Fall Guy (A Youngblood Book)

coats both my palms.
When Judge Schwenzer finally sits and we settle back down, she attacks the files on her desk. From her shellacked bun to her sensibly hideous glasses, she's all business, and I feel my heart sink.
This woman would never splurge on a red leather portfolio cover for her incriminating court documents. This woman will hate me on principle.
I catch the guy looking at me. No sneaking a look, no flirty attempts to maybe establish eye contact; just plain, open looking. When I put all my efforts into staring him down, he gives me a clear, wide smile and winks, one slow, lazy flick of an eyelid laced with all those gorgeous lashes. My heart races again, and I turn my attention stubbornly to the front of the courtroom.
Which is a mistake. Judge Schwenzer is chewing some poor girl apart over a DUI charge. Apparently this isn't her first. And just when she's finished reducing the girl to a blubbering mass of tears, she picks up the next file.
"Winchester Tobar Youngblood."
The guy stands and says, "Excuse me," before he flashes one more cocky smile and walks with sure confidence to the judge's bench.
Judge Schwenzer's lips are already compressed flat and mean, a line she’s daring anyone to cross.
"Winchester, the charges against you involve disturbing the peace and public intoxication. How do you plead?"
Shock jars my eyeballs right to the front of the room, though it makes no sense at all for me to be shocked. I do not know him, no matter how strangely intimate our little court hallway rendezvous felt. Sweet manners, a few open smiles, and a wink aren't enough to establish a man's character. But maybe he's not--
"Guilty, your honor."
I'm admittedly a poor judge of guys, but the disappointment I feel over this particular guy at this particular moment is uncanny.
Judge Schwenzer also seems...not so much disappointed, but disbelieving.
"I don't buy it, Mr. Youngblood. The officer filing the report said the man he observed was shaggy, unkempt. In all the times you've come before the court, you've never looked that way."
Winchester bows his head with deference. "My mother told me I should always get a haircut before an important court date, ma’am."
That is a perfectly reasonable explanation. And, honestly, it makes no sense for the judge to question something so easily explained. Why didn't she think of it?
"The officer also noted that the man he gave a citation to had a tattoo on his forearm. Very distinctive. A Pegasus." Her eyes are sharks-with-lasers-intense, and they're trained right on Winchester.
He cuffs his sleeve back and holds his arm out for her to see, out of my line of sight. His words are low and even, almost meditative.
"A pooka, ma'am, not a Pegasus. No wings."
I need to see that tattoo. It's like a foil-wrapped birthday gift on the table in front of me that I’m not allowed to open.
She closes her eyes behind those steel-framed glasses and lets out a sigh heavy with frustration.
"That tattoo looks very fresh."
"My skin takes a long time to heal, ma'am."
His voice remains even-keeled and patient, and that just seems to dig like splinters into Judge Schwenzer's ass.
She puckers her lips, shakes her head, and swipes her pen. "Five thousand dollars, probation, and community service." She glances up from her paperwork. “Winchester?”
He turns to look at her, and there’s a long, silent exchange of facial tics and stares before she says, “This is me giving you one final chance. One. Don’t throw it away. The next time you’re in this courthouse, I will not exercise leniency.”
Silence rocks between them for a few counts.
"Thank you, ma'am," Winchester says and picks up the paperwork.
I watch his confident swagger all the way to the back of the courtroom, but I never get to see him leave, because Judge Schwenzer, angry as a warthog that's been poked with a sharpened stick, calls my name next, venom practically dribbling over the syllables that fall out of her mouth.

Winch 1
With girls, it's all in the eyes.
That's how you can tell, how you know if a girl's going to be some doe-eyed princess you have to tiptoe around until you can unlock what she wants you to find or an eye-rolling vixen ready to run just for the fun of having you chase her.
Blue, green, brown, hazel, amber, gray: I can remember the eyes of any girl who caught my attention, even after her name and number are long-forgotten memories.
I asked her if she was nervous, and it was like a thousand icicles shot out of those eyes to murder my pickup attempts in cold blood.
This is the weird thing about eyes, though. There’s a saying, 'cold hands, warm heart.' In my experience, a better indicator of a girl's heart is her eyes.
This girl's are Arctic, but I read underneath them, and can see that the cool exterior is nothing but a cover for a hot temper that burns underneath. I've got a head for stakes and good luck with bets, and I'd be willing to bet everything I have that she gets emotional as hell, probably throws tantrums and lights things on fire.
I've got warm eyes, but my family always talks about how I’m a cucumber, cool and collected even under pressure, never letting anything rattle me. That’s why I have the job I have. That’s why I do the things I do. I don’t buckle under pressure. Ever.
I know she's watching me when I'm in front of the courtroom, and when Judge Schwenzer gives me another wrist-slap round of community service and a serious warning, I also know I have to get the hell out of Dodge.
That girl with those eyes and those curves and that voice, like slow sex during a summer storm, runs way too hot for me to mess with. Especially now, when every damn thing in my world is spiraling out of control, and I'm the only one who can grab all the ends and hold it together.
I have my hand on the