Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 21
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My wild grin is unavoidable. The thought of him cooking for me is even dreamier than my thoughts of staying here alone with him. In fact, everything about Pacer is dreamy.
I almost skip across the cold concrete floor as I make my way to the path of clothes that has been spread from the front door all the way to the main bedroom. I haven’t needed clothes until this point, so it’s a nice reminder of how this all began around fourteen hours ago.
Holy shit! That means we’ve been having wild sex with each other for at least ten or so hours! Is that even normal? No wonder I’m walking like I’ve been bareback horse riding all day.
The space around me is really cosy for such a stark, minimalist house. The warm carpet in the bedroom is a welcome feeling under my feet. I like that we didn’t just sleep in the bed like normal people do. But Pacer and I are far from normal.
I grab Pacer’s shirt from next to the bed and decide to throw that over me. I laugh as I go to button it up, remembering that they were half ripped of yesterday.
On my way back to the kitchen, smelling something on the stove, I remind myself that this is as far as we can ever really get. Sure, we can have wild weekends together in the seclusion of this house, but that’s all our relationship can ever be. We come from the two families who probably hate each other the most in the city.
But if Romeo and Juliet could make it work … wait … bad example.
I catch a glimpse of Pacer from the hallway. He’s in a white bathrobe and moving around the kitchen like a trained chef. The sight instantaneously breaks me from my reality check. God, he looks good.
Pacer catches my downtrodden look when I enter the kitchen.
“What’s the matter, honeybee? Cute shirt, by the way. It looks good on you.” He flips bacon on the grill and talks at the same time. Impressive.
He must get the kitchen skills from his Uncle? Or is it his Mum … or sister? It reminds me of how much more I want to learn about him. There has to be a way to make this work.
I wrap my arms around him from behind and hold him tight. “Just work stuff on my mind,” I lie … well, not completely. “You look comfortable in the kitchen. I have to admit that I have terrible cooking skills. I think I would probably burn water.”
His strong torso jiggles within my arms as he laughs. “I’m Italian. If I wasn’t able to cook, I think my whole familia would disown me.”
There’s that divide between our lives again. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in my family cook. Maybe Dad grilled on the BBQ once, but that’s a very vague memory.”
Pacer pulls me around to him and holds me with one arm while still tending to the cooking. “I might have to teach you some of the basics one day.” He winks.
“I’d like that.”
My smile hides the doubt that’s crept into my mind again. It’s doubt that’s telling me how our fate is sealed, no matter how much I wish it to be different.
“One thing I can make is coffee.” I smile genuinely this time.
The coffee machine in the wall rivals the one at Dolorous. Coffee might as well be intravenously injected into you when you’re a barrister. You pretty much get an addiction to caffeine the moment your law degree hits your hands. So coffee, I know.
Pacer and I manoeuvre around each other very naturally. It feels as if we’ve been together for years, but there’s still that new spark there that makes it exciting. It’s the type of spark you get when you spend time alone with someone for the first time and imagine what life would be like ten years from now, but you also want time to stand still for as long as possible.
There has to be a way to make this work.
***
“Just how many cars do you have?” I ask, as Pacer opens the door to the garage.
“If you stop to think about those questions before you ask them, you would have the answer for yourself.” He opens the car door of his slick black Porsche. “I’m a guy, I’m Italian, and I can afford these kinds of luxuries. What else am I going to spend my money on?”
His cockiness is so attractive. I bite down on my smile and slide into the leather seat of his sports car. I still don’t really get guys though. I have just as much money to spend on cars, but don’t own a single set of wheels myself. Living in the city helps, I guess. I just walk or catch a taxi. Or is that a girl thing?
Pacer kicks the engine into gear and a song by Nelly, “Ride With Me”, pumps in the speakers. Nelly’s singing that it must be the money. The sound startles me, and I laugh at the song choice. It’s one of those songs that’s classically crass, but was really popular ten years ago. A sideways glance, a shoulder shrug, and Pacer presses the back arrow for the song to start again. The acoustic guitar riff is catchy, and I grin as we launch out of the garage and roar up the hill at a fast speed.
Cars … definitely a guy thing.
***
On the way back, I contact the magistrate’s assistant and convince her that my new information is urgent enough to meet with the magistrate during his recess at eleven.
“This better be good, Chelsea. He will fire me if I’ve wasted his recess break,” Amber says over the phone.
“Amber, I wouldn’t do that to you. Thank you. See you later.”
Ending the call, I glance over at Pacer and sigh. It’s hard to tell how Judge Nolan is going to react to me accusing the council of not only committing perjury in his court, but also that they’ve committed a miscarriage of justice against Pacer. Well, mostly. The fact that he did admittedly murder Collins is significant compared to Jackson Reed getting him behind bars with dirty statements and false witness accounts. But there is more to this. There is more to Jackson and Pacer, and I know it.
Searching through my phone, I find Logan’s number and send her a text.
CHELSEA: Can you grab my leather document holder from my bedroom before you leave Mum and Dad’s? I’ll meet you at my place at eight
LOGAN: See you there, you crazy fuck!
I giggle at the message and Pacer takes his eyes from the road for a moment. Giving me a sexy as hell grin, he turns his attention back to driving. The smile hasn’t faded for a moment. Jesus, he drives me crazy and makes me insatiable for more of him.
My thoughts unintentionally drift back to work. Does Pacer know more about Reed than he’s letting on? I watch him for a moment, wondering whether I should broach the subject with him.
Fuck it! “What do you know about Jackson Reed?” I say without a second’s thought.
Pacer laughs. “Be careful with him, Chelsea. The guy is dangerous. He’s got a lot of power behind him.”
“This is what I’m beginning to understand, the deeper I dig.” I sigh.
“Don’t dig any deeper. If he finds out that you know things about him, there’s no telling what he might try to do.” Pacer’s dark eyes are wide.
Should I be worried? What would he do to me? “What do you mean? What’s he doing, Pacer? I can help you. I can get Jackson put behind bars.”
Pacer shoots a look at me. “Don’t Chelsea! I mean it. Just drop it. The guy is bad.”
“What about my meeting with Judge Nolan today? I was going to show him the holes in your case. Holes that I think Jackson is a part of, for some reason.”
“Just be careful. I don’t know exactly who is working with Jackson. But you can’t trust anyone. Just don’t get Jackson backed into a corner. Show the judge what you need to show him without Jackson being held accountable for it all. Can you do that?” Pacer’s stony face looks worrisome.
“If I can do it with my Dad, I’m sure I can manage to persuade Nolan.”
What does Pacer know about Jackson?
I nod in reply, but I’m not slowing down. Not now. Jackson Reed needs to be stopped.
***
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