Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 12
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- 12/43
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Fuck!
I cock my leg up onto her bed just as my creamy jizz spills all over her white linen.
Money shot!
I’ll always be in here with her now. And when she washes her sheets, I’ll just come back in here and do it again. I want her to smell me every night when she sleeps.
She’s going to be riding my cock before she knows it.
Taking a moment to sort myself out, I wipe my sticky hand on her sheets and pull the covers back. I shove her delicious smelling panties into my pocket, and I slide my gloves back on as I walk out of her bedroom.
What other possessions can I claim for myself?
Downstairs, her fridge has fuck all in it. Her rubbish bin is full—health-bar wrappers and takeaway coffee cups. Three empty bottles of wine sit beside the bin, waiting to be taken out to the main bin outside. I wander into a spare bedroom and find something that interests me more than her delicious panties.
A corkboard with pictures of me covers a quarter of the wall. She has a timeline of all my charges, dating back to when I was a teenager. She has done her research. I wonder if she does this for all her clients, or if she’s saving this special treatment for me? I’d like to think she’s just done this for me.
What an interesting little honeybee.
Some of this information is serious; the dogs know a lot about me.
The old pictures provoke memories of when I was a scrawny kid. I remember every charge. I remember all of the custody photos. Thank Christ my sense of style has evolved. No one needs a little Vanilla Ice wannabe running around town with way too much fluorescent for one outfit. ‘Juvie’ taught me how to become a man. It’s survival of the fittest in a place like that. Being locked up with a bunch of punk-ass street kids with adolescent hormones that they can’t control is the best way to learn how to fight hard and be better than your competition.
Standing here longer than intended, I find myself reflecting on what my life has been and what it’s become. I don’t think I would’ve changed any of it. Everything I’ve done in my life was necessary. My Uncle needed someone strong in the family, an attribute that his own sons failed to rise to. I couldn’t imagine Franco doing what I do. He’d fuck our name, reputation and finances within a goddamn month. I need to stay out of prison, for the sake of the family. My Uncle’s getting old now; he can’t do it all on his own.
I find a section that contains photos of Zio Carlo when he was in his prime. He will always be the most intimidating man I’ve ever met. But he’s not the man he used to be twenty years ago. I also find a photo of him and my Dad together. I miss my Dad. My childhood memories fade more and more as the years go on, and I feel as if I’m losing him all over again. When Dad and Carlo were in their prime, we were the main family in the city and Kings Cross was ours. When my Dad died in prison, my family took it hard. Now the city’s full of these Muslim gangs, and territories have split. These new guys are all irrational and a little too trigger-happy for my liking. They like to shoot first and ask questions later. I hate dealing with them, but I have to. I’m just glad our family is still the one they come to when they need something. They will always know we’re the old crooks of the city.
I don’t see why business can’t be dealt with the old way—interrogation and punishment. That Sean asshole took almost six hours to knock off … just the way I like it. Slow and painful. None of this shooting shit. I like to take the real assholes apart, limb-by-limb. Especially when the anaesthetic wears off, and they feel their limb missing. That’s my favourite part. They say you can sometimes still feel a limb, even when it’s gone.
I see the forensic photos of all the arms and legs I’ve taken over the years. They’ve only got me on two of those. The others had their charges dropped before court. I remember the screams when I sliced the saw through their flesh. The initial screams are just from the shock of what’s happening to them; they can’t actually feel it. It makes me smile every time.
As I close my eyes, I can hear the ripping of their skin as the sharp teeth of the saw hit them. Ah, that sound never gets old.
‘Get out of your daydream, kid,’ I hear my Dad’s voice.
Studying back over my photos, I wonder how many tattoos the dogs know I’ve got?
The board has my obvious ones, but my left arm’s sleeve is practically finished, except some shading. It would be too hard for them to tag and document every inch of ink. The latest police profile has it listed as ‘full sleeve’
Good.
They definitely know about the scorpion; I’ve always known that. Sliding my glove off and looking at the scorpion tattooed on the back of my hand, I smile. My nickname, The Sting, has served me well—the sting before the kill.
The gloves keep me hidden, fingerprints and all.
With my gloves back on, I decide I’ve just about had enough of this little trip down memory lane. There’s more of this honeybee to uncover while I have the opportunity.
CHAPTER NINE
Seven fucking hours.
Seven. Fucking. Hours!
Dad and I have been testing every piece of police evidence to see if there is a fault in their investigation.
For seven. Fucking. Hours.
Forget about me having to convince Dad that Pacer is targeted. So much of this investigation is wrong. I feel stupid that I didn’t see it until Dad highlighted it. It must’ve been my rampant hormones that distracted me … that and the leather gloves.
There are so many Jackson Reed types in the police force. I don’t even understand how this case was able to get as far as a trial. When Dad enlightened me on how some of this evidence has come about, I also realised that Jackson Reed has had his grubby mitts all over it. But I don’t tell Dad that part. I’ll go after Jackson on my own.
I’m contacting the judge myself first thing Monday morning. I bet Jackson Reed paid off Pacer’s last lawyer too. The more I’m learning about these high-level criminal investigations, the more I find the undertow of corruption within the ranks. If they’re not careful, I will be making sure another Royal Commission happens. Dad was the chief justice for the last Royal Commission into corruption. Both sides of the fence hated my family before I even began practising law. The crooks hated Dad for locking them up, and the detectives hated Dad for exposing their crooked investigations.
Our level of security was needed when you’re a powerful and very hated person like Dad was. I’m glad I’ve inherited Dad’s deep integrity. The so-called bad guys of the city seem to have more honesty than the people in charge of the judicial system. I’m starting to understand Dad’s frustrations.
Dad has long gone to bed, but I’ve stayed behind in his office to finish all the notes. If this all goes to plan, Pacer’s case will be settled out of court, and without a plea bargain.
I hate Jackson Reed. No wonder why Pacer’s family want him gone. He’s on a one-directional pursuit to get Pacer and his cousins behind bars. He needs to be stopped.
Picking up my phone, I check the time.
1:20am.
I’m tempted to message Pacer. I feel like I want to tell him that I’ve got this in the bag … I also just want to hear from him, too. I miss him.
Jesus! I’ve known him for three minutes and I already miss him? What do I do from here? Do I ignore my feelings or act on them and find out why I feel like this? There’s got to be a reason for it.
It’s the leather gloves!
Mmmm … leather gloves.
CHELSEA: Our dinner may be happening sooner than you thought.
Send.
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