Chapter 17 #2
He extends his hand, which I don’t take. I’m too busy trying to pull my stomach out of my ass. Public defender. The guy’s a fucking lawyer. “Yeah, sorry. Phone’s been… disconnected. What's this about?”
He nods politely, eyes raking over me in assessment. “It’s okay. I figured I’d track you down in person. We need to talk about your upcoming court date.”
Fuck. I forgot about that shit. “Right now?”
“I tried calling earlier, but…” His gaze drops to the dirty dishes before lifting back to my face. “We can talk here, if you have a moment.”
Glancing around self-consciously, I catch Juanita's attention at the bar, where she’s watching us curiously. Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Yeah. Okay. Just… give me a sec.”
He nods once, stepping to the side, and I bring my tub over to my boss. She lifts a brow in question.
“Public defender,” I shrug. “For… my court thing. He needs to talk to me.”
Her mouth forms a perfect O before flattening into a line. “Ay, Dios mío. Okay. Go. I’ll get one of the servers to cover you.”
My shoulders sag with gratitude. “Thanks, Nita. I appreciate it.”
“Mmhmm. Don’t make it a habit. If he’s single, ask if he likes older women.”
I choke out a laugh as I turn around, finding Kingston exactly where I left him. “Come on,” I say, jerking my chin toward the back of the bar.
He follows with a smile, past the booths filled with dudes in oil-stained work shirts and couples sharing cheap margaritas, until we reach a high-top away from the pool tables.
I slide onto a stool first, feeling oddly exposed as he sits opposite me and places his briefcase neatly on the table between us.
“Alright,” he starts, pulling out a folder. “I want to go over your charges and talk through what our options are.”
“Okay. Sure. Hit me.”
“You got picked up for selling cocaine.”
It takes all of my strength not to roll my eyes. “It was one bag.”
“One bag,” he confirms patiently. “Three-point-five grams, plus a scale and a text thread with someone asking for ‘the usual.’” He arches a neatly manicured brow. “That’s enough for the DA to put you away for fifteen years.”
I swear my soul leaves my fucking body. “Fifteen years? Jesus Christ, it's not like I’m some drug lord. I was just trying to make rent.”
“And I believe you. That’s why I wanted to speak in person. I think we can get this dropped down to simple possession.”
“Dropped? Like… gone?”
“Not gone,” he clarifies. “Reduced. Possession is a misdemeanor. You could get community service or pay a fine. Probably some drug classes. Your driver's license will be suspended and you won't be able to own a firearm, but you'll stay out of prison.”
My throat tightens at that. “No prison?”
“If we play our cards right, yes. No prison.”
Emotion burns inside my throat—panic, relief and shame, all tangled up with exhaustion. I look down at the folder so he doesn’t have to watch my face fall apart. “Look, man… I don’t have the money to pay you. I’m barely keeping my head on straight right now.”
“You don’t need money,” Kingston says quietly, tapping his knuckles on the table. “You just need to show up. And let me help you.”
“But… why? Seriously. I’m not worth the trouble.”
“I disagree. You made a mistake. A lot of people do. Up until now, your records have been clean and you've already got a job. That counts for something.”
Fucking hell.
I blow out a shaky breath, still unable to meet his gaze.
This almost sounds too good to be true. People don't go around helping others out of the goodness of their hearts without expecting something in return.
At least, not in my experience. Favors always come with a price. “So what do I have to do?”
“I need you to come down to the office tomorrow to meet your probation officer, and you have to promise you’ll show up to court looking your best. No skipping, and no getting cold feet.”
“I won’t skip,” I say automatically. “I’m fucked if I do.”
“You’re fucked if you don’t take this seriously,” he counters, handing me his business card. “But I think you will.”
Dragging my hands through my hair, I tongue my lip piercing anxiously. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll try.”
Kingston’s smile is small but genuine as he gets to his feet. “That’s all I need from you, Mr. Peterson. We'll be in touch.”
“Call me Dev,” I mumble, shaking his hand this time when he offers it. That makes him flash his perfect white teeth.
“Dev it is. And you can call me Blake.”
With that, he grabs his briefcase and makes his way out, turning heads as he goes. My gaze swings to the bar, where Juanita is fanning her face behind his back, and I chuckle despite myself. She makes me laugh.
I think I might actually… like working here. Sometimes. Probably would like it a lot better if the money I made actually went into my pockets, but maybe it's better if it doesn't. For now, at least. I'd only spend it on shit I shouldn't, anyway.
That thought has my spine snapping straight. A sinking realization slams into me.
Holy shit. Did Christian do this to help me? The job, keeping track of my money, letting me sleep on his couch? Was this an act of kindness on his part or something more?
Part of me wants to believe that it is, but that darker side of my heart refuses to. I wasn't lying when I said favors always come with a price. Those who get used, use in return—rinse and repeat. Nobody's purely selfless.
And if Christian truly did this for me just because he wanted to, it's only a matter of time before that price comes knocking.