Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 8
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- 8/43
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It is just work. Just work. The more I repeat my mantra this morning, the easier it’s feeling to keep it all in perspective.
Tahnee slides the takeaway coffee onto the counter and disappears to the kitchen, where her Dad is no doubt making the rolls for my friends.
The hot coffee burns my lips slightly, but I don’t care. I need it to slide down my chest and fill my veins with the burst of caffeine that I so desperately crave right now.
“Dad’s just making yours now.” Tahnee returns with three white takeaway bags, a bacon and egg roll in each. “That’s fifteen dollars, thanks.”
“You didn’t charge for the extra roll.”
“Dad said not to.” She smiles.
Lou brings the final package out and smiles. I brace myself for his big, bellowing voice. Even my brain feels as if it’s wincing.
“This one’s on me, Chels. It’s the least I could do. You buy each of those guys a roll every bloody day. They don’t appreciate it, you know.”
Lou has never approved of me buying the three homeless guys a bacon and egg roll every morning on my way to work, but I don’t care. It’s my money.
“They do appreciate it, or else they wouldn’t be here every morning, waiting for me. At least this way I know they’re getting a decent breakfast. Breakfast is important.”
Lou shakes his head. “You’re a good girl Chelsea. There should be more of you and less of them.” His head flicks in the direction of the front window where the two other homeless men have joined Larry, sitting on upturned milk crates.
Collecting my change from Tahnee, I toss it into my purse and grab all of the packages and coffee and make my way out to the homeless guys.
“Morning boys. Here’s your rolls.”
Don grumbles, “I’m not hungry this morning.”
Mick punches Don’s arm from his seat on the crate next to him. “Don’t be so fucking rude to Chels and eat your fucking roll. You’re never hungry after your dose; I’m sick of hearing about it.”
“I’m going to join you this morning.”
I instantly regret my decision as soon as I say it. Between the toothless slurping and pieces of food that I know will fly as soon as they all start eating, I realise I should’ve thought this through more. The three men look nervously at one another as I slide a crate over.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
They still stare at one another until Larry eventually speaks. “We just never had you join us before. We don’t have much manners, you know. So ’scuse the way we eats.”
I burst into laughter and they all laugh with me. “And here I was thinking I was going to be eating like royalty around you three.”
We continue to laugh and Don finally gets out of his drug-induced bad mood. “You’re one of a kind, love.”
A bacon and egg roll eaten in silence amongst my homeless friends is just what I need to put my head back into the right frame of mind today. Normality keeps me grounded.
Surprisingly, I’m the only one who ended up with sauce on my jacket. Luckily for me, it’s black.
***
I’ve been doing pretty well on all accounts this morning. My hangover has all but disappeared, I’ve found a couple of faults with the police’s investigation into Sean Collins’s murder, and Pacer has been comfortably put back into the professional part of my brain.
This positive self-analysis manages to fall apart the moment I walk into the foyer of my office and see Pacer. His standard of dress is impeccable. You just don’t see guys dress this way anymore. The gloves. Fuck! The gloves. Every goddamn time.
I swallow louder than intended and lean in to greet him with a kiss on either cheek. I nail the double kiss, but my breathing is still an effort.
“Shall we go then?” My voice also decides to fail on me, and it sounds more like a crackle. I clear the bubble stuck in my throat as Pacer waves for me to walk in front of him.
The elevator ride is equally as excruciating, and I’m sure Pacer just caught my attempt to look in his direction. Thankfully, the elevator stops on level ten and three people step into the lift. I gladly step back, which gives me the prime position to check Pacer out without him catching me on the overt ogle. Brown leather shoes, tailored navy suit, white shirt with a high collar. Can’t see what type of tie he has on from here, but the fabric of the suit looks so amazing. Rich and lux, and I just want to touch it. He shuffles onto his other foot and his hand leisurely drops out of his pocket with the change in his position.
Brown leather glove. Sigh.
Pacer glances back and smirks. He heard me sigh? Great!
But what was with that smirk?
Now looking down to the ground, I beg for the rest of the ride to hurry up. It may be mid-winter, but I’m heating up in here.
The moment the doors open, the cool fresh air beyond the elevator encourages my core temperature to regulate back to normal.
“I hope you don’t have too much of a headache this morning.” Pacer slides his sunglasses on as soon as we hit the footpath. And just when I think he couldn’t look any better, the preppy sunglasses. He’s like an intimidating hipster.
I hate hipsters. The whole city is teeming with them. There’s any wonder why I’m single.
“Nothing that a bacon and egg roll couldn’t fix,” I finally reply with a smile.
Maybe he’s more like the old gangsters of Chicago and New York, but a modernised twist with his tattoos and unshaven face. If he weren’t part of a crime gang, he’d just be a beard or a man bun away from looking like a full-blown hipster. Thank God his personality is the polar opposite to the modern version of the 90s yuppie.
***
The police station is at the corner of the street, and the moment we walk in, the young constables at the front counter starts a Mexican stand-off of stare-downs. They know exactly who we are, and I wish I was used to it, but I’m not. I’m one of them, a loyal citizen. I want to roll my eyes but they all treat me like a criminal as it is, so I keep my cool and give them my best cosmetic smile.
“We’re here to see Detective Inspector Lawson.”
The young female constable doesn’t reply, the arrogant little shit. I hear the heel of Pacer’s shoes clip away, and follow his direction. Leaning against a metal shelf that holds all the information brochures about domestic violence and victim support units, I watch as all the police move in to get a better look at us. More police walk past the front counter, all looking in our direction as they pass. I frown at their blatant curiosity directed at the two of us. It doesn’t intimidate me, if that’s what they’re trying to do, but it is really annoying. I let out a breath of frustration. Pacer, on the other hand, takes it all in his stride and scrolls through his phone, paying no attention to the parade in front of him. They all seem to want a glimpse of the infamous Pacer Fratelli. A criminal who seems more like a celebrity than a callous murderer.
“Are they seriously all coming past to check you out?” I speak under my breath, just loud enough for Pacer to catch.
His brow crinkles. Only his eyes look up to me, his head remaining still. “They can’t help themselves. I guess I’m an interesting kind of guy.”
He continues casually scrolling through his phone again. He must be so used to this. If it’s not the police all watching him, it’s the media. I knew him well before he knew me. His photo and a sensationalised story about him are splashed across the front covers of newspapers at least once a month. No wonder he hates the idea of having an ankle monitor strapped to him. It’s just another way for every person in the city to watch him. It must feel claustrophobic.
The side door opens and a strikingly beautiful blonde stands tall and intimidating in the doorway. She looks pretty much exactly how I imagined she would when I spoke to her over the phone this morning.
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