by TJ Hamilton
“Okay. Set it up. I have to go.” I hear Pacer’s voice before I see him.
He throws his mobile phone on the table in front of him and grins wide when he sees me. He’s impeccably dressed. This I can work with in the courtroom—not that he wasn’t poorly dressed before, but ripped jeans are not a great look during a trial. Now this … this is exceptional. Shirt and tie, coat hung over one of the seats. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, enough for me to see the writing down one arm and a cross on the other. An image of a scorpion is tattooed on his right hand, the sight of it reminding me that I need to confirm the story why he has it. The rumours aren’t good. He needs to cover his tattoos in court, but right now I’m okay with this view. His hair is perfectly rolled to one side, as if he’s just stepped out of the barbershop.
The rolling thunder that’s replaced my heartbeat makes my head feel light. My fingertips tingle as I reach out to shake Pacer’s hand, pulling off professionalism as best as I can. Pacer, on the other hand, leans in and pulls me to him, kissing me on either cheek. The sensation of his rough, stubbled skin against me almost gives me cause to start panting like a bitch in heat.
“Well a warrant hasn’t been issued for my arrest, so I can only assume the hearing this morning was a success?”
His hot breath blows past my ear as he speaks. I straighten up and smile weakly, ignoring what that actually felt like. My ability to speak, however, still hasn’t connected my mouth with my brain.
“Zio Carlo, could you bring me out one of my special bottles of red from the back?”
“Sure thing. Here. Let me take your coat.” Carlo reaches out and I slide my thick woollen coat off. I smile and wonder why he didn’t take Pacer’s jacket like this. Must be because he’s family.
Pacer waves off Uncle Carlo and pulls out a seat for me to sit.
Old school chivalry.
I clear my throat. “I can’t drink anything. Sorry, Pacer. I have to get back to the office after this,” I smile politely. “But by all means, enjoy a glass for yourself. We have some changes to your bail restrictions to discuss.”
The usual hard stare has softened to disappointment. I feel a pinch of guilt. With any one else I would agree to a glass of wine, but with Pacer, I just don’t trust myself. Not with the unwanted God-knows-what feelings I have.
“I won’t take no for an answer, Chelsea. My freedom is something to be celebrated. I want to enjoy it while I still have it. So you’re having at least one drink with me.”
Nodding before I regret it altogether, I give in far more easily than I usually would. None of that was a question. It was a demand. And being ordered around by him is kind of hot.
“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.
We walk straight past her terrace and she doesn’t stop.
Predictable.
I follow in her little charade, and cross the street with her. I’m definitely watching her tonight. All my movements will be monitored from tomorrow so this is one of the last opportunities that I get to just see her, undetected. The rest of my work can wait until the morning.
“Well, this is me,” she says at the apartment block across the road from her terrace.
“See? It wasn’t that far to walk after all.” I smile.
She giggles. She must think I’m an idiot.
I lean in to kiss her on either cheek. Her nose collides awkwardly with mine as I kiss her on the other side.
Smiling, I let go of her arm and just watch, waiting for her to go inside. She stares back, but her drunken glaze looks straight past me.
She blows out a puff of air, “Okay. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Another moment passes as she waits for me to move. But I don’t.
“Alright, so I’m actually across the street. Just wanted to see if you knew.”
I puff on my cigar. She really didn’t think this through. I nod once.
She doesn’t need any more than that. A nod will do.
“Nice terrace. Is it yours?”
“Pffffft. No. It’s part of my family’s estate. I think my great-grandma owned it. I couldn’t afford a terrace like this here. I’d be struggling to own an apartment in that building across the road.” She laughs.
It’s such bullshit, but I like her attitude. She’s got old money, but she’s still down to earth. That’s a rare quality from someone who grew up around here.
“You must be on a pretty penny, doing what you do.”
She shrugs. “It’s all right. But why spend it if I don’t have to? Wasting a few million dollars on a terrace in the city is not on my list of priorities. Not when I can save it to buy what I really want later in life, once I’ve settled down.”
“Settled down?” I laugh, “Girls like you never settle down.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean girls with careers like yours. You’ll never walk away from it. You can’t. It’s in your blood.”
She stares into the distance again, but this time her cogs are ticking.
“Bit like being in a gang, really.”
Touché.
She smiles and opens the little iron gate to her terrace. Unlocking her front door, she turns. “Thanks for walking me home.”
“Anytime.” I stand on the footpath, continue smoking my cigar and watch her as she closes the door.
The lights flick on inside and I turn and walk back along from where I just came. I don’t want to turn back and look, but I know she’s checking to see where I go.
***
Two hours later, I make my way from Uncle Carlo’s to watch Chelsea for just a bit longer. I left through the hidden doorway that leads out of the back entrance of a restaurant, six doors up. We use it all the time if we think the dogs are on our tail again, and I’m still hot until I get this shit strapped to me tomorrow.
I get to her terrace and she’s left her curtains slightly open again. She should be more careful. You never know who’s out in the street, watching. My cousin’s BMW unlocks in front of me. I get into the backseat and get myself comfortable again. The binoculars are right where I left them in the pocket of the seat in front of me.
I’m going to have to think of another way to watch her. I’m not going to be able to park a different car here each week, like I had planned. She wondered why I got pissed off about having the fucking ankle bracelet. This is why. It fucks up something that was working just nicely.
I look over at the apartment block, and wonder if I should buy one of the apartments that face her terrace? She might not have the spare millions like she says, but I do. To me, this wouldn’t be a waste. This is definitely an investment—an investment in this interesting creature.
The problem is staying there. No matter how many of these buildings I buy, they will always know where I am.
There’s only one solution. She will just have to come to me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Groggy, heavy eyelids … struggle to open. Fuck Pacer’s red wine voodoo yesterday. Holding my head and moaning, I stumble my way to the shower, bouncing off the walls along the way like a Hollywood zombie in a Brad Pitt movie.
I had to drink yesterday. Yes I did. It was necessary! It was the only way to loosen up, and not be so fixated on Pacer. Running over the sequence of events from the afternoon, I pray I didn’t say anything that sounded too much like a teenage girl with a crush on her idol, because that’s what this feels like. It’s bullshit! I’ve worked so hard to get to the position I’m in, and now I feel totally out of control with it.
Finally making it to the bathroom, I grip onto the porcelain of the vanity sink and slowly raise my head, daring to look at myself in the mirror.
“You are a mess, girl.”
I have one job to do, and that’s keep Pacer Fratelli out of prison. That’s right; keep saying his full name. It keeps it professional. Because … “Heez aaaay cl-iiiii-ent,” I groan.
I sound like a puppet from Sesame Street.
He’s a client. He’s a client.
Repeating those words over and over, I turn the shower on, ready to wash away the layer of Fratelli filth that’s come to a rest on my skin.
It takes me a little longer to function this morning. Washing and blow-drying my hair, then meticulously smoothing it all back into a bun, feels
as if it’s done in slow motion.
A coffee from Lou’s will fix everything. It always does.
The twenty-minute walk to work starts just as slowly. I still have two hours before I meet with Pacer, so this morning can be slow for once. I might even try and eat a bacon and egg roll at Lou’s, to absorb the alcohol still remaining in my system.
“Chelsea, you look a bit rough this morning, love. You got a fella keeping you up all night or somthin’?” A toothless smile greets me just before I get to my favourite coffee shop.
“Hi Larry. No, no man in my life. I’m still waiting for you, remember?”
Larry, one of my many homeless friends in the neighbourhood, laughs loudly. I take a step sideways, trying to avoid the spit that usually flies from his mouth whenever he laughs. I really don’t need that this morning.
“Better clean me act up then, aye?” he bellows as I walk into the coffee shop.
“I’ll be back with your roll. I just need to get some caffeine into me before I die. Where’s Don and Mick?”
“They’re comin’. Just had to get their dose the s’mornin’.”
Dose. Done. Methadone. There are a few names for the program that helps with the majority of the homeless people’s addiction to heroine. Most of them are on it. There are a few, like Larry, who aren’t addicts, but he’s got a whole barrel of mental health issues to deal with instead. Until our government and the medical departments decide to do something about both the drug and mental health issues of our nation, we’ll always have this problem in the city. The methadone program is an out-dated way to fix heroine addiction, and most of the users stay on it longer than they were on heroine. It’s not until you scratch the surface of a city like Sydney that you see where the real issues are.
The screeching sound of milk being heated is almost unbearable this morning.
“Morning, Chels.” Tahnee, daughter of the shop’s owner strains her voice so that she can be heard over the milk, “The bacon rolls are just being made for the boys.”
