Donovan rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. That was one of the things I’d felt drawn to when we first met. He took his time and picked his words, rather than doing what most people do—spewing whatever thoughts immediately came to mind. Well, that and his broad shoulders, mesmerizing eyes, and bone structure that should’ve made him a candidate to be a fifth head carved on Mt. Rushmore. Screw presidents. That I’d go see.
“You’re sorry? So that means you feel badly about the way things left off?”
My face wrinkled. “Yes. That’s why I apologized.”
“Well, since you feel badly, I should let you make it up to me. So that we’re even.”
I chuckled. “And how exactly would I do that?”
“Have the coffee you skipped out on with me…now.” He nodded across the street. “There’s a twenty-four-hour diner a block over.”
It was tempting, but I knew it was a bad idea. I offered a conciliatory smile. “It’s pretty late. I should get home.”
Donovan forced a smile, though I could see he was disappointed. Honestly, I was, too. He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
I nodded. “Goodnight, Donovan.”
I thought that was the end of it, and we both started to walk away, but after a few steps, he yelled. “Hey, Red!”
I stopped and turned around. Even though I had auburn hair, he was the only person who’d ever called me that.
“Court will only take about an hour. So it won’t be too late for coffee afterward.”
I laughed. “Goodnight, Mr. Decker.”
“Oh, it has been a good night.” He smiled. “And I’m looking forward to tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Donovan
“You don’t speak unless the judge asks you a question and I give you the okay to answer. Understood?”
“Whatever.”
Spending the night locked up in a jail cell hadn’t done much for my client’s sunny disposition. While attitude from a client would normally have me up in arms, it was an effort to act pissed off with this kid. He reminded me so much of myself at that age that I found it amusing.
I cleared my throat. “Not whatever. Tell me you understood what I said and you will follow my rules.”
Storm rolled his eyes. “Fine. Speak when spoken to. I get it, alright?”
“That’s better.”
I pushed up my shirtsleeve to check the time on my watch. We still had a few minutes before the guard would call him for the obligatory lineup and march of criminals upstairs to the courtroom. Only attorneys were allowed downstairs to visit clients before arraignment, so this was the first time I’d been alone with him. I figured I might as well make good use of the opportunity.
“Your social worker—how long have you been working with her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. A couple of years, I guess.”
“Everything good with her?”
Another shrug. “Her ass looks good.”
I pointed a finger at him. “Hey, don’t be disrespectful, you little shit.”
“What, you don’t like her ass? It’s nice and round.”
“First of all, she’s a lady, so you don’t talk like that. Second of all, I’m guessing she’s probably the only good thing you have in your life most of the time, so don’t bite the hand that feeds you. And lastly, you’re twelve.” I left off fourth of all, it isn’t nice and round; it’s more like an upside-down heart.
“Whatever. She’s cool. She can drive a truck.”
My brows furrowed. “Autumn can drive a truck? You mean like a pickup truck?”
Storm shook his head. “Nope. A big eighteen-wheeler.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because once we were at one of those dumb retreats Park House makes us go to upstate. A guy parked his rig blocking the entrance to the place. Him and another guy were talking. She got out of our car and asked him to move it, and he told her he was busy and he’d get to it. That pissed her off. So she asked him if the keys were in it. The guy laughed and told her to help herself if she thought she could drive a truck with eighteen speeds. She told us to stay in the car, and then she drove the truck a block away and parked it and came back.”
I don’t know what type of information I’d been fishing for, but it hadn’t been that. Though I’d take it. “What else do you know about Ms. Wilde?”
He shrugged. “She hates fighting. A couple of times she was around when kids got into it. Those are pretty much the only times I’ve seen her get really mad. She also doesn’t answer her phone when her dad calls most of the time, and she’s got bad taste in music.”
“What kind of music does she listen to?”
The kid made a face. “What, are you writing a book?”
Luckily the guard saved the little pain in the ass from any more interrogation. He opened the door and said, “Let’s go, Storm. Showtime.”