Jensen a military bad bo.., p.1

Jensen:: A Military Bad Boy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 1), page 1


Jensen:: A Military Bad Boy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 1)

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Jensen:: A Military Bad Boy Romance (The Bradford Brothers Book 1)


  Title Page

  Copyright and Credits


  Newsletter Signup

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Your Chance to Win an Amazon Gift Card

  Other Books in the Bradford Brothers Series

  Book # 1 in the Bradford Brothers Series

  Copyright 2015 by Juliana Conners; All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to real places, people or events are entirely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced or distributed in any format except for short quotes for review purposes, without the express written consent of the author.

  To view the rest of Juliana Conners’ Amazon catalog,

  click here or go to:

  Cover design by Kasmit Covers.

  Día de Los Muertos/ Day of the Dead

  image from clipart.

  To Matt, my partner in this crazy thing we call life.

  To Quinn, my eternal muse and Sawyer, my earthly joy.

  And to the memory of Whiskey Greg.

  Ride on, party on,

  and give a kiss to Quinn

  if your paths should ever cross

  as you’re both out there making more stars

  for our beautiful and adventure-filled Universe.

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  Chapter 1

  “Hey pretty lady, what are you doing here?”

  A man in an orange jumpsuit presses up against the gate of his jail cell as he spits this question at me. Then he spreads his index and middle fingers across his mouth and wags his tongue at me through them.

  I try not to grimace as I look at his leering gaze. Then I quickly turn my head away so as not to display my disgust and fear to the man’s face.

  But the prisoner’s question is valid, and one that I’m asking myself right now in fact.

  What am I doing here?

  I’m not the kind of lawyer who works in a jail. Correction: I wasn’t that type of lawyer. Yet the fact remains that here I am walking into a gritty jail instead of a fancy high rise like I have for the past four years of my legal career.

  I’m supposedly an up and coming lawyer at the Law Firm of Holt, Mason and Davis. My goal has been to become a partner there within the next couple of years. And I think I’ve achieved my goal so far, since I’m not only on the partnership track but according to my bi-annual evaluations, I’m doing sprints around all my fellow associates.

  Except for my fiancé Brian, of course. But he doesn’t have to make much of an effort, considering that he’s the son of the firm’s founding partner Jack Holt. He doesn’t think I should be volunteering here, but he doesn’t understand what’s at stake if I don’t.

  “Ms. Morrell, keep following me, this way please,” says Tim McDonald— or is it O’Donald?— who is walking in front of me. “We’re almost there.”

  He must know that I’m strongly considering turning around and leaving. Maybe Brian was right— I don’t need to go to these lengths to impress the firm. There has to be something I can do that doesn’t involve trips to the local jail where I’m accosted by lecherous criminals.

  But ever since my latest performance evaluation at the firm, Jack Holt’s words have been ringing in my memory.

  “Your billables are great, your work is solid, your networking is as expected,” he’d told me. “But your pro bono hours are not on track with the other associates’, and the only misgivings expressed by any partner have been your fit here with the firm.”

  “My fit?” I’d asked, squirming in the oversized leather chair in the large conference room that held only Mr. Holt and myself.

  I’d wanted to ask how I was supposed to find time to do pro bono hours— volunteering to represent clients for free— when I already billed more hours than any other associate, year after year. But I assumed he expected me to figure that out on my own.

  And I was intrigued— if not dismayed— by his use of the word “fit.” I needed to fit in at the firm; I needed to make it work. My parents had spent a lot of money on law school and would be furious at me if they knew I didn’t make partner because I didn’t “fit in.”

  “As you know, Riley, this firm has a strong and proud military tradition,” Mr. Holt had continued. “And you’re the only associate who doesn’t have some tie with the military.”

  I thought about it and realized he was right: many of the partners had served in the military before going to law school, and many of the associates were in the Reserves. There were lawyers who had gone to West Point, the Air Force Academy, who had been in JAG before transferring to Holt, Mason and Davis, and who regularly volunteered at the VA, helping with disability cases or access to health care.

  Except for your son, I wanted to point out to Mr. Holt, because Brian was the only other associate with absolutely no connection to the military. But he didn’t count. Mr. Holt rarely spoke of my relationship with Brian at work, but when he did, it was to tell me that he’s glad his son hooked himself to a rising star: that I was good for Brian and could keep him on track.

  The unspoken assumption was that the normal rules of associate standards did not apply to Brian. He was expected to go to happy hours and golf tournaments with the partners, not slave away as a billable hour drone like the rest of us. And apparently he didn’t have to have any military connection, although everyone else, including me, had to meet that requirement.

  So it’s no wonder Brian doesn’t understand. When I began calling around to military legal service organizations where I could volunteer, the Veterans’ Legal Alliance was the only one that responded immediately.

  Tim had explained to me that the VLA organization provides all types of legal services and representation to military veterans, and that usually means representing them in criminal trials. It’s a totally different world than I’m used to, but I’m open to anything that will help me become partner at the firm.

  Now, Tim leads me to an open meeting room or visiting room of some type. There are a handful of men speaking in hushed tones to each other, or sitting quietly by themselves.

  “These are some of the men in our program, who are waiting to meet with their lawyers or be transported to the hearing room for their cases to be called,” Tim
explains, as he sits down on a bench at one of the tables a few feet away from the men. I follow his lead and sit down at the bench on the other side of the table.

  One of the prisoners catches my eye and I can’t help but stare. While the rest of the men have short, buzzed, military style haircuts, this man has a gruff, outdoorsy look: long hair and a long beard.

  His short-sleeved jumpsuit reveals muscular pecs covered in tattoos. I can’t take my eyes off of a Día de los Muertos/ Day of the Dead tattoo on his right arm: it’s a colorful skull full of flowers and a cross.

  The stranger returns my stare, his eyes the color of dark coal. I feel them burning into my pale blue eyes as if I’m Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom in a rebellious, forbidden act. I tear my eyes away from him and force myself to look at Tim, hoping that I won’t turn into a pillar of salt.

  What in the world was that? I wonder, as a scourge of electricity curses through my veins. I cannot possibly have felt attracted to that… criminal. He’s not even my type.

  I like nerdy, intellectual guys, not long-haired convicts covered in tattoos. And I’m engaged, I remind myself, as an after- thought. But I can’t seem to stop staring at his brown hair, brown eyes, and constantly flexed muscles.

  “It’s amazing how many military personnel are arrested while serving or shortly thereafter,” Tim is explaining, handing me a thick binder full of information.

  Veterans’ Legal Alliance, Inc., it reads on the front cover, and then: How to represent a service member or veteran charged with a crime in state criminal court.

  “I’m not really knowledgeable about…” I begin, but Tim holds up his hand and smiles kindly at me.

  “We know you don’t have criminal law experience,” he says, easing my fears. “But since you routinely handle complex commercial litigation and white collar crime- type fraud suits between business partners and the like, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it quickly. These kinds of cases are more difficult in some ways but the basic procedures will be a cakewalk for you. And we are here to train you and provide you with all the support and resources you need.”

  “‘We’ being…?” I ask, looking around the room and noting the lack of any other lawyers.

  I suddenly feel a presence immediately behind my right shoulder and jump, realizing that Mr. Not My Type is standing directly behind me. I’m not sure how long he’s been there. I feel goosebumps spring up all over my body, and it’s not because I’m afraid, or cold.

  “Myself, as director of the organization,” Tim continues, “and all other staff and attorneys. I must admit we run a slim ship, just due to the lack of willing personnel, but those that do help are incredibly passionate and talented at what they do.”

  “I see,” I say, trying not to blush and hoping that Mr. Not My Type can’t tell what an inexplicitly powerful effect his presence has on me.

  He clears his throat and says, “Mr. McDonald?” in a polite yet bold tone of voice.

  I can literally feel the hair standing up on the back of my neck, as if he had whispered his question right there in public, in one of my most intimate spots.

  “Yes, Jensen?” Tim responds, with a smile. “Call me Tim. And this is Riley Morrell. She might be volunteering temporarily with our organization. Riley, this is Jensen Bradford.”

  “Hello, Riley,” says Jensen, extending a well-built forearm in my direction. There’s something about the way he says my name that sounds so foreign and new, as if I’ve never been called it before in my life. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I say, reaching out to meet his grasp.

  He shakes my hand like a lumberjack and I wonder how tall he is. Definitely quite tall. But his eyes remain focused on Tim’s.

  “Mr. McDonald,” he continues, dropping my hand and leaving it to feel suddenly completely empty. “I’m wondering if Dylan is here? He said he’d talk to me about my arraignment hearing before it starts, and that’s relatively soon.”

  “I believe he was held over in court,” Tim answers. “He has a busy docket today. But I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  “All right, thank you sir,” Jensen says. “I’m glad to hear it because I’d really like to talk to him.”

  He returns to the table on the far side of the room without so much as glancing back at me, and I feel slighted, even though I have no idea why I want this prisoner to talk to me, as eloquent and polite of a prisoner as he may be.

  Sure, he’s tall, athletic, muscular, and gorgeous. But that doesn’t mean I should have an instant crush on him, I remind myself.

  I’m engaged, even if that fact is easy to forget these days. After protesting against my choice of pro bono work, Brian didn’t even bat an eye this morning when I told him I’d be late to the office because I was meeting Tim McDonald in the jail first.

  In fact, I don’t know if he even heard me, even though I’d repeated myself. I have to admit that ours has always been a relationship built on politics and convenience more so than on passion or romance, but lately Brian has become more distant than ever.

  I try to focus on Tim’s explanation of the process for representing veterans. But I can’t help sneaking glances at Jensen. And a couple times, he meets my gaze and stares back at me unabashedly. It’s enough to cause my heart to race just as fast as when I’m delivering a closing argument in trial.

  “Many of our veterans aren’t used to life after the military,” Tim explains. “They’ve been taught different ways of handling conflict than the rest of society. Sometimes they experience flashbacks or fight- or- flight reactions due to PTSD, either already diagnosed or as yet undiscovered.”

  “I see,” I say, nodding my head but wondering how I could represent a client that seems unpredictable if not dangerous.

  I’m really not sure this pro bono gig is for me. I guess Brian will be happy to hear that, if he’s listening when I tell him.

  “Much of our work involves educating the judge on the effects of war and the symptoms of PTSD,” Tim continues. “It’s our most common defense and applies to most situations.”

  “I see,” I say again, distracted as Jensen— all six foot six inches of him, if I had to guess— stands up and nods towards the doorway.

  Someone— I’m assuming the lawyer named Dylan— approaches and shakes his hand. Then they head over to a small lawyer/ client meeting room. Just before heading into the room, Jensen turns around and winks at me. And I feel like a Disney princess starring on Broadway.

  What the hell has gotten into you? I scold myself. You meet a prisoner and you’re suddenly swooning and turning into some air head? Straighten up! Be professional.

  “Ms. Morrell?” Tim asks me, his eyebrows burrowed together in concern. “Is that an indication that you have to think about it?”

  I can only assume he had asked me if I was ready to sign on as a lawyer. I clear my throat and open my mouth, ready to tell him that I’m not sure. It doesn’t really seem like the place for me.

  Although I do need the relevant military representation experience for my firm, and so far no other organization has called me back. And maybe I might get to see Jensen again, even though he already has Dylan as the lawyer assigned to his case.

  “Take all the time you need to think about it,” Tim continues, not letting me speak. “I understand that right now you just want to volunteer a few hours a week to meet your firm’s pro bono requirements. But if you find that you enjoy this type of work— which many lawyers who try it out surprisingly do— then there might be room for a new staff attorney, at least part-time, and that’s a position you could be paid for. Granted it’s not nearly as much money as you’re used to but it might be a bit more fulfilling than…”

  He trails off, obviously not wanting to offend me, but I know where he was heading. More fulfilling than representing rich old dudes and helping them fight with other rich old dudes about who screwed over whom financially? I want to say.

  Instead, I just smile at him, because he
’s a nice guy, although a bit misguided. He looks like a hippy from California or Vermont. He doesn’t have fire-breathing dragons for parents, always standing over his shoulder harping on him about his career choices and salary and opportunities for professional advancement. He can afford to follow his dreams. Heck, he can afford to have dreams.

  “I’ll think about it, Mr. McDonald,” I say, standing up to shake his hand. “I do appreciate you meeting with me today.”

  “I need to meet with a few of the men here now,” he says. “But I’ve arranged for a guard to escort you out.”

  I start to think about how crazy it is that I’m in a place where I need a guard to escort me out. But as I begin to make my way back towards life as I know it, I can’t help having a little bit of a fantasy of being locked in with Jensen. I bet he’d know how to rough me up in ways that Brian’s never thought of. And I bet I’d enjoy every second of the new and different experience.

  Chapter 2

  What am I doing here?

  That was my first question upon my arrival to jail, and it still plays over and over again in my head. I can’t believe I’m in jail, for the first time in my life, over some stupid fist fight. I’ve had so many in the past, but I’ve never been ratted out by my opponent like this loser ratted me out.

  Then again, I’ve never fought such a loser. And the fight certainly wasn’t voluntary.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m a Bradford, and we’re known for causing trouble. There were things I did in high school that were less than okay, and even more things I did in the military, but luckily I’ve always gotten away with them.

  I’ll add this experience to my long list of WTF moments, and I shouldn’t be surprised that my actions have finally caught up with me. It makes no difference though. I would gladly beat up that bastard all over again if given the chance, no matter the punishment. I just hope this doesn’t affect my career too negatively.

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