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.

Go fuck yourself, Chelsea Tanner!

She doesn’t know everything. It’s people like the Tanner family who think they’re above reality—above making bad decisions and living with the consequences for the rest of their life. Her father gets to lie in a nice comfortable bed and go to sleep every night, regardless of how many lives he’s snuffed out.

Watching the closed bathroom door, I scull the rest of my champagne.

For someone who’s meant to see both sides of the coin, Chelsea looks through muddy water sometimes. I know I shouldn’t have mentioned her Dad like that, but there are so many more layers to this city that people like the Tanners have no idea about. Her father can judge and her mother can spin all the stories she thinks will sell a magazine, but at the end of the day, they are just playing with people’s lives. I just thought Chelsea was different; I thought I could show her another side to life. But the fact is, we are and will always be two very different people from opposite sides of the street.