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The sounds of smut continue, the breathing becomes heavier, and the invisible British man is getting bossier now. “I said, stroke it and tease the tip. Be a good girl, now, and you’ll get your reward.”
I realize what’s happening. The young lady is listening to something filthy on her phone and she doesn’t realize the Bluetooth connection isn’t working.
Jiminy Christmas. What in the world is she listening to? And where can I find the female-voiced version of it?
“Ma’am,” I say, shifting toward her although it’s the last thing I want to do.
She ignores me. Must be noise cancelling headphones.
I don’t want to touch her, but I tap her gently on the shoulder.
She turns her head and her mouth drops open, giving me a questioning look.
“What?” she says, a little too loudly.
I point at her phone, and then at her ear, and shake my head.
Her eyes widen in horror when she realizes what has happened.
Rushing to stop the track playing on her screen, she fumbles the phone and it clatters to the floor. Meanwhile, the words broadcasting from it become more graphic with every passing moment.
“Fuck," she says, her hands scrambling and missing. Some people around us are in stitches, some are murmuring about public indecency. The phone skids across the floor and I reach out one foot to catch it, pinning it beneath my boot.
Leaning forward, I press the pause button on her screen. “Sorry, folks,” I say to the half-horrified, half-amused faces all around me as I sit up straight again. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Must have drifted off and started talking in my sleep.”
I hand the phone back to the young lady.
While trying to get back to my book, I can feel many pairs of eyes on me, including the lovely ones belonging to the tattooed woman next to me. I can tell her jaw is hanging open.
Without looking up at her I ask, “You trying to catch flies with that mouth?”
“I’m Wren,” she says.
I tear my eyes away from the page and look at her. Her pretty eyes are full of gratitude. “Like the bird, not like Ren & Stimpy.”
I shoot her a questioning look. “Ren & Stimpy?”
“My mom’s a hippie. She named all her kids after birds. My younger brother is Raven. My older sister is Dee. Or sometimes Chick. Short for Chickadee.”
I don’t want to know any of these things about anybody’s family. The way people come up with names nowadays, I just don’t want to know.
“Sam,” I say, automatically reaching out my hand. She slips her small hand in mine. As I gently squeeze her fingers, I can’t help but wonder what those hands of hers are normally doing when she’s listening to that sexy story in the privacy of her own home.
One side of her mouth curves up when she smiles at me. “Hi, Sam. That’s the perfect name. You sort of remind me of—"
“Number 47!” calls the bailiff.
I watch Wren startle, pop up, and scamper away toward the front of the room where a court clerk sits behind a desk, confirming the validity of the questionnaire answers previously filled out by each juror. With a walk like that, I wonder if it would be all that terrible if she and I got chosen to serve on the same jury. Might make it bearable. Or terrible. She’s definitely a handful; I can just tell.
Her butt in those short shorts is round and squeezable, her hair is wild. The top half of her body is covered by a long cable knit sweater, the really soft kind that makes women’s curvy bodies look extra huggable. Dropping my gaze lower, she’s got even more tattoos decorating the backs of her thighs. When I sort out the words on one of them, I realize I’m in big trouble with this girl.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” it reads.
No need to worry. I probably won’t get picked.
Chapter Two
Wren
