Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
"Will the defendant restate her plea for the record," Judge Longfellow demands.
I raise my voice. "I plead guilty, Your Honor."
"What are you doing?" Erica hisses, turning her head so her mouth is by my ear.
I hear a shuffle behind me, and then my father's voice rises. "Your Honor, may I please speak with my daughter?"
"No, you may not," the judge retorts, his outrage evident. "And if you continue to interrupt, I'll have you removed from this courtroom."
I glance over my shoulder, but Dad isn't looking at me. He's returning the judge's glare, a muscle in his jaw bulging. Mom is staring at me, her eyes glistening. My grandparents are holding their breaths, as well as each other's hands. Uncle Blake is gazing off into space, but I know better than to assume his mind is blank. Brigid gnaws on her lip, glancing between me and the judge.
Shame burrows beneath my skin. I don't want to put my family through this, but a full trial wouldn't be any easier. I'd be facing a slew of court dates spread out over months, if not years. My quality of character would be ripped to shreds, including my love life. I'd be portrayed as the innocent, spoiled, manipulated girl with a heart made of gold and a skull full of air.
I'm not her. I don't want to be her.
I'd rather take my chances with a judge than a jury.
"Miss Allard-Reeves," Judge Longfellow calls my attention. I swing my head around, looking to him. "I'm going to ask you again. Do you understand the charges you're facing and the penalties for them?"
"Yes, Your Honor," I state.
The judge licks his top teeth, narrowing his eyes on me. "Approach the bench, Miss Allard-Reeves."
"Huh?" I let the slang slip, forgetting I'm in a formal setting.
"He wants to speak with you in private," Erica whispers, nudging me away from our table. My heart races. I widen my eyes at her, and she gives a more forceful shove. "Go."
My heels snag on the thin carpet, but I maintain my balance. The prosecutor glances down at my feet, then meets my gaze, his lips pursed in thought. I turn away from him, stepping cautiously toward the judge's platform. When I get closer, the court reporter looks up from her keyboard, raising a brow at my obvious fear. I stop near her, lacing my hands in front of me.
"A little closer, if you will," Judge Longfellow prods, waving the microphone away from his mouth.
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I take a total of seven steps, putting myself within arm's reach of the judge. My chest brushes the wood paneling, and my nose is level with the edge of his desk. I swallow the dryness in my throat, hoping I don't vomit on the federal seal. Judge Longfellow leans forward, lowering his voice until only I can hear him.
