Defending Pacer, стр. 6

“About that freedom … you have to get an ankle monitor fitted to you tomorrow. That’s bad news. I will be accompanying you to the police station where they’ll fit it. I don’t want those assholes from the DPP harassing you while my back is turned.”

The flush is rising up his neck, his expression changing dramatically from joy to something in between anger, rage and amusement. Well, that’s what it looks like to me. Whatever the hell it is, it’s not good. The lines across his forehead crease deep as his dark eyebrows cinch in. The air becoming drenched in fury. The heat from his body can be felt from here. Or is that me heating up? I can sense the tension.

“This is fucking bullshit!” he says with such frustration.

I need to put this into perspective for the ungrateful psycho. “Well it’s either that or you can be held in remand for the next few months while you await trial?” I watch his response, but he still looks furious. “Just behave how you are and it will buy me some time to have the ankle bracelet removed again. There’s been a change in the prosecution. It’s given me more to work with. I just need you to do the right thing. Okay?”

“Sure, of course. You’re right.” He wears a smile, but it’s far from sincere.

What’s going on behind that smile, Pacer? Do I really want to know?

“You also have to report to the city police daily. But that’s right near my office, so we’ll just tie it in with daily meetings together.” My heart stupidly flutters at the thought of seeing Pacer every day … for strictly professional reasons, of course.

His smile softens. “That’s a good idea. Is there any more bad news?”

I shake my head. “Nope. That’s it. We have until the twenty-fourth of July to break holes through all the police’s evidence against you.”

“Now that is something to celebrate.”

In perfect timing, Carlo returns with the bottle of wine and pulls the cork with a squeaking pop.

“This is a nice drop, from my private vineyard in the Hunter Valley. I’m going to order food for us too, if you don’t mind of course?” Pacer holds the glass of wine up, inspecting the red as it slides against the glass.

“Go ahead. I trust your choices.”

“That would be a first for me.” Pacer and his Uncle Carlo laugh loudly, and I can’t help but laugh at the dark undertow of the joke, too. Pacer is so blatantly overt about what he does. It frustrates me, yet he turns me on like no one ever has. No guys in my world are like Pacer. Jackson’s about the only bad guy I know, but he’s certainly not an open criminal as Pacer quite comfortably is.

Is this what I was destined to become? The person not only attracted to, but responsible for letting killers roam our city streets? Or is it a better society for letting criminals all keep their business to themselves? So what if they want to kill each other off?

And just like our Lady Justice represents, there must always be balance between all sides to the arguments. For every Jackson there must be someone like me to represent equilibrium, presenting the other side of the argument. Maybe Jackson the asshole is actually right—maybe I was always destined to head to this side, the offending side. The dark side.

Pacer orders dinner in Italian, waving his hand out whenever he’s really passionate about something. I can’t understand a word he’s saying, and by all accounts, he could be discussing business with his Uncle. But what I don’t know won’t hurt my case with Pacer … my client, my criminal, murdering, fucking-sexy-as-hell-when-he-laughs-like-that … client. I can’t take my eyes from him when he laughs.

Why can’t you just be an asshole like guys in my world are? You would be so much easier to deal with. I could win your case, and we could move on with life.

“Saluti.”

I raise my glass high and down a big swig of the red wine, trying my best not to make it look obvious that I really need to get drunk right now. Screw work. No, actually I shouldn’t screw work. Right now, Pacer is my work. I glance towards him again, and his dark eyes catch mine, so he gives my arm a squeeze.

I have no idea what that means.

“Sorry. I get carried away. I like to make sure Uncle Carlo cooks it just right. I always do it to him.”

“He does it when he wants to impress someone.” Carlo rolls his eyes.

Somehow I don’t buy the story, but the less I know the better. Carlo leaves the room, and once again we’re alone. I wish I could say this was unromantic, but the whole setting is actually quite lovely. The room is cosy and inviting, the cellar feel makes it really intimate.

“I’ve been coming here since I was a baby. It’s been in the family for forty years now.”

“Do you really think Carlo needs to be told how you like your meals if you’ve been coming here for at least thirty of those years?”

He smirks. “You have been reading up on me, haven’t you?”

“What? Your age? Pacer, it’s what you’re paying me for. It’s my job to know everything about you.” I take another gulp of wine, hoping to fuzz the hell out of this situation.

Client. Client. Client.

CHAPTER FOUR

“I’d prefer to make sure you get home safe. The city is full of crooks, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that.” Her words are slightly slurred.

Our afternoon meeting has turned into a late night session, polishing off three bottles of wine together. Heavy drinking is fairly normal practise within my family, but it seems like Chelsea has had more than her quota of alcohol. She is like putty in my hands today. Get some wine into her and she’s all doe-eyed at me. It makes me just want to throw her over my shoulder and take her straight to her bed and fuck her until she’s sober again. And right now, it’s taking every inch of my control not to do just that. She’s too drunk to try to reason with, so I take her hand and link it through my arm.

Strangely she was hotter when she was bitchy. I like when she snaps at me. That little defensive wall she puts up, when I know she really just wants to ride my cock.

This honeybee is not what I expected at all … she’s even better. Watching her for the past two weeks has been more than insightful. She fucks herself like a caged lab rat, stays up all night reading shit, eating shit, then she throws on a boring suit and looks like a librarian while she argues with assholes all day, to keep guys like me free. She’s a fucking dream come true.

“Okay. But I don’t know if I really want you knowing where I live, so you can walk me a few blocks and I can grab a cab the rest of the way.”

Too late. I know exactly where you live, and I know exactly how you masturbate.

“I can find out where you live quicker than you can find out my address, and you’re paid to know everything about me, remember? Now shut up and walk.”

She grins and her eyes bat as slow as her speech. “You,”—she points out at me—“think you’re pretty clever, huh?”

Yep, she definitely wants to fuck me.

I take a cigar from the leather holder in my pocket, and light it. “Just walk.” Cigar smoke bellows out around me as I talk.

She doesn’t argue with my demand. Just as I thought.

Her apartment is only four blocks from here. It’s the main reason why I took her to my Uncle Carlo’s place. I knew I could walk her home. I was right about her; she’s an eastern suburbs princess, except there’s something about her that’s different to all the other pompous bitches from this side of the city.

I listen to her talk about how she loves the wintertime in Sydney and laugh every time she mentions the places she likes to visit. On the outside, she’s very predictable. She goes to all the places that girls with her upbringing and career go. It’s what she does after dark behind closed doors that gets me the most excited.