“And as for my client’s guilt or innocence,” he continues, snapping me back to the moment, as he downs the contents of his glass and refills it. “He was guilty as sin, but I didn’t decide that until I got him off when he smirked and said: Who says only the innocent go free?”
“Ah shit, man.”
“I know, right?” he says. “I thought I was good at reading people, but holy hell. I missed this one. But there wasn’t even a semi-good case built against him, and I can’t turn back time. Which is why I have to focus on the payday and celebrate that.”
“What was the crime?”
“Murder,” he says, his lips tightening. “And don’t ask me who he killed. I don’t want to talk about it.” He scrubs the light stubble on his jaw. “Ireallydon’t want to talk about it.” He refills his glass.
We’re not celebrating. He’s come to swim in the sea of guilt Faith is splashing around in, and I get it. Defending a killer sucks. Thankfully, Faith isn’t a killer, but the guilt is killing her. I don’t really understand guilt. I don’t feel it. I do something. I did it for a reason. I own it. And so I only know one way to help with it. A good fuck, which Abel is on his own on that one. And a good drink. I stand up and round the counter, open a cabinet above the bar, and pull out that 25k bottle of booze before returning to the counter, and setting it down beside him. “This and a trip to the club and you’ll forget the asshole you just banked on,” I say. “But tell me again why you stick with criminal law?”
“Because the innocent ones need me and paydays like this one let me help people who don’t have a bank account as big as the likes of that asshole I got off.”He taps the bottle. “You really going to give me that?”
“You need it.”
“I need a trip to the club to get fucked ten ways to next Sunday, but I was never going to take that bottle, man. But hey. I’ll work for the sentiment behind it.” He opens his briefcase and pulls out a file. “The gift documents and the dummy documents,” he says, setting the file on the counter. “But seriously, man. What the hell are you doing with this woman, Nick?”
“Protecting her.”
“Protecting a woman who might be a killer.”
“She’s innocent.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I know and you know when I say I know, I know.”
“Like I knew my client?”
“I know Faith personally now.”
“Yeah well, you’re fucking her and that tends to cloud a man’s judgment.”
“Not mine. You know that.”
“And I’ve never known you to mix business and your personal life.” He taps the file. “And these documents tell me you’ve either lost your fucking mind or you’re brilliantly working a woman who doesn’t know she’s being worked. And you can tell me either way. I’mcool. You know that.” He removes the lid from the scotch.
“She and I just downed a bottle of Macallan No.6 together and she’s in my bed right now.”
He’s about to pour another drink and sets the bottle down, looking stunned. “You shared your No. 6 and she’s in your bed?”
“Yes and yes.”
“You don’t share your No.6 or your bed. What happened to keeping your women confined to the club?”
“Faith isn’t going to the club,” I say, once again wishing I’d never bought the damn place. “Ever.”
“So she’s vanilla and you’re chocolate, and that shit will get old.”
“Faith is not fucking vanilla,” I snap.
He arches a brow. “Got it. Not vanilla. Not going to play with you at the club. Does she at least know it exists and that you own it?”
“No,” I say. “Nowfocus.” I slide the notepad I’ve been writing on in front of him. He scans it and his gaze rockets to me. “Faith is dangerous? When did your father say that Faith was dangerous?”
I open my briefcase and set the note in front of him. He studies it for several long beats before he glances at me, “You’re sure Faith—”
“Faith isnota killer,” I say tightly. “Assume I’m right on this because I am. Now. Where does that note lead you?”