Page 7 of Contention
The opposing counsel, representing both the Dom and the club, will no doubt say the woman had paid to be there, thus she knew what she was getting into as a consenting adult. It’s Kara’s job to prove that just because Debra is a member of the club, it doesn’t mean she wants to be hung from a ceiling like a sack of meat, then forced into a sexual encounter while she’s injured.
Derrick had warned her that this case wouldn’t be cut and dry. It wouldn’t be easy.“The opposing counsel is experienced with this sort of case,” he’d said in a serious tone. “If we aren’t careful, they will swing this story however it best benefits their clients.”
For a moment, Kara drifts, her stomach feeling sick again.
There’s something that just won’t let her go as she sits there sipping her coffee, staring blankly at page after page of documentation.
How easy it must be, to assault defenseless young women. How easy it must be; especially if you’re the type that gets off on it. Kara presses the heated coffee mug to her forehead, trying to burn the ache of her head away.
Spice, coffee, and rum. God,he’dsmelled so good. The idea of sweet tobacco smoke makes her mouth water.
With anger, Kara shuts the thought down quickly. Nothing happened to her; she won’t be another girl on the stand saying how weak she’d been. How she’d allowed herself to be taken advantage of. Her pride will not allow it, her furious angry pride.
None of that matters though, because it didn’t happen.
It didn’t happen because he isn’t real. He’s a figment of your imagination, Kara. This case freaks you out and now you’re having nightmares about weird, twisted things.
Even if he’s only a dream, a nightmare, she remembers how relaxed his voice had been when he was done. The way his hand had gone soft in her hair, as he pet her like a cat. “Good girl, sweetpea,” he’d said in that slight rasp of his. “Off you go.”
He’d placed something in her hand. Something she’d fiddled with and he’d helped her stuff into her purse before pushing her out into the night.
Kara freezes, suddenly going cold. She stares at the opposite wall, eyes wide with a certain moment of panic. Without another thought, she dashes from the kitchen table and goes looking for her purse, tearing into it with a maddened fervor.
No.
With weak limbs, she sinks to the ground with her purse, staring down at it with shaking hands. Buried in the bottom of the purse is a large wad of cash that she knows is not hers. Five hundred dollars, five hundred damning pieces of paper lie at the bottom of the purse, laughing at her denial.
Chapter 3
The morning of court, Kara’s limbs feel numb, like her body is ready to sink into the floor and disappear. She didn’t sleep well the night before, even after pouring over the case files. She’d tossed and turned, haunted by rough, phantom touches and cruel memories from long, long ago.
When she enters the shower to prepare for the day ahead, she turns the water on scalding, disappearing into it the way she always did as a teenager when her father was drunk and using her mother as a punching bag, their shouts dulled by the shower tiles.
Kara has long since learned that no matter how long she stands under the spray, she’ll never be able to block out reality long enough. That nothing can quite burn away the angry ashes of her soul.
She dresses in a lovely black pencil skirt, one that hugs her petite frame. It’s long, just barely covering her knees. The blouse she chooses is austere, white with black trim on the collar, shoulders, and cuffs. Kara lightly applies mascara and gently smudges some liner in the corner of her doe eyes. Never quite overdoing it, but just enough to make her look respectably awake.
With her nerves aflutter for court, she gathers her work tote, stuffs her folders inside of it and pulls on her black heels, shiny and sharp. Distinctly, she realizes that her knee joints actually hurt and there are cuts on the backs of her heels. With a huff of frustration, Kara races back to the bathroom, wildly digging for band-aids to apply, to act as a barrier against the raw flesh.
Crap. Don’t be late, don’t be late...Derrick won’t be happy if I’m late.
Band-aids applied, she skitters back into the kitchen to grab her wallet from her purse to shift over to her work tote.
When she fishes her wallet out of her everyday purse, she freezes at the sight of loose cash. She swallows thickly, touching her jaw lightly. She’s lucky that the collar of her blouse buttons up high, hiding the bruising there. She’d used makeup to touchup the mess on her jawline and lip.
The fact that she has to cover anything up makes her grind her teeth together. It’s been years since she’s had to use makeup for such a thing. With a fit of rage, she snatches the money and rips it out of her purse, throwing it haphazardly on her kitchen table. Maybe she’ll burn it later. With a stomach that won’t stop turning, Kara leaves the filthy, vile, unwanted five hundred dollars. The faded green bills stare at her, as if she has committed some horrible crime.
With a rain cloud hovering over her mind, Kara leaves her place, hailing a cab to take her to court, where she finds Derrick Benson and the client already waiting. Ah. Work. The most soothing aspect of her life. With a real smile on her lips, Kara nods to the named partner of the firm. “Good morning, Mr. Benson.” On his other side is one of the firm’s senior associates, Bob Tate, an older gentleman who nods to Kara in greeting as well.
Debra Mills stands behind them, head hung in what appears to be dejection. Or shame. Kara doesn’t want to know what it’s like to have your dirty laundry hung out for everyone to see. It isn’t like the case is a quiet one; in fact, it’s quite the scandal.
The piranhas,ahem, the press teams are having a field day with the whole sexualized situation, naturally.
Their client is an unassuming looking woman, middle-aged, blonde with big blue eyes, a docile air about her. Kara gives her a tight smile, trying to seem comforting, which doesn’t come to her naturally. Comforting isn’t her style. Does she crave comfort herself? Oh, sure. But that’s because her parents rarely could ever be bothered to give her any when she was a child. Her father could only see himself in any room, a fact that in effect made Kara’s mother too bitter to spare affection for her only child. “Are you ready, Debbie?”
The woman shrugs her shoulders in a slight motion, eyes evasive. A nervous, submissive gesture. “As ready as I ever will be, Kara. Derrick, how is today supposed to go? Is he…ishegoing to be here?”
Derrick Benson is a good-looking man in his mid-forties, a clean-cut figure with a down to earth nature. His dark hair is only beginning to show signs of grey and his eyes are always smiling. A likeable man that people enjoy working for. “Both sides will present their cases. As we spoke through, we are going to present that what happened to you was legitimate rape. You may have been willing to be at the club, and you may have been willing to engage with Max Dotaire, but you were put in a situation where your ask to stop was ignored and you were subsequentially taken advantage of most grotesquely.” He pauses to catch Debra’s eyes in his calm gaze. “We want to push for First Degree, but the judge will likely downgrade it to Second Degree rape. In regards to the establishment, theDark Miragehasn’t put enough guard-rails in place to protect its clients and the club failed you and likely many others that may have been exposed to people who shouldn’t have the power to harm others unchecked.”
