Happy Pants #2
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
March 3, 2017
It Only Takes One Hot Rock Star To Ruin Your Life…
The youngest woman to ever sit on the bench, the Honorable Sarah Rae Alma has busted her butt to get where she is. No fun. No distractions. And definitely no bad boys. In fact, she takes a certain pleasure in crushing their souls—yes, she has her reasons.
So when rock-n-roll’s most famous bad boy, the legendary Colton Young, enters her court, looking hotter than sin and smugger than hell, she’s just itching to serve a little justice.
But Sarah’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life. And her fate will land squarely in the hands of the world’s most notorious rock star rebel.
Will he crush her? Or will he tempt her to take a walk on the wild side?
No. Fuck no. Not this guy again. The Honorable Sarah Rae Alma of San Francisco County Superior Court blinked at her trial schedule, hoping and praying with every fiber of her being that her overworked eyes were playing tricks.
With hesitation, she glanced at her paperwork again.
Dammit! Someone must’ve switched her schedule at the last minute. She quickly went into panic mode, resisting the urge to pinch her cheeks or reach into her robe for a boob-perk, all to feel marginally hotter—the best a woman could hope for when wearing a black muumuu—for the man, the god, the legend about to enter her courtroom.
At least I’m appropriately dressed for my own personal nightmare, she thought, vowing not to think about what happened last time.
Career-cluster to the F-th degree.
Sarah straightened the pale-blue scarf around her neck and smoothed back the loose strands of her frizzy ponytail, preparing for his entrance. An entrance that melted panties, made women ovulate in triplicate, and sent any alpha males in the vicinity scurrying for the closest rock.
Why didn’t I put on makeup? Or touch up my roots? She was naturally a brunette, but had decided on a whim last month to go redder, hoping it might bring out her blue eyes and amp up her sex appeal.
Men still treated her like a bucket of crusty scabs. All because she had the power to put them in jail for life. Losers. Like she’d ever do that unless they showed up in her court, guilty of felony charges. But something about dating a woman with that kind of power freaked men the hell out.
Speaking of freaking out, why didn’t I shave this morning? She could never be at her maximum confidence with hairy legs.
All right, Sarah, enough. You don’t really care about looking hot. You can’t stand bad boys. You crush them into tiny pieces and feed them to the legal system. You make them cry for their mothe—
“Your Honor?” snapped Maria Gomez, the bailiff, who was a five-foot-five, middle-aged mother of two and one tough nut. Nobody messed with Maria. The beige uniform made her look especially intimidating.
Sarah whipped her head up to find the entire courtroom staring, including the jury, while the closed-circuit camera rolled in the back.
With her long black sleeve, Sarah mopped the sweat from her brow and then inched her index finger at Maria.
“Me?” Maria glanced side to side and pointed to herself.
“Yes, you,” Sarah whispered.
Maria hitched up her heavy belt that included mace and a revolver and approached the bench.
“Why the hell wasn’t I told that he’d be coming to my court again?” Sarah grinned through clenched teeth.
Maria shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Honor.”
“Don’t you ‘Your Honor’ me,” she hissed. “We had mojitos last night. And an entire jarra.” Maria held the unique honor of being one of Sarah’s closest friends and her landlord. About a year ago, Sarah had moved into the three-story Victorian, renting the one-bedroom apartment on the top floor. It was a steal of a price, close to the cable car line, and had a gorgeous view of the Marina District. Don’t forget the home-cooked meals. Another plus. Just last night, Maria and her hubby, Franco, had made Sarah an early b-day dinner because they couldn’t find a sitter for tonight’s official birthday outing. “We all know you’ll only stay out for forty minutes, anyway,” Maria had said last night, poking fun at Sarah’s stick-in-the-mudness. Sarah preferred the word responsible or focused. And staying out all night drinking to celebrate one more year on the planet? Waste of time. She had work to do, cases to review, bad guys to sentence.
Maria leaned into the bench a little closer toward Sarah. “I heard that he pulled some strings to get you.”
“Me?” Sarah whispered. “I don’t believe that.” Defendants didn’t get to pick and choose their judges. In any case, having him in her court again spelled danger for her career. The last time he had been here for auto theft—where a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes took a swim in a lake—resulted in three weeks of tabloid torture. “Judge Alma-drool.” “Judge All-buttered-up.” “Judge All-but-spread-her-legs.” The rag-mags had taken their teeth to her and masticated hard.
Hold it together, girl. You went to Harvard. You’re a judge. You. Are. Unshakable.
“I don’t know why he’d push for you,” Maria replied. “Maybe he thinks you’re hot. But Judge Wright will make sure you’re suspended if you lose it again, so stay calm.”
“I did not lose it!” she whispered. “The last time he was here I…” Sarah’s words faded as the doors to the back of her courtroom flew open and everyone fell into a deathlike hush.
“Wow,” Maria gasped.
Forget “wow.” Can I get a holy fuck?
Colton Young’s epic man-bod stood smack in the center of the doorway, his long waves of chestnut hair falling to his broad shoulders, his black leather pants slung low around his hips, and his espresso-colored T-shirt just tight enough to show off the lean hard body underneath. Colton’s arms didn’t have the requisite shoulder-to-wrist musician tattoos, but the man had muscle. Lots and lots of lean, hard muscle.
“He looks like a god,” Sarah muttered under her breath, unable to contain the pinball action in her stomach—pings and pops, little rubber flippers going crazy, and a steel ball ricocheting all over.
Colton whipped off his mirrored sunglasses, and his intense hazel eyes shot straight to Sarah’s face like a wolf homing in on an object it had yet to decide what to do with. Kill. Fuck. Ignore. Piss on.
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff is a USA Today and New York Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream. Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys), and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants will make a big comeback for men.