I stuff it in my bra and the wad’s so thick, I actually have some cleavage.
“Sure. I’ll take your address and—”
“You won’t do anything. I don’t want to see your face again and if you come back here, sniffing around this club, these’ll be the last words you or your investigator ever hear from me. Got it?”
She nods so eagerly that strands of hair fly free of her bun.
“I’ll contact him directly.” I add the business card to my bra, sitting on top of the cash. “Now you can fuck off.”
Her expression is unsure, but when I fold my arms, she gives Zach one last glance, then scurries back to her vehicle.
When I turn back to the club, Stefan leans against the door, arms folded. His expression remains blank, but he inclines his head. “Nicely done. I’ll send your contract over by courier, and the man will wait until you either sign or refuse.”
“What about my right to get a legal opinion?”
“Know a lawyer, do you?”
I shake my head.
“Then he’ll wait for you to sign.” He heads inside, shutting the door on us with an emphatic thump.
“Guess I’ve got a new job, then.” I glance at Zach, who stares at me with a strange expression. “Thanks for hooking me up.”
He walks over to me, spreading his hand around my throat so his thumb sits on the left side of my jaw while his fingers cup the right. “There she is.”
I raise my eyebrows, puzzled. “Who?”
“The girl who convinced me to shoot my friend in cold blood.” He tips my head back, his fingers as unrelenting as a vice. “For a while there, I thought I made you up out of thin air, but… Here. You. Are.”
My heart hammers so loudly I can’t hear over the rush of blood in my ears. Zach pulls me closer, pressing his lips over mine in a possessive embrace that sucks the air from my lungs.
Sparks dance behind my closed eyes and my body hums as though electrocuted. My hands are trapped between our chests as my body melts against his.
Then he releases me so quickly, I stumble.
“Get in the car,” he orders, walking to the driver’s side door. “We’re going home.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
ZACH
The following Friday,we ditch school to walk into the office of a bunch of stuffed shirts masquerading as lawyers. Given one of them might help with visitation, I pay attention, a weird feeling and one I hope I don’t have to get used to. Lilac is on my arm, dressed in another cast off that she’s fashioned to suit her smaller frame.
In the past week, she’s put more and more of the extensive wardrobe to use as she started work at the gambling club, but still refuses to let me buy her anything new.
I ignored her wishes long enough to place an order for the mid-year senior’s dance, but she doesn’t know that yet. Otherwise, I’ve respected her decision.
She’s wearing makeup. I know it still makes her anxious to use the stuff, but it looks fine to me. With her new haircut, she could fit into any pompous event that gets thrown in the central city.
Not that she’d want to attend.
Not that I’d make her.
“Ready?” I ask as she squeezes my hand hard enough to cut off circulation. “You know you’re interviewing him. If he’s not good enough or doesn’t say the right things or you just get a bad feeling, we can move to the next name on the list.”
My father had been overjoyed to recommend a lawyer. That lost some appeal once he found out why I wanted to hire them, and for whom, but he just couldn’t help himself.
These recommendations are where he shines. I certainly hope he’s better at his job than he is at being a dad.
