I give Grayson a hard stare. “There will be more. Because all actions have consequences, Mr. Knight. Irrespective of who you are.” I yank open the door to see Matt on the other side and then look back at Grayson. Using a hard voice that means business, I say, “Sergeant Daughtry will sort out your release papers.”

Since he’s still standing there silently, I pull a business card from my briefcase and hand it to him. His fingers touch mine in the exchange. I steel myself against the jolt I feel. “My office details are on there. My office, 10:30 a.m. And don’t be late.” I turn on my heel and march out of there.

Chapter 4

Grayson hasn’t turned up. It’s 11:00 a.m., and he was supposed to be here a half hour ago. His lawyer is here—George Simpson, a man who works for the best law firm in Miami. No surprise there. Of course Grayson got the best lawyer in town.

At least he bothered to get an attorney. Shame he couldn’t be bothered to show up for his plea bargaining.

Asshole.

“I can try calling my client again,” George says, picking up his cell phone.

“No, it’s fine.”

It’s not fine. I’m really pissed off. I don’t like being stood up for anything. And I don’t like when people make a mockery of me and my career. I get up from my chair.

George Simpson follows suit and stands. “How do you want to proceed?” he asks.

“I’ll be in touch.”

He nods and leaves my office.

I sit back down in my chair, my hands in fists. Who the hell does Grayson Knight think he is? Asshole.

But why am I really so pissed off by this?

Because I’m an assistant state attorney, for God’s sake, and Grayson Knight thinks he can stand me up because he’s what? A stupid football player. Well, guess what? I’m the law. He doesn’t know what he’s got coming.

Furious and unable to let this snub go, I make a quick call to Grayson’s agent. I’m so angry that I let my emotions get the better of me and pretend to be his lawyer so that the agent will tell me where he is.

At a training session where his team practices.

The arrogant asshole went to practice instead of coming to his plea bargaining.

Armed with fury, I grab my bag and cell. I head out and catch a taxi on the street, telling the driver to take me to the Bubble, at Nova Southeastern University. That’s where the agent directed me.

The taxi pulls up and I climb out. I make my way to the reception area, which is manned by a security guard. “Hi,” I say. “My name is Melissa St. James. I’m here to see Grayson Knight. Harris Jones, Grayson’s agent, said he would call ahead to let you know I was coming.” Yes, I had pulled that little trick with Harris as well. Not my most ethical moment, but my anger is clouding my judgment, so I’m rolling with it.