Page 17 of The Woman on the Jury

“Ant plays her in some video game,” Gav said. “Told me she says shit to her opponents that makeshimblush.”

“I can see that,” I decided, nodding. “She’s a real… yeah?” I asked when one of my men, Miko, came up to me, lifting his chin.

“There’s a woman here to see you,” he said.

“Yeah?” I asked, brows scrunching as I tried to run through the women I had in my rotation before I got locked away on house arrest. I’d pushed ‘em all away after that. But I didn’t think any of them would come hunting me down.

“Said it’s an emergency,” he added.

“Can’t think of any—“ I started, just when there was a commotion at the door as a woman barreled her way past another of my men, and stormed over in our direction.

I recognized her.

Of course I did.

When you sat in a courtroom day in and day out for weeks, you got to know everyone inside of it. Especially when this was the only fuckable woman in the room, aside from Vega.

Juror number twelve.

One who, during voir dire, had answered every question from both the prosecution and defense with her words dripping with disdain. Like she didn’t have time for their bullshit.

Our team had been shocked when the prosecution didn’t move to dismiss her, since she clearly didn’t want to be there, and would want to rush through deliberations. If we hadn’t been out of strikes, we’d have dismissed her for it too.

She was a stupidly pretty thing. Not in a ‘didn’t know she was pretty’ way, because I didn’t think a single gorgeous woman didn’t know exactly how beautiful she was. But more in a ‘it doesn’t matter how pretty I am’ sort of way.

Her long black hair was always pulled back in one of those claw clips, leaving her long, parted bangs to tease her eyebrows and temples, drawing even more attention to her disarmingly light blue eyes.

There were rules about what you wore to jury duty, so I had no idea if the slacks and sweaters were her personal style, or just what she thought she had to wear. All I could say was they were too shapeless, and it made me want to know what was underneath.

Today, she had on tight jeans and what looked like a t-shirt under an oversized wine-colored cardigan.

Her hair was still up.

Her eye makeup was smudged.

And it looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

“Juror Number Twelve,” I greeted her, one brow quirked up in curiosity, some part of me wondering if maybe she had just been eye-fucking me through the trial, and wanted to take me for a ride.

I clearly wasn’t good at reading people.

Because as soon as she was in front of us, yanking her arm away from my man who tried to pull her away again, she blurted out, “I need your help.”

Again, it wasn’t my strength at picking up on tone and shit, but I was pretty sure there was a desperate edge to her words. The only reason I think I even picked up on that was because I’d heard it in the voices of men who didn’t pay me, and had me darkening their door, ready to break some bones and beat some compliance into them.

“And why the hell do you think I would want to help you?” I asked, tone bored, even if I was anything but right then. Intrigued was a better word.

“Because I am the only reason you are a free man right now,” she said with a defiant lift to her chin.

It was her?

Justher?

I knew my team was planning on looking into how many jurors had been for or against me. But I’d been too busy to check back in with them since the trial.

I guess I figured it would be evenly split. Or at least that I had a few people on my side.

Not just one woman.

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