Defending Pacer

by TJ Hamilton

  With the last light of the day hanging over the city buildings in the distance, the whole scene is really quite romantic. I watch the happy faces of the couples dancing. Uncle Carlo and Pacer’s other Uncle, Mario, spin their wives around the terrace like seasoned pros. Even Lucia looks happy with her husband as they dance, little Camilla holding on between them. Giorgie dances proudly with his Nonna, and Rico swings the arms of his younger siblings. There is plenty of love floating amongst the group. Pacer’s body is nice and warm. It heats up all the right parts.

  “How about we sway through the crowd … to an empty space.” The moment he speaks Bowie to me I go to water.

  Is this guy serious? Guys I know don’t speak Bowie.

  I grin like a fool. He touches my face and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I kiss him as we sway to the Italian love song, both of us unconcerned about who’s with us.

  Clapping erupts around us and I hear ‘amore’ being called out. My eyes catch Pacer’s and we grin, our stretched lips now straining to meet each other. The crowd of family breaks out in song together. All I understand of the Italian song is ‘amore’ but the tune is a familiar Italian classic. With Pacer’s forehead pressed against mine, I close my eyes and take in the overwhelming emotions in the air.

  ***

  “This has been a really wonderful day. Thank you so much for inviting me into your family like this.” I hug Pacer’s Mum tight. It’s such a loving embrace, again a stark contrast to what my own family is like.

  “Don’t let Paciano keep you away from here for long, eh?” she says and grins. “You are welcome to come here any time. Maybe we can have a girl’s day, cooking and drinking. I can make a good Italian wife out of you, yet,” she playfully teases.

  “Now. Paciano.” She grabs hold of Pacer’s cheeks and pinches them as she finishes off the sentence in Italian. He listens and grins, laughing when she gets really excited about something. When he speaks back to her in Italian, my puss pulses. There’s nothing sexier than listening to him speak in another language. He could be abusing me in Italian and I swear I’d still be turned on.

  “Come on, Chels. Let’s get out of here before Ma has us married with kids.”

  “Ah. Kids! Mio figlio.” She kisses his cheeks adoringly.

  We wave goodbye to the family who look intoxicated from both the wine and the company today. Pacer takes my hand and leads me towards the boathouse, not the front of the house as I was anticipating. He grins, knowing how stumped I am.

  “We’re taking the boat home.” He winks.

  I knew it. He’s a boat guy.

  A stunning classic wooden speedboat, the type Gorge Clooney would cruise Venice in, waits alongside the jetty. My bag and a basket full of food and wine sit on the cream leather bench at the rear, all ready to go. I hold Pacer’s hand, and he helps me to step down into the boat. I sit in the front next to the driver’s seat. Pacer unties the boat from the jetty and pushes it out, jumping in as we drift away. The family gathering looks even more romantic from the water. Strings of warm party lights hang above the company of people below at the long table. The full table of glassware and discarded bottles is the sign that a good party was had. Franco lights up sparklers for his own four children and the twins. They run down to the water’s edge and wave them at us as Pacer starts the engine, the boat now rumbling on the water.

  I continue waving back at them; it’s almost sad to leave. But I’m craving alone time with Pacer. We leave the little cove of Hunter’s Hill and I sit back into the leather chair and watch Pacer enjoying the ride. This day has surpassed any expectation that I had of Pacer and his family. None of the news reports, police files or accusations of his family’s crimes ever show the other side to the infamous Leganos. They never show the love and deep connection they all have for and with one another. Watching the dimly lit houses that sit along the waterfront, I can’t help but consider my own family. Sure, my family love each other, but their strength has never been tested like Pacer’s family … until now.

  At a time when a family should be showing unity like Pacer’s family, mine is showing signs of imploding.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The boat ride home was the obvious clue that Pacer’s house is right on the water. As we round the corner into Vaucluse, he pulls the boat’s throttle and we slowly drift into the bay. We float up alongside the jetty that’s closest to the beach and Pacer jumps off the boat.

  As he ties off, I grab my bag and the basket. Pacer’s chivalry does not falter and he immediately leans down and takes both items that I just picked up. He raises the bar a level—expert —when he tucks my bag under his arm and holds his gloved hand out for me to take.

  He’s not just a magician, he’s a fucking sorcerer!

  Like my obsession with him wasn’t bad enough already. I bet I’ll love his house and we’ll live happily ever after. I just know it. I can feel it.

  Trailing up to his house, we pass a pool next to the jetty. I can just make out the structure of the house in the moonlight. It sits up a steep ledge, amongst the trees. What is with him and his treetop love-nests?

  We walk up a lit cobblestone stairway, and climb each stair for what feels like forever. Exhausted from a solid Italian drinking session and an hour’s boat ride home, my head and legs feel like rubbish by the top of the stairs. Pacer catches sight of me under the doorway light and smiles.

  “Come on. Let’s go soak in the bath. It’s been an intense day for you.” He puts my bag down and unlocks the front door.

  The door swings from the centre. The house is modern, but not as minimalist as the treetop love-nest. For one there is more artwork in here. After hearing him play Nelly in his car, and his Mum having an unfortunate taste for all things euro-trash, I would not have picked him to be an art lover. The first piece right in front of the door is a huge and instantly recognisable piece by the renowned artist, David Bromley. Anyone who’s into the Sydney art scene would recognise a Bromley. His work won the prestigious Archibald Prize for so many years, and he knows my family—but that’s nothing rare. Everyone knows my family.

  I recognise this particular piece. She’s nude, as most of Bromley’s paintings are. Her upper torso and perfect breasts have so much detail within single black brush strokes. She looks like someone you wouldn’t mess with—her gaze is killer. I know this particular version of the painting, too. She’s one of the only ones who has butterflies and flowers around her. I was there when she was unveiled … because she was named after me.

  “How long have you had this piece?” I watch for Pacer’s response.

  “She was the first Chelsea I ever fell in love with,” he says with a smile.

  I try not to act like a complete girl with his love confession, and answer as quickly as I can. “Do you believe in serendipity?”

  “Sure.” He shrugs nonchalantly.

  I laugh. “I’m serious.” His eyes narrow while I talk. “What if I told you that this painting was named after me?”

  He looks at the painting, then back to me. He searches between the two of us a couple more times.

  “It’s not of me; it was just named after me. See? We were meant to meet, eventually.”

  Now I sound like a crazy stalker. I need to shut the fuck up, right now.

  We stay standing in the foyer, Pacer still contemplating the whole situation. “I’ve had her for a long time. What if between Ma’s praying and my saying ‘Hi Chelsea’ every time I walked in my house, it somehow made us slowly gravitate towards one another?”

  My eyes widen. I nod like a loon. “See?”

  He laughs loud and gives me a quick, soft kiss on the lips. “God, I love you,” he says casually, and he walks away.

  My body freezes after hearing those words. He said it. I replay the moment. Yep, he said it. Albeit a little too casually, but he said it nonetheless.

  There’s no way I can turn around from our relationship now. Not with the ‘I love you’ out in the air. There is no stopping thi
s train now. I’m bolting down that track and the emergency brake is officially broken.

  ***

  Pacer’s bath is incredible. It sits on the balcony of his main bedroom. The shutters beside the bath can be pulled out to enclose the whole balcony for complete privacy. I watch Pacer turn the bath on and light a cigarette. I’ve never condoned smoking until I watched Pacer blow out one of his long, sexuality-filled breaths of hazy air. Fuck me he makes smoking look good, whether he’s in clothes or naked. It looks good no matter what.

  Dragging my eyes from Pacer, I take in the view from the upper level of his house. This whole floor is one bedroom. The place is massive. I can’t even begin to think what Pacer must’ve thought of me when he saw my apartment that night; no wonder he wanted me to come here. He must think I live like a hobo. But I did explain to him that I didn’t need to waste my money on a house. I wanted to wait until I was ready to settle down. Looking around at how Pacer lives, I kind of feel as if I haven’t grown up.

  The view is pretty from here. The lights on the harbour sparkle through the trees. The public beach within view is a little concerning though.

  “Do you ever worry about people seeing you from the beach?” I point my thumb in the direction of the strip of white beach that’s visible, even at night.

  I catch Pacer’s smirk as he grabs the wide shutters and glides them effortlessly along the wall nearest to the beach. When he gets to the end, nothing can be seen other than the glittering harbour through the gum trees but that’s it. Pacer still has that same cocky smirk smeared across his face when he turns back to me. He’s right without even saying anything. Why did I ever doubt his understanding of privacy?

  As the bath fills, he comes past and kisses me with a little bit more dominance. “I’m going to get the drinks organised. Feel free to get naked.”

  His boldness makes me giggle. I watch him leave down the stairs and quickly turn my attention to my monogramed weekend bag on a really expensive-looking grey armchair.

  Grabbing the bag, I race into the bathroom at the far end of the room. As soon as I turn the light on, I notice how much of a mess I look. My hair is completely windswept and my nose is brighter than Rudolf at the front of a sled.

  Shit!

  I frantically zip the bag open and rifle through, searching for the lacy black number. As soon as I feel the material, I rip it from the bag and start stripping. Coat, boots, jeans, woollen sweater, they all get madly flung around the room as I desperately try to get myself together.

  Scrambling into the black lacy thing, I finally get it into position on my body. I lean onto the bench with my palms spread. Holy shit, that was a work out.

  I grab the discarded clothes and pile them next to my weekend bag, and pull out my makeup bag. Tossing my fingers through my hair, I quickly moisturise my face to at least blend in my leftover foundation from this morning’s application.

  The tiles feel warm under my feet suddenly. Floor heating. Nice. At that same moment that I notice the tiles, I also hear a cover of “Wild World” by Maxi Priest playing from somewhere above me. The tune is unmistakable, and hideously 90s. Okay maybe there is one thing wrong with him—he has terrible choice in music. His Bowie speak confuses me though.

  Peeking through a cracked door, I can’t see any sign of Pacer so I step into the bedroom and try to act as normal as possible with my lacy number on. I haven’t actually made an effort for anyone like this before, so I really don’t know how to act. The moment I see glimpses of Pacer’s swinging hips beneath his open shirt, I don’t feel nerves anymore. He sways and belts out the chorus—slightly out of tune but with plenty of gusto—as he climbs each step. He carries a bottle of Veuve champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. His taste in music makes me laugh. Who knew this Pacer Fratelli was in there?

  Putting the bottle and glasses on the table beside him, he turns back to me. “Fuck. Yes. Let me look at this,” he says and holds out his hand for me to take.

  Twirling me around in front of him, he scans up and down my attempt at being sexy. I really hope this doesn’t look ridiculous.

  “I am one lucky motherfucker.”

  My inhibition dissolves under his words, and I elaborate the twirl by flicking my ass towards him. He really knows how to make me feel sexy. Pacer turns back to the champagne and effortlessly pops the cork. That sound always reminds me of a party.

  The moment the champagne hits my lips I feel a wash of comfort roll over me. There’s something magical about this whole moment. It’s only a week since we were at the treetop love-nest, but so much has progressed really quickly, and without our own hold on the speed of it. It’s as if our relationship became all or nothing within a matter of days.

  I watch Pacer and can’t dislodge the idea of us having to meet at some point in our lives. Our paths were mirroring each other’s, just on contrasting ends of the moral spectrum. Or were they? What is any different from my own and Pacer’s families? Mine will never understand it, nor will they even try to. Pacer may have killed people with his bare hands, but my Dad has done the same with his orders. Which way is wrong? Just because my Dad didn’t do the deed himself doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible for the lives of many.

  Pacer takes my hand and leads me to the bath. “I’ll be getting you back into this later,” he says as he places the glass on the edge of the bath, “but right now I just want to soak with my girl.”

  Not arguing with that. “Okay,” I manage to get out.

  The black lacy number is easier to get off than it is to get on. It slides from my body within seconds. I like that thing.

  I dip my toe into the swirling water of the freestanding bath and sink into its warmth. Pacer too gets in, within seconds of discarding his clothes.

  He motions for me to come to him with the curl of his index finger. There’s nothing that would stop me from doing so, and within a heartbeat I sink into his arms. I reach for my champagne glass and we both sit back and relax for the first time in what has been the most incredible three and a half weeks.

  After a solid ten minutes without a word uttered between us, I finally feel like we’re solid enough in our relationship that I can tackle this trick subject. “I know things about Jackson Reed.”

  He doesn’t answer. I know he’s not asleep though; his breathing hasn’t deepened like it does every night of the past week that we’ve unsuccessfully kept away from each other. Then why isn’t he answering?

  I try again. “Jackson Reed has paperwork that can get you put in prison.”

  He spins me around to him, my eyes focusing on his flaring nostrils and wide eyes. “How do you know that? Who told you? Was it Franco? Or was it Reed? … HUH?”

  His voice rises and quickly I’m reminded of the loose canon temper that he possesses.

  “Will you relax? I found it out for myself.” I’m not completely lying. “I’m your barrister, remember? I am also a little insulted that you doubted my ability to even find this out.”

  His eyes narrow as he speaks. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “I didn’t come down in the last storm. How about you tell me what you’re up to and I can try to help you?” I say, shaking my head.

  Pacer’s eyes search between mine at that same rate that I search for answers within his.

  “Pacer, this is ridiculous. We are on the same fucking team. I’m with you in this. If you hold back on me now, I might as well walk out to the street naked. At least I can plead my relationship with you on partial insanity during a mental breakdown.”

  He laughs loud and grabs the remote control from the ledge. Turning the sound up on the stereo, U2 sings about one love.

  Pacer presses another button on the remote and all the shutters slide out and shield the entire balcony.

  Sliding up against me, he leans into my ear and speaks. “If you haven’t worked it out for yourself yet—Reed tells me the people who have slipped through the cracks, and I help him get rid of them.�
��

  I replay the words over slowly.

  Jackson and Pacer have been working together to kill bad people?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  She is smarter than I gave her credit for. I can see her brilliant mind piecing everything together as I give her all the details of the deal I have with Reed.

  “So you kill bad guys for Jackson Reed? But why does he want them dead?” Her eyes still search for answers.

  I shrug. “I guess he hates losing cases. Some of them have pretty scary past times. I mean, who wants the fuckers that hurt women and kids to get away with it?”

  “This is why we have a judicial system. What if the shit Jackson Reed sprouts to you about these people is wrong? What if you’ve killed innocent people?”

  If only I’d thought of this sooner, I wouldn’t be in this position.

  “That’s what happened with Sean Collins, and I found out.” I knock back the champagne and try to stop the rage I feel building, because I never should’ve trusted Reed in the first place. “The problem with your judicial system is that it’s flawed. It only takes someone as clever as you to come along and suddenly guys are roaming the street when they should be locked up.”

  “But that’s not up for you to decide.” Her frown is full of disappointment.

  “That’s right, I forgot; it’s people like your Dad who get to choose everyone’s fate,” I fire back angrily.

  “My Dad worked his ass off to get to the position he was in. He’s an educated man, and has good morals. You would never understand the pressure he had because your family paid little attention to our laws.” She jumps out of the bath and grabs one of the towels rolled up next to the bath. “The worst part is, you really don’t care about any of it, either. You think you’re above it all.” I can see the flare rising up in her face as she wraps the towel around her, and she stomps her way to the bathroom.