. It might be fun to see if they get the details right.

  I don’t have anything against romances; I’ve just never read any of ‘em.

  The one I’ve chosen has a lady on the cover that sort of looks like Wren. Not the same kind of hair but the same sweet face and petite frame. Of course, she’s not wearing short shorts but a big flouncy dress. And a corset, which looks uncomfortable, but does seem to serve up a woman’s breasts like they’re desserts on a plate. Still, I might have more fun after that kind of contraption is removed.

  I know it’s wrong of me to think of Wren like that. But I’m gonna need something to get her out of my system. Pretty sure I can’t take porn and can’t have any outside visitors, so the suggestive cover of a romance novel will have to do.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe isolation is the best thing for me. As I understand it, I’m not to talk to any of the other jurors about the case, and I’m not allowed to talk to family or friends. Not allowed to speak to any members of the media or read the newspapers or watch the news, or access the internet.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad.

  Funny. When I actually think about how few people I’ll be allowed to talk to, and how limited I’ll be in my access to the outside world, it seems sort of like a dream come true.

  The outside world has always been, in my experience, overrated.

  My first day on the jury does not bode well of any of my dreams coming true.

  If I had to describe this assignment with one word? Frustration.

  I somehow got seated in the jury box right next to Wren. And I still can’t get my devious thoughts about her under control.

  She made an attempt to dress more conservatively and gets an A for effort. The way she’s tried to get her hair under control is charming. Still full of dreads and braids, she has it twisted up and secured with a pencil. And she’s wearing glasses with little red frames that m
ake her look like a stoner librarian. Thank god she’s not wearing shorts cut all the way up to her lady business again today.

  But her sheer presence is like a field of heat, a ball of energy waiting to be released, radiating all morning, just barely touching my left arm and leg but sending me warmth.

  “Ladies and gentleman of the jury,” begins the prosecutor, “you have an enormous task ahead of you. We, the prosecution, are going to show you beyond a reasonable doubt why we believe Mrs. Ellen Jacobsen, seated right over there”—the tall, blonde prosecutor points to the defendant, seated at the front right side of the courtroom with a team of impressive looking lawyers—“murdered her husband, the beloved State Senator Ernie Jacobson, in cold blood. We are asking you to convict her of the crime of murder in the first degree, after showing you a multitude of evidence, based on motive, physical evidence, and witness testimony.”

  I don’t recall much about the details of the case, but as she speaks, a memory is sparked from the news reports I briefly scanned last year. Supposedly this lady drugged her husband, then smothered him with a pillow in his sleep.

  I study her while the opening arguments go on and on. A diminutive woman in her 50s, the most diabolical act I can imagine her doing is accidentally burning a tuna casserole. The prosecutor tells us that we will learn, based on police reports and witness testimony, that there was no forced entry, that Ellen had access to prescription sleeping pills, that they had quarreled, and that Ellen had previously bragged to friends about one day killing her husband.

  I try to keep an open mind as I listen. Mostly my mind is occupied elsewhere. The way Wren’s knees look in that skirt she’s wearing. The way her oversized sweater pairs with that skirt.

  The lead defense attorney speaks to us in an over-the-top, impassioned tone that immediately makes me not like him. “This woman, the defendant, is a victim of police blundering at the crime scene, of emotional manipulation by investigators, and of a husband whose ill treatment of her drove her to a dependency on prescription sleeping pills.”

  It seems a bit of a stretch. I can’t imagine why cops would take any pleasure in pinning this on someone who looks like a Sunday School teacher, but that’s just my own prejudice. Also, I don’t like the lead defense attorney’s flashy cuff links or his hair gel. I in no way would ever pay a man like that to defend me in court; he appears to be a weasel with political aspirations himself. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.

  Still, doesn’t mean she did it.

  Throughout the day, my mind and my body are far more attuned to Wren. Her breath, the occasional nervous clearing of her throat, her little ass shifting around in her seat.

  When we break for lunch, the bailiffs bring us a mess of fast food burgers and fries in the jury room.

  “I don’t eat this shit,” I mutter to myself as I grab a sack of fries and head to a corner, away from everyone else.

  Of course, the little bird follows me. “Oh my god, are you vegan too?”

  I stare at Wren and wait for the punchline. Surely it’s obvious I am not a vegan.

  “No,” I finally say. “I just have standards.”

  I admit my attitude has not earned me any points with the other jurors. Clearly I’m occupying this corner of the conference table by myself for a reason. But it’s not working on Wren.

  “Can I sit with you?"

  I nod and gesture to the seat adjacent to me. You’d think she’d be bored of sitting next to an old dude like me by now. But she’s here, yapping away, asking questions, and telling me all kinds of things I don’t care to know about.

  “I guess when you think about it, we both have high standards,” she says, sipping her sugary drink through a plastic straw.

  I offer a confused grunt while I shove a salty french fry in my face.

  “You don’t like fast food and neither do I. Different reasons, I’ll grant you that, but hey, I like a guy with strong opinions.”

  She likes a guy? This guy? Is that a tease? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.

  “Tomorrow I’m ordering us ribeye, if I gotta pay for it myself,” I grumble.

  Wren responds with just the right amount of chuckle that is worthy of what I said. I appreciate that she doesn’t pretend I’m funnier than I am. Some people laugh too hard at things that aren’t funny; those people freak me out.

  Still, she’s got a sexy laugh. Cheerful but also husky. I’d like to hear more of it, but that would require me speaking more.

  The more I take the chance to speak, the likelier it will be that I will embarrass myself. Surely she’ll figure out quickly that I find her attractive. Right now, I’m hungrier than any amount of salty french fries will be able to satisfy. Now that we’re somewhat face-to-face at this table, rather than side-by-side in the jury box, everything about her is enhanced. Her pink lips make me think of what it’d be like to kiss her. Her conservative skirt makes me wonder what she’d look like naked. Her low voice evokes pillow talk. Her herbal scent makes me want to lean forward and take a deep whiff of her hair.

  All of this makes the rest of the day’s court proceedings nearly unbearable.

  Do I really like her for her, or is she just an annoying little bird, pecking away at my resistance?

  Finally, some relief. I’m alone in my room. Peace and quiet.

  A hotel room is not the same as my own bedroom, not by a long shot. Sooner or later I’ll get tired of not being able to open the window to feel the night breeze on my dick—yeah, I sleep naked—but I’ll manage somehow.

  I sprawl out on the bed with the romance book. Nestling myself into the perfect comfortable spot, I open the book to the first page. Almost right away, it’s not bad.

  The heroine has got herself a sassy mouth, which I find annoying but it works. The story is pretty good, and the historical details are pretty well researched.

  Soon, as I’m reading about this heroine in her ruffly blue dress with a whalebone corset flirting with the sheriff in the story, all I can picture is her. Wren.

  And why wouldn’t I? She fits the description. About the same age, small stature, wispy, plucky, friendly. Cusses a lot.

  God, even trying to escape with a fantasy is getting me into trouble.

  I read on and eventually find myself knee deep in a scene of graphic lovemaking, the likes of which I’ve never read in any of my favorite westerns.

  Honestly? I don’t hate it.

  What starts with a “Take me to bed, sheriff. Leave me something to remember you by,” ends with the most thorough plowing of a woman as I’ve ever read.

  Jiminy Christmas. This was written by a woman? I probably should never ask that out loud; it’s probably sexist as hell.

  Picturing Wren struggling to free herself of a dress like that, wrapping her legs around the sheriff, cussing like a sailor… It’s getting my dick hard. So hard I can’t quite contain it.

  In fact, I’m going to need to…

  Oh hell. Here I go.

  I slide my hand down inside my drawers and keep reading. The descriptions are almost pornographic. I must look ridiculous. I’m holding a romance book in one hand, and my cock in the other, stroking myself alone in a hotel room. But I don’t care. I’m so full of need and I just have to get her out of my system.

  The thought occurs to me, as I squeeze and pull my shaft on a powerful exhale and a grunt of pleasure, that maybe other people read these books one-handed. Specifically, this copy of this book.

  And that’s all I need to toss the book on the floor, roll to my back, and go to town. Stroking myself up and down tightly, I imagine — no, I wish — it was Wren riding me. Tasting me. Closing my eyes, I picture her mouth on it, teasing the tip. Sucking. Her hand cupping my balls. It’d be just like those words I heard coming from her phone yesterday.

  Shit.

  This is fucked up. But I’ll never get to sleep tonight if I don’t finish.

  A quiet rapping on my door interrupts my frenzy.

  I fr
eeze.

  I look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand; it’s 8:30 pm. Who the hell is knocking on my door so late at night?

  I cuss, sit up and throw my jeans on, prepared to feed someone a knuckle sandwich.

  But when I throw open the door, I see that it’s her.

  Wren.

  And she’s standing there wearing a flimsy tank top, pajama pants, open bathrobe, and no bra.

  How do I know? Because her nipples could not be more erect, or fully outlined, in that tie-dyed orange fabric.

  I thought her sexy tattooed legs were a problem for me, but now I know the outline of her breasts, her nipples. My clouded brain now pictures her small frame with a swollen belly, carrying my baby. Where the hell did that image come from? She’s killing me.

  I can barely rasp out, “Ma’am?”

  For a second I can see a shadow of fear cross her face when she looks at me. I must look angry to her. She recovers and turns on that smile again and holds up something in her hand. A box that looks like one of those stupid party games.

  “Jenga?”

  Chapter Four

  Wren

  Sam looks mad.

  How does someone get mad in the face of Jenga? It’s delightful.

  I have to say I was pretty excited to get assigned a seat next to Sam in the jury box. I have no idea why nobody seemed all that interested in sitting by him at lunch today. But he looked so lonesome I could have cried.

  He seemed to have a hard time making eye contact whenever I sipped on my soda straw.

  “All you’re gonna eat is fries?” I asked him at one point.

  “All you gonna drink is sugar water?” he asked me. I like the way he sometimes answers a question with a question.