Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 10

Marcel’s kitchen-hand, Ed, brings a small stack of newspapers from the chef’s pantry. He grins as he places them in front of me. The first newspaper, my family’s old newspaper, has a big grainy close-up of Pacer and I in what looks like a loving embrace on the footpath outside my terrace, with the headline that’s reads:

Love’s Fight For Freedom: Fratelli and Tanner, more than just a courtroom debate.

I frown. We never kissed like this. This photo was caught as he kissed me on the cheek, but the angle makes it look so much worse.

“Mum, you should know better than anyone that this is all bullshit.”

She nods, “I know that dear, but I don’t think your father’s going to be too impressed. You know what he’s like. And what were you doing out with your client anyway?”

“I had a meeting and he offered to walk me home, that’s all. Something that was an innocent and polite offer has now been turned into some bullshit tabloid story.”

“I’ve made a call and this won’t be happening again.” Mum sips on her clear spirit; gin no doubt.

“I didn’t need you to do that. I can handle this myself.”

“It looks like it.”

I scoff at her judgement. “Ed can you please make me what ever Mum is drinking. If she’s on the hard stuff, then I need to be too. Dad is going to have my balls.”

“Chelsea Elizabeth Blythe! Your mouth!” Mum always adds on the Blythe when she really disapproves. I’ve never used my full name, though. One middle name is enough. I sound like bloody royalty if I use my full name.

“Come on, Mrs T, we all know Chelsea has a bigger set than most men,” Ed adds.

I watch Mum’s reaction and burst into fits of laughter. He couldn’t get away with that if Dad was around, and he wouldn’t dare test it either. But Ed and I have been friends from the very first day he started here, fifteen years ago. He’s always been the same smart ass, too. We’re the same age. He left school to become a chef. I was still finishing my High Schooling when he started working at Dolorous, and we became instant friends. I’ve always felt like I’ve had more in common with Ed than I have with all the jerks in my social circles.

“But why did you have to kiss him?” Mum starts up again.

I roll my eyes. “He’s Italian! It’s not what it looks like.”

Mum’s sigh is loud enough for me to hear.

Great. Just great. This weekend is going to be real fun.

***

Dad makes a grand entrance just as we take our seats at the dinner table in the smaller of the two dining rooms. The other dining room is saved for larger banquets with friends.

From the sound of the Elvis tune that he’s belting out, he’s been at the golf club for the afternoon. Hopefully he’s inebriated enough to be in a jovial mood. He spots me on the other side of the table and squints in my direction. Brace yourself, Chelsea.

“So they’re saying if you pull a rabbit out of the hat with this Fratelli guy, then you’ll be offered a place in the partnership.”

He doesn’t waste a moment to get straight to the point. Not even a ‘hello, how are you?’

“I figured as much. It’s nice to see you too, Dad.”

He shakes his head. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Chelsea. What have you got so far?”

Bonnie, the head housekeeper, places plates with our dinner in front of us. I gulp down the extra strong gin that Ed made me.

“I’ve bought all the files with me, Dad. But I’m leaving it for the night, and I’ll get into it tomorrow afternoon with you. I’ve spent the last forty-odd hours studying the case; I need a break from the intensity of the whole trial.”

Truth is, I need a break from Pacer.

I sneak a glance towards Mum and see uncertainty and anticipation on her face. From her darting eyes and pursed lips, I can tell she’s waiting for Dad to react to the paper’s photos of me. From his pleasant mood, I don’t think he’s seen them yet, so I’ll just let it slide and hope he misses it altogether.

Mum seems to share the same thought as me and also leaves the subject alone. “Have you heard from Logan? Are they coming up here this weekend?” Her question is directed at me.

I shrug. I haven’t heard from my cousin all week.

“Speak and I shall appear!” Logan spreads their arms out wide, and dramatically waltzes into the dining room just as dinner is being served.

They’re wearing combat boots, black jeans with a rip in the knees, and a black leather motorcycle jacket. Their hair is bright blonde and shaved at the back with a big fringe that falls over one side of their face, hiding one half of the oversized round reading glasses they’re sporting. I say ‘their’ because Logan doesn’t identify as male or female. Logan is ‘gender fluid’ as they call it. When we were kids, she was a girl. Our Mums always dressed us in matching sickly sweet pink ruffles and frills, and our blonde curls were always in bows. Logan was the prettiest little girl, so much so that I be jealous because everyone would mention how beautiful she was. But then they’d mention how we were more like sisters than we were cousins because of our closeness and similar features, and my little heart was mended once again.

You never know if Logan is a guy in heels or a chick that looks like a dude. Truth is, they have a style of their own. Some days she feels like her and other days he feels like him and, when that’s the case, I am allowed to call them a him or her. As confusing as it sounds, it’s really quite simple. Tonight, he’s more he than she, but you don’t see too many guys with bright red lipstick and eyelashes as long as wings. Logan is just Logan. But tonight he’s ‘he’.

“Gee, the papers gave you a bit of grief today with those pictures. I bet you sorted them out though, hey Aunt Tilly?” Logan sits casually on his chair, keeping one foot on it, knee up to his chest and pops a piece of bread in his mouth.

“What pictures?” Dad glares at all three of us.

Thanks Logan. Trust you to open you big mouth.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Dad. My client was being polite by walking me home after a late meeting, and someone snapped some pics of what looks like us kissing. But as you know, they make it worse than the actual reality of it.”

“What do you mean it looks like you were kissing?” His tone had dropped. He’s pissed.

“Pacer was giving me a kiss on either cheek, like all good Italians do, and the one picture they’re all running with looks like I’m kissing him back. But trust me, Dad, it couldn’t be further from the truth.”

The thick vein on Dad’s forehead starts to surface, as it always does when he’s angry. “Why do you call him Pacer?”

“Because that’s his name?”

“It’s also very informal for a client, Chelsea.”

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I can’t help but feel annoyed at this whole thing. Thank fuck no one can actually read my thoughts; then I would really have some explaining to do.

‘Sorry’ Logan mouths from across the table to me.

I shrug in return. This grilling was bound to happen.

What a fucking mess … and this is just the start.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Eleven hours and twenty-three minutes since I saw my honeybee. Fuck this tracker and fuck her rich parents. Scott better get this sorted or I am going to lose my shit. I slide open the screen on an iPhone that is used for one purpose and one purpose only. Finding the only number that’s in the phone? I press Scott’s number.

Smart phones are a crook’s worst enemy and a useful tool for the cops. But smart phones won’t outsmart someone like Scott.

The call picks up but the line is empty.

“Is it done?”

“Twenty minutes.” The voice answers robotically.

“What about the location?”