My eyes widen. I nod like a loon. “See?”
He laughs loud and gives me a quick, soft kiss on the lips. “God, I love you,” he says casually, and he walks away.
My body freezes after hearing those words. He said it. I replay the moment. Yep, he said it. Albeit a little too casually, but he said it nonetheless.
There’s no way I can turn around from our relationship now. Not with the ‘I love you’ out in the air. There is no stopping this train now. I’m bolting down that track and the emergency brake is officially broken.
***
Pacer’s bath is incredible. It sits on the balcony of his main bedroom. The shutters beside the bath can be pulled out to enclose the whole balcony for complete privacy. I watch Pacer turn the bath on and light a cigarette. I’ve never condoned smoking until I watched Pacer blow out one of his long, sexuality-filled breaths of hazy air. Fuck me he makes smoking look good, whether he’s in clothes or naked. It looks good no matter what.
Dragging my eyes from Pacer, I take in the view from the upper level of his house. This whole floor is one bedroom. The place is massive. I can’t even begin to think what Pacer must’ve thought of me when he saw my apartment that night; no wonder he wanted me to come here. He must think I live like a hobo. But I did explain to him that I didn’t need to waste my money on a house. I wanted to wait until I was ready to settle down. Looking around at how Pacer lives, I kind of feel as if I haven’t grown up.
The view is pretty from here. The lights on the harbour sparkle through the trees. The public beach within view is a little concerning though.
“Do you ever worry about people seeing you from the beach?” I point my thumb in the direction of the strip of white beach that’s visible, even at night.
I catch Pacer’s smirk as he grabs the wide shutters and glides them effortlessly along the wall nearest to the beach. When he gets to the end, nothing can be seen other than the glittering harbour through the gum trees but that’s it. Pacer still has that same cocky smirk smeared across his face when he turns back to me. He’s right without even saying anything. Why did I ever doubt his understanding of privacy?
As the bath fills, he comes past and kisses me with a little bit more dominance. “I’m going to get the drinks organised. Feel free to get naked.”
His boldness makes me giggle. I watch him leave down the stairs and quickly turn my attention to my monogramed weekend bag on a really expensive-looking grey armchair.
Grabbing the bag, I race into the bathroom at the far end of the room. As soon as I turn the light on, I notice how much of a mess I look. My hair is completely windswept and my nose is brighter than Rudolf at the front of a sled.
Shit!
I frantically zip the bag open and rifle through, searching for the lacy black number. As soon as I feel the material, I rip it from the bag and start stripping. Coat, boots, jeans, woollen sweater, they all get madly flung around the room as I desperately try to get myself together.
Scrambling into the black lacy thing, I finally get it into position on my body. I lean onto the bench with my palms spread. Holy shit, that was a work out.
I grab the discarded clothes and pile them next to my weekend bag, and pull out my makeup bag. Tossing my fingers through my hair, I quickly moisturise my face to at least blend in my leftover foundation from this morning’s application.
The tiles feel warm under my feet suddenly. Floor heating. Nice. At that same moment that I notice the tiles, I also hear a cover of “Wild World” by Maxi Priest playing from somewhere above me. The tune is unmistakable, and hideously 90s. Okay maybe there is one thing wrong with him—he has terrible choice in music. His Bowie speak confuses me though.
Peeking through a cracked door, I can’t see any sign of Pacer so I step into the bedroom and try to act as normal as possible with my lacy number on. I haven’t actually made an effort for anyone like this before, so I really don’t know how to act. The moment I see glimpses of Pacer’s swinging hips beneath his open shirt, I don’t feel nerves anymore. He sways and belts out the chorus—slightly out of tune but with plenty of gusto—as he climbs each step. He carries a bottle of Veuve champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. His taste in music makes me laugh. Who knew this Pacer Fratelli was in there?
Putting the bottle and glasses on the table beside him, he turns back to me. “Fuck. Yes. Let me look at this,” he says and holds out his hand for me to take.
Twirling me around in front of him, he scans up and down my attempt at being sexy. I really hope this doesn’t look ridiculous.
“I am one lucky motherfucker.”
My inhibition dissolves under his words, and I elaborate the twirl by flicking my ass towards him. He really knows how to make me feel sexy. Pacer turns back to the champagne and effortlessly pops the cork. That sound always reminds me of a party.
The moment the champagne hits my lips I feel a wash of comfort roll over me. There’s something magical about this whole moment. It’s only a week since we were at the treetop love-nest, but so much has progressed really quickly, and without our own hold on the speed of it. It’s as if our relationship became all or nothing within a matter of days.
I watch Pacer and can’t dislodge the idea of us having to meet at some point in our lives. Our paths were mirroring each other’s, just on contrasting ends of the moral spectrum. Or were they? What is any different from my own and Pacer’s families? Mine will never understand it, nor will they even try to. Pacer may have killed people with his bare hands, but my Dad has done the same with his orders. Which way is wrong? Just because my Dad didn’t do the deed himself doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible for the lives of many.
Pacer takes my hand and leads me to the bath. “I’ll be getting you back into this later,” he says as he places the glass on the edge of the bath, “but right now I just want to soak with my girl.”
Not arguing with that. “Okay,” I manage to get out.
The black lacy number is easier to get off than it is to get on. It slides from my body within seconds. I like that thing.
I dip my toe into the swirling water of the freestanding bath and sink into its warmth. Pacer too gets in, within seconds of discarding his clothes.
He motions for me to come to him with the curl of his index finger. There’s nothing that would stop me from doing so, and within a heartbeat I sink into his arms. I reach for my champagne glass and we both sit back and relax for the first time in what has been the most incredible three and a half weeks.
After a solid ten minutes without a word uttered between us, I finally feel like we’re solid enough in our relationship that I can tackle this trick subject. “I know things about Jackson Reed.”
He doesn’t answer. I know he’s not asleep though; his breathing hasn’t deepened like it does every night of the past week that we’ve unsuccessfully kept away from each other. Then why isn’t he answering?
I try again. “Jackson Reed has paperwork that can get you put in prison.”
He spins me around to him, my eyes focusing on his flaring nostrils and wide eyes. “How do you know that? Who told you? Was it Franco? Or was it Reed? … HUH?”
His voice rises and quickly I’m reminded of the loose canon temper that he possesses.
“Will you relax? I found it out for myself.” I’m not completely lying. “I’m your barrister, remember? I am also a little insulted that you doubted my ability to even find this out.”
His eyes narrow as he speaks. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“I didn’t come down in the last storm. How about you tell me what you’re up to and I can try to help you?” I say, shaking my head.
Pacer’s eyes search between mine at that same rate that I search for answers within his.
“Pacer, this is ridiculous. We are on the same fucking team. I’m with you in this. If you hold back on me now, I might as well walk out to the street naked. At least I can plead my relationship with you on partial insanity during a mental breakdown.”