Chapter 7 #2
He bounced on the ball of his feet. The hard leather of his tight shoes rubbed against his heel. This was a disaster on all fronts. Completely unprecedented, at that. He had never forgotten about an appointment before, never failed a client. He refused to start today.
He speedwalked as fast as his aching muscles allowed, pushed through huddles of tourists bumbling along the bridge like no one in this city had work to do.
This was all Jack’s fault. If he hadn’t called Eevee, there would have been nothing to fight over, Baz wouldn’t have run into Sami, and he would have had enough bandwidth to focus on all of his cases.
He broke out into a jog on State Street, blisters be damned, past the Chicago Theater and the L-station. A stream of people poured out of the entrance, blocking the sidewalk.
“Oh, come on,” Baz groaned and squeezed through a group of White women in yoga pants—his shoulder crashed into something hard. He spun. Cold liquid hit his chest and soaked through his shirt.
Baz gasped a breath and froze to the spot, his hands away from him, his eyes squeezed shut. This didn’t just fucking happen.
Dear god, let it be water.
“I’m so sorry, I—Baz.”
Oh, this had to be a fucking joke.
Baz blinked his eyes open, and there he was. Sami-fucking-Adam, still holding the now half-empty plastic cup. Light brown, milky liquid squeezed into the gaps between the ice cubes.
Sami’s smirk widened as his eyes trailed down Baz’s body. “And hello, Mr. Darcy. Damn. Do you work out?”
That was all he had to say for himself?
“Is this some kind of game to you?” Baz spat.
“No, I—”
“Is this Ian’s way of getting me off the case, by having you ambush me all the fucking time?”
“It’s literally just coffee.”
Yeah. Cold one at that. Terrible taste might have saved him a trip to the ER, but it had also hopelessly ruined his brand-new shirt. It stuck to his stomach in one huge brown blob. Some drops ran down the front of his suit pants.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he cursed, searching his pockets for anything that might help, but this was a job too big for his stain removal pen.
”I am sorry,“ Sami said as if that magically cleaned Baz up.
“Oh, are you? Great, I’ll tell that to the judge! I’m sure they’ll understand why I look like ass in their courtroom.”
Who was the judge on duty today, anyway? Cortez might be too entertained by his mess to feel disrespected—oh god. What if it was Laite? He would never let Baz get away with this without fining him. If he didn’t hold him in contempt altogether.
“Here, let me.” Sami pressed a single tissue against the stain. His fingers were pleasantly warm against the dripping fabric, gentle with their dabs. Baz swatted them away.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping! Calm down.”
How was a singular tissue dissolving against his shirt helping? Now he had a brown blob and tiny white paper rolls sticking to his stomach!
He grabbed Sami’s wrists. “Stop! It’s one thing to go against me in your own case, but to manipulate my work, my reputation, is really fucking low—”
“I promise you, this was an accident.” Sami’s eyes glided down on him. “But, on the bright side, this might earn me a raise.”
“How is that good news?”
“I didn’t say for you,” Sami muttered under his breath as if Baz was the selfish one here. Jesus Christ.
“I don’t have time for this. I have to get to court.” He pushed past Sami, strutted down the sidewalk.
Maybe someone with a spare shirt at court would take pity on him, or he could reschedule. Maybe if he pretended to be injured…
“Relax!” Sami jogged next to him. “When’s your time slot?”
Baz checked his watch—twenty-eight minutes and two blocks to go. Mrs. What’s-Her-Name would surely be waiting for him already. “In half an hour.”
“Cutting it close, didn’t expect that,” Sami remarked. Baz glared at him. “Look, how about I run into a store and get you a new shirt while you consult with your client?”
“Yeah, and I’m the King of England.”
“I’m sorry, would you rather stay soaked in coffee?”
Well, no, but Baz wasn’t stupid. This had setup written all over it. “Why would you help me?”
“Some dick in a bar implied I don’t take accountability for my mistakes. Hold on a second.”
Sami grabbed the back of his collar and pulled it down. The tie knot slammed into Baz’s throat, strangling him. He had no choice but to arch his back.
“Cool,” Sami declared. He buttoned Baz’s thankfully unaffected coat. The dry-cleaning bill would be bad enough as it was. “Just keep it closed and say you’re cold. I’ll text you when I’m there.”
Baz frowned. “How do you have my number?”
“You wanna waste more time with questions? You got a court appearance! Yallah, go, go!”
Baz wanted to argue, but just this once, Sami made sense.
Paying more attention to where he was going, Baz speedwalked the remaining distance to the Richard J.
Daley Center and headed for the security check.
He put his briefcase on the conveyor belt and stepped through the metal detector.
The security guard instructed him to open his coat—and gave him a pitiful stare when Baz complied with a burning face.
“Hope you have something to change into, man.” So did Baz.
Having to rely on someone like Sami, someone he knew nothing good about, someone who had no loyalty to him, was the worst, but he had no choice.
Aya wouldn’t make it on time, if she even agreed to come after he had been an ass to her earlier, and he would not sink so low as to beg random people in the hallway to buy him a shirt.
All he could do was hope that somewhere deep down, the devil’s assistant had an ounce of integrity hidden.
An old lady with short white hair and a pinched mouth waited in front of the hearing room. Mrs. Tuffin, no doubt. Twenty-one minutes until their time slot. Come on, Sami.
She excused his tardiness without hesitation—good—but she also did not stop talking once Baz sat her down on the nearest bench. Less good. Collin hadn’t been kidding about her being obsessed with her granddaughter.
“Mrs. Tuffin,” he interrupted her rant about how she hadn’t received a call from said granddaughter in three weeks, “I was briefed that your property was damaged. Can you tell me more about that?”
“This ruffian smashed my window with a baseball! You see, my granddaughter cleaned it for me on her last visit. When was it, a year ago? It was summer then…”
Baz squeezed his fingers into a fist.
“Mrs. Tuffin,” he cut in. “Do you have any proof? Any eyewitnesses?”
“My granddaughter had this camera installed in my backyard. She studies computer science, you see. At Yale. In her second year, she is, I believe.”
By some miracle, Baz managed to keep the groan firmly on the inside. He peered at his phone; no new notifications. Where the hell was Sami?
It took forever to find out whether she had the CCTV tape on her, including a (failed) call to her granddaughter before she finally remembered her son had given her a video camera to bring to court—the recording was there all right, the offender’s face in full view.
This ought to be easy. Which would make being held in contempt for violating dress code even more embarrassing.
The buzz against his thigh made him sit up with a sharp inhale. Unknown number.
Unknown Number
here
downstairs bathroom
Please, let this be real. What Baz wouldn’t give to see that annoying face right now.
“Excuse me for one moment, Mrs. Tuffin.”
She kept yapping about her granddaughter like she hadn’t heard him. She’d catch on.
Baz rushed down the hall to the restroom. Sami leaned against the left of the two sinks, a plastic bag dangling from his finger. Oh, Baz could kiss him.
“Glad to see me?” Sami grinned.
Never mind.
“This is your fault. So.” Baz snatched the bag out of his hand—and pulled out a crinkled, baby blue shirt. A polyester blend. “What the fuck is this?”
Which part of Baz’s appearance said cheap? He was wearing a Rolex, for fuck’s sake! Did Sami think he was wearing these torture instruments called dress shoes because they were comfortable?
“It’s the best they had in your size.”
“Where did you go?”
“Thrift me up, Scottie. You know it?”
He went to a thrift store when Macy’s was two blocks away? Baz knew what Hoffman & Cobb paid their associates, and it was enough to go to a proper store. Was this Sami’s idea of a prank?
“Are you fucking with me?”
“Not yet, but if you’re offering.” Sami wiggled his eyebrows.
Baz commanded the flutter in his groin to cease immediately and glared at Sami. This wasn’t the time for sex jokes. Or sincere offers that Baz could not afford to consider.
“Hey, you got seven minutes. It’s this or coffee,” Sami said.
He was enjoying this way too much.
Baz didn’t know when or how, but he would make Sami pay for putting him into polyester. He threw his coat and suit jacket at Sami—look at that, something he was good for after all—then pulled his tie open. And caught the reflection of Sami taking a photo of him in the mirror.
“What the—”
“Evidence. For my raise.”
Baz’s fingers clawed into his shirt. Deep breath. He might have time for murder, but not to hide the body, and therefore no choice but to be the bigger person.
He forced the buttons through the holes, peeled the soaked fabric off him. Gross.
Sami offered him a stack of paper towels Baz wiped himself dry with.
Sami’s eyes tracked his every movement. His tongue traced the inside of his lips. Something hot coursed through Baz—something he banished back into its cave to die there.
“I’d say take a picture, but…” he mumbled, purely to see Sami develop the resemblance of shame. Instead, Sami met his eyes with breathtaking intensity, the star inside of them burning bright. Seriously, who the hell had eyes like this? How was that fair?
“You need to stop making these offers if you don’t want me to collect on them.”
“Or you could act like a normal person for once.” Baz’s voice came out hoarser than he wanted it to.