“Or he’s going to come around here to try to get in good with Bernie.”
Now Pacino frowns. “I don’t follow.”
Laughing, I crack my neck, deciding against alcohol. “If Butch can’t help him, he might want to get Bernie into his life. Likely thinks the jury will be more sympathetic to a father trying to make ends meet for his daughter. She’d win the hearts of everyone with just a smile.”
“Gotta keep our eyes open.”
“Let’s get a rotation of guys around the house when I’m not home. I don’t want to take any chances.”
He nods and walks to make a call. His men or ours, I don’t care. As long as someone can keep an eye on my girls. They might be in more danger than just having Butch as a predator. And I’m on the outside.
Fucking great.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Zeppelin
Afew days later, I walk out onto the porch to find the clothes I left at Misty’s place folded on the welcome mat. Including the T-shirt she stole to wear to bed.
If that’s not a just a fucking punch to the nuts right there.
Looking up, I see Bernie sitting on her front porch, her head in her hands. She looks sad.
“Hey, Bernie,” I call.
There’s no smile. No wave. Her eyes stay glued to the sidewalk as she actively avoids looking at me.
“Can we talk?”
I take a chance and walk across the street. She has a key and can run inside if she doesn’t want to listen to me, and there’s at least thirty minutes before Misty comes home from work.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Bernie finally says.
She won’t look at me, and it fucking kills me. I can’t believe how much I miss talking to an eight-year-old. But Bernie’s different than most. She’s an original.
“How about if I talk, then?”
She shrugs. “I can’t stop you.”
Well, I can see sass is hereditary. That’s all her mother. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“Sorry I stained your shirt.”
“It’s fine. I have others.”
Finally looking up, she locks eyes with me. “Why did you do that, Zep? Mom was happy. You were supposed to be my friend, and you hurt my mom.”
Well, just grab a knife from the kitchen and stab me in the fucking chest, kid. “It’s not what it looked like, I swear.”
“It looked like you kissed that lady who hurt you.”
That’s a nicer term than before. The memory of how Bernie called Chanel a whore hits me, and I fight back my smirk. Now is definitely not the time to chuckle.
“Bernie—”
“You kissed someone who isn’t my mom.”
She has me there. “It wasn’t… It was a goodbye. And a trick. Chanel played a trick on me.”
