Bad Bitch by Christina Saunders Page B

get that scar on your eyebrow?”
    A lot of women had asked me about it. It was a story I tried to avoid. But Evan wasn’t just any woman. Something about her had captivated me long before I’d even arrived in the city. She was a part of my casework, though not in a way she knew about. Just reading transcripts of her arguments and looking at her photo on her website intrigued me. How could a woman who looked like an angel defend the devils that preyed on the weak? There was more to her backstory than she wanted to tell me. Something happened to her that turned her away from her intended path of helping people and placed her firmly on this darker one. I wanted to know more, but now wasn’t the time to push her.
    Instead, she was gleaning more and more from me. I couldn’t tell if her questions were a part of her strategy. Maybe she wanted to know my weaknesses, my Achilles’ heel. Maybe she wanted to know me. Either way, telling her wouldn’t absolve me of my past sins, but it would give her a better idea of what she’d gotten herself into. It didn’t bother me that she was possibly looking for an advantage. I took her as she was.
    “I made a mistake a long time ago.”
    “Mistakes don’t always lead to scars like that.”
    “They do when the mistake leads to a fistfight with my brother.”
    “Was it over Marilyn Monroe, or did it happen on the icy Delaware during the Revolution?” Her clever way of asking which presidential brother.
    “On the Delaware. Washington.”
    How could I explain the darkness that inhabited my past? It was still inside me, waiting there, biding its time until I made another mistake. I took a deep breath, suddenly nervous, fearing what she would think of me.
    “When I was younger, I was rash, uncontrollable. Violent. I put my parents through hell. I regret it.” I followed the twists and turns of the exposed ductwork overhead as my hand still played along her skin. “I was always getting into fights. I did some other stuff, underground fighting, knocking over convenience stores. Started in high school. I had a juvie rap sheet. Spent some time in jail for brawling. My mother made me straighten up enough to get into LSU. But I lapsed into the same trouble there. I didn’t steal anymore, I just fought. I would fight anyone, anytime. I didn’t even care about the money I’d make on it. I just had to fight. Almost got kicked out my freshman year.”
    “Why did you fight?”
    “I don’t know.” It was true. There was just something in me that made me want to battle it out. “I had a lot of anger. Nothing happened to me when I was younger. Nothing traumatic. I just . . .” I shrugged.
    “You were a natural-born wild one, then?”
    “Pretty much. Not in a good way. Not the way I am now.”
    “You’re still pretty wild if you ask me. After you spanked me last time, I could barely sit down the next day. And this time. Eek.” She laughed.
    “You loved it.”
    She sighed and looked up at me through her lashes, as if admitting a great sin. “I did . . . So what about the scar? You got it when you were fighting?”
    I hated telling the story, hated what it said about me. But if she wanted to know, I’d tell, because I felt something kindred in her. Like maybe she had some demons, too.
    “Washington had a girlfriend. Fawn—”
    “Fawn?” She snorted.
    I tickled her ribs, and she kicked at me. “We’re from the country around New Orleans, okay? There is a dearth of well-named women in that area of the world. Not everyone can be an Evangeline.”
    She settled back down. “Okay, continue. Sorry for the unwarranted interruption from counsel.”
    “Wash and Fawn were freshmen at LSU when I was a senior. I had finally sobered up a bit, doused the rage that made me do stupid shit all the time, actually worked to get my grades back in good standing.
Control.
I’d finally learned what the word meant. I thought I was done with that feeling of not giving a shit and just doing