Single Dad Christmas (Italian Rivals #7)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

CREATURES AND THEIR HABITS

I should be tired but I’m not. My body is deliciously sore and my eyes are heavy but my mind is filled with memories that breathe fire and zest into my being. I tap my pen against the desk, angling my head to study Dr Carlton, hoping I look interested in tortious law when really all I can think about is Alex.

But Dr Carlton isn’t easily fooled. Maybe because he’s young enough to still remember what it’s like to be at university. He looks at me and his lips hint at a smile before he carries on with the lecture. I smile back on autopilot and focus more firmly on the notes that are being projected onto the screen.

It’s not like I don’t care about my degree.

I do, passionately. When I was ten years old and my world tipped on its head, I swore I’d work out a way to make everything better. The power of those who practise law had been, until then, something I understood in a very abstract way. But when I was at trial, and I saw for myself how that power can be wielded, it locked into place my own need to master the law and use it to my advantage.

It has been my sole life ambition, all that matters to me. Until I met Alex. I shiver as I remember the way we fell asleep, his body wrapped around mine, his hands holding me so close that our breath was synchronised. I’m not a calm sleeper. I thrash about and toss and turn, by virtue of the terrors that still course through my blood, so we never stay like that for long, but to fall asleep so cherished is new to me.

Is it new for him?

The question brings bitterness to my mouth because I know the answer and it’s not pleasing. Nothing about what we’re doing is new for him. He has had many lovers, or so I presume, and each has been discarded no matter how cherished they might have felt for a period in his life.

He told me as much the first time we slept together. This isn’t a prelude to love, Sasha. I’m not looking for Happily Ever After. I’m not offering romance. If you want those things then you should go now, before we begin.

I should have left.

The spell had been cast though and I was already unable to break free of it.

“Sasha? Your essay had some interesting points on this. Do you want to elaborate?”

Damn it. Carlton knows I’m not listening. I shake my head, my cheeks flaming, and he grins again, a rakish smile that reminds me I used to think he was pretty damn hot. B.A. Before Alex.

He’s a visiting lecturer, over from the States, and he has that rich, honeyed accent and a Californian sun-tan. His hair is blonde and long; he wears it in a fashionably dishevelled bun and his face is covered in spiky golden stubble. He made a name for himself when he was straight out of college defending an innocent black man who’d been set up by a crooked cop for murder. It was a huge case and made headlines around the world. Carlton alone had believed the man’s version of events. He’d used his own money to run all of the tests and double check all of the evidence at private laboratories and when his money had run out he crowd-funded a huge amount to keep the case going. He’s been heralded as a sort of modern-day David to the establishment’s Goliath and everything he has touched since has turned to gold.

“Come on, guys! You’re all so quiet today. What’s going on?”

There’s a collective spasm of chairs and desks as we snap to attention, leaning forward and re-engaging. Carlton laughs. “That’s better, I guess.” He runs his hand over the back of his neck and turns to look up at the clock. “You’ve got to understand the real-world implications of what we’re doing here. You’re fourth years. You’re this close to getting out there and practising. Why are you sitting here?” He pivots to the front row, pointing at a girl whose name I can never remember.

“Umm,” she mumbles, flicking her eyes around the room, too shy to speak so she shrugs.

“‘Umm,’ isn’t an answer!” He shakes his head. He’s being kind though. He moves along. “Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“You enrolled in law at one of the finest schools in the UK. Why? What does this mean to you?”

“I want to be a barrister.”

“Right.” The steam of frustration rising from Carlton’s head is practically visible, even though his face is calm and his shoulders aren’t bunched together. I don’t know how I got so good at reading people’s emotions.

Yes, I do, actually. I just don’t like to dwell on that. When your very survival depends on knowing how someone feels and assessing if they’re a threat, you become a swift and adept judge of character.

“The law isn’t theoretical, guys, but a moving feast. It’s not just…something you study. It’s something you are . Something you feel. It changes you and you should want to change it.”

We all nod, though I wonder if anyone else has the same understanding of his words as I do.

“Sasha? You look like you’ve got something to add.”

He looks at me like he knows me, but he doesn’t. I think maybe he’s just great at reading people, too. He’s right, though. I was driven to this degree for a reason, and that reason resonates as strongly in my soul now as it did way back when I first chose this path. “People who know the law, who speak its language, hold all the power in this world.” It’s just Carlton and me. I tune out my classmates and their speculative glances. “More power than money, more power than politics. The law, in our country at least, emboldens those who have no hope. To speak the language of law enables us to speak for those who face unthinkable cruelty and loss. Not just the wrongly and unjustly accused,” I murmur, thinking of his case. “But refugees and children and others weakened by society and circumstance.”

He brings his hands together in three slow claps. “Now, that’s an answer.” He looks at the clock once more. “We’re almost done here anyway. Go home. Next week my first question for each of you is going to be this: Why are you here? I want an answer like Sasha’s from each of you. And if you can’t come up with one you might need to seriously consider your choice of degree because if you think the workload is tough, wait until you’re out there in the real world with clients and cases and court systems to navigate.”

There’s a raucous noise as books are slammed onto desks and then stuffed into backpacks and handbags. I don’t have my textbook because it’s at my flat, and I haven’t spent proper time there in weeks. I slide my notebook away with the hastily photocopied pages of someone else’s text jutting out of the sides. Carlton catches me as I come down the aisle, ready to leave.

“That was a good answer,” he says, smiling like we’re old friends.

I like him. I feel comfortable with him. And he makes a nice difference from my other lecturers who are uniformly stuffy and old-fashioned. “Thanks.”

“You feel injustice like a personal responsibility.” His eyes linger on my face.

“Shouldn’t we all?”

His laugh is nice; soft and gentle. “Yeah, but in reality, most people don’t give a shit unless it directly impacts them.”

I arch a brow, surprised by the curse.

He must see my reaction because he shrugs. “I’m not talking to you now as your teacher. I’m talking to you as … a friend.”

A friend? That’s interesting. “I didn’t know we were friends,” I can’t resist saying, my tone light and teasing.

“All friendships start somewhere. Have you got time for a coffee?”

I’m tempted. This guy is really interesting but all my spare time is invested elsewhere. And I’m desperate to get home and reacquaint myself with my own apartment, before Alex is finished work. “Rain check?” I say with true regret.

“You got some other place to be?”

I nod.

“Let me at least grab you a takeaway then,” he offers. “You looked like you could hardly keep your eyes open.”

I grimace. “Was I that obvious?”

“You’re just usually more of a live-wire in my class.”

I smile at the description; it weakens my resolve. “There’s a place just around the corner.”

“Great. Let’s go.” He scoops up his own books and pushes the door, holding it open for me. The hallway is packed but we weave through the crowds and emerge onto the steps soon enough. It’s a grim London day. The sky is grey and menacing.

“Menacing?”

I didn’t realise I’d spoken the words out loud but I nod. “I always think it’s like the clouds are sinking down, ready to squash me.” I shake my head at the foolish description.

“I like it.” He digs one hand into his pocket as he walks. Outside of the classroom, he looks more like my contemporary than a lecturer.

“I would have thought you’d hate the weather here, given that you’re from somewhere perennially sunny?”

“On the contrary, I love change.”

“I hate it.” I shiver unconsciously. I’ve known too much change.

“Do you?”

I shrug, reminding myself to be careful. I don’t really need the reminder; after so many years of hiding, this is who I am now, but around people I am comfortable with I am most at risk of forgetting myself.

“I’m a creature-of-habits girl I guess.” I point to the line of shops across the street. “See that bookstore?”

He nods.

“I’ve worked there for the last four years.”

He grins. “That is definitely a habit.”

“It’s convenient,” I say in a voice that is jokingly defensive. “Plus I get to talk about books for hours on end. It’s brilliant.”

“Did you grow up around here?”

Specificity is the devil. I keep my response casual. “Not far. I moved to a little studio flat around the corner, when I started university.” I pan my hand around the grim skies and low-lying buildings. “This is my village now.”

“Cheery,” he replies with a shake of his head.

“How are you finding London? Besides loving our gloomy weather.”

“I always think you guys give your weather a bad rap. The summer was pretty good.”

“Yeah. All three days of it.”

“Fair point.” We turn the corner and the white star heralding my favourite cafe comes into sight. “I love the history here. The culture. I think I saw just about every theatre show playing in my first month.”

“Geek,” I grin.

“Theatre buff,” he corrects, smiling down at me in a way that should inspire caution. I feel a frisson of guilt, as though I’m doing something wrong. Which is completely stupid. I’m not flirting with my lecturer – I’d never do anything so stupid. And Alex? My heart accelerates when I imagine him. Would he be jealous? That’s hard to say. Possessiveness is different to jealousy. The fact he feels the former in no way suggests he’d experience the latter.

“What’s been your favourite?”

“Nuh uh,” he says. “Not after that ‘geek’ comment. I’m not sharing.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

He considers it a moment. “Okay, deal. Matilda.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Why?”

“It’s just, I love it too. I’ve seen it six times.”

“Six? That’s just showing off.”

“It’s utterly brilliant,” I enthuse, warming to one of my favourite subjects. “That song about being naughty? That’s me to a tee.”

“I can see that.” And again a frisson dances along my spine.

But I ignore it. “I mean it. I just love the idea of it. So many rules exist and some are important, some of them just hamstring us. You’ve got to move with your conscience.”

“You’re passionate about this.”

Again I need to deflect. “As are you.” We stop walking. We’re outside the cafe, and it’s busy. “You took on a case that, if you’d lost, would have made you unemployable. No one would have wanted a bar of you.”

“He was innocent.”

“How did you know?” The sun pokes out from behind the clouds for a second and I squint looking up at him.

“A lot of reasons.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s doing my trick—keeping something secret. “You’re evading.”

“Very good, counsellor.”

“Why?”

He leans closer towards me. I can smell something salty on his breath and wonder if he’s had hot chips for lunch. “Because it’s more airy-fairy than legally relevant.”

“I like airy-fairy.”

He straightens and grins. “Coffee.”

I make a sound of complaint as we push into the busy café. “That’s not fair.”

“Haven’t we just been saying that? What are you having?”

“Piccolo latte.”

He joins a line and I move to the sandwiches out of habit. I’m not hungry but I love to browse.

A heap of people are working behind the counter so the service is speedy. Carlton is by my side within minutes brandishing a tiny coffee for me and a huge one for him. “The American habit of thinking bigger is better,” I chastise, wrapping my hand around the smaller cup.

“You’re welcome.”

I shake my head in smiling apology. “Thank you.”

He grins. “I’m going to go for a walk. I like to drink as I go.”

“You’ll be walking for miles before you finish that.”

“Good.” We step back into the cool afternoon. “Which way?”

“Oh.” I hadn’t expected this. But then again, I am walking home, it’s no hardship to go some of the way with him. I nod towards my usual route and we’re moving again. “Where are you living?”

“The University rented a place for me in Clerkenwell.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. It’s central.”

“So, you were telling me how you knew he was innocent.”

“Ah! And tenacious. Another excellent quality, Miss Lewis.”

“Thank you, Carlton.”

“Dr Carlton.”

“Nope. I like Carlton. And if you don’t answer my question I’ll downgrade you to Carl.”

We turn a corner and he’s quiet; I wonder if he’s thinking about something else.

“Have you ever met someone and just known?”

Now it’s my turn to be quiet. I need to mull that one over a little. I mean, of course I have. I met Alex and just knew I would do anything he wanted, go anywhere he wanted, even though there was danger inherent in that decision. There have been a handful of other people, too, throughout the course of my life. Meera, my best—possibly my only—friend. I met her and I knew I could trust her. Not with my secret, but with my secrecy. She knows there’s a big black hole of information in my past and she doesn’t push it. I love her for that.

I can’t answer his question so I don’t. “Is that how you felt?”

“Yeah.” He sends me a look of embarrassment. “So the case of the century was really based on my hunch.”

“Don’t be ashamed of that. That simply means you’ve got great intuition, doesn’t it?”

“Clayton was so obviously terrified. He’d confessed. It should have been a simple defence aimed at getting him a reduced sentence. But none of it added up. Least of all how this gentle, quiet and polite man could have murdered two old women in their beds.”

I shiver at the gruesome detail. “Who did it?”

“The victims were grandmothers of rival gang members; their murders were retaliatory. Can you believe that?”

I know all about the things bad men can do to the families of their enemies. I shiver and sip my coffee to hide the gesture. “And the cop?”

“Was paid off by the gangs. It should have been easy to pin it on Clayton—he had access, needed money, and as a teenager he’d been involved in an armed robbery, only he hadn’t really. He’d been in with a bad crowd and had agreed to keep watch while they did a job. Nonetheless, on paper, he looked like a good fit for it.”

“He would have been, if you weren’t assigned to the case.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” He’s quiet again and I’m wondering what he’s thinking about when he says, “The first time I met him, I just knew. He stood when I entered the room, called me ‘sir’ unfailingly, and answered all my questions in full. There was no attitude. He’s not an educated man, and he’s huge and tattooed—the kind of looks that a jury would eat for breakfast. But he’s not a killer.”

“He must love you.”

“Yeah. Kinda.” Carlton pauses at the corner, waiting for me to direct him. But we’re getting closer to my home now and that’s a barrier only Meera has breached.

So I flash him a smile and shake my head. “This is where we part ways.”

He looks up at the buildings that surround us. “You’re home?”

“No.” The sun breaks through the thick cloud cover for a moment, making me squint.

“What is it? Don’t want me to see your drug lab or something?”

I nod, pretending to be serious. “Damn it, I knew I’d get discovered one day. Was it the lingering smell of chemicals?”

His laugh is nice. Deep and husky. “That, and the suspicious white powder that’s always on your nose.” He reaches over and wipes at the powder we both know isn’t there. It’s strange for him to touch me, but he’s just playing out a joke. Nonetheless, I step backwards a little guiltily.

“Thanks for the coffee.”

He doesn’t push it and I’m glad. “Any time. See you ‘round.”

My apartment is nothing special. My parents—and I don’t mean my real parents, they’re dead—but Ally and Rick, who took me in and raised me, hate this place. Compared to their mansion in Buckinghamshire with its millions of windows and liveried history as long as your arm, river views, strawberry patches and apple orchards, this is incredibly low-rent. And it is low-rent. Totally affordable for a uni student like me. I think of the bank account they’ve set up in my name, stockpiling a small fortune in the allowance they provide that I don’t access. I plan to give it all back to them one day. A sort of thank you for loving me when you didn’t have to.

My neighbours are loud—so loud that they drown out the dark thoughts which haunt my dreams. I never worry here that I am alone. How can I be when they throw parties almost every evening? They’ve invited me often enough but I have created an image of the studious anti-social book-worm. I smile apologetically and slip into my apartment, happy to be alone but to know that they are there. My upstairs neighbour is the polar opposite. From time to time, I wonder if she is my future. A spinster, alone, just her and a cat and an addiction to hand-blending tea.

My flat is thick with a dank stench. I spy the culprit of malodour: a bunch of tulips purchased around the time I met Alex that have turned into sludge in a vase. The water is now brown goo and the petals litter the bench top, along with stamen pollen that might have been yellow once but is now a brownish gold. “Ugh.” I would leave them if there was any chance someone else would come along and clean the vase out for me but sadly, that’s the price of living alone.

I think of Ally again with a grimace. Her immaculate home is always groaning under the weight of cut flowers and growing up she impressed on me again and again the importance of maintaining a bunch. Regularly trimming the stems and changing the water is theoretically great, but I appear to be more of a ‘set and forget’ flower lover.

I wonder what the best way is to dispose of them? Too much liquid to put in the bin. Too much flower to put down the sink. Could I flush them? I stand there wondering about the advantages of each plan before opting for the bin. Happily, in another win for my terrible house-care skills, the bin is half-full still and I realise I’ve been a little unfair to the tulips. Surely this putrid waste has something to do with the smell? I add the tulips and wretch as I quickly tie the bag.

My phone rings and I know even before I pull it from my handbag that it’s going to be Alex. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s fallen down the rabbit hole.

“Hello.” Blood washes through my veins.

“Where are you?”

I frown, eyeing my apartment. “In the place where things go to die.”

I think I hear his smile in his question. “Meaning?”

“My flat.”

This inspires silence. He’s curious. He doesn’t think of me in those terms; as a person who has a life and a home. “I see.” He’s grappling with it. I wonder where he’s going to go, what he’s going to say.

“Where are you?” I say finally, every fibre of my body alert and humming.

“At my place.”

I look at my wristwatch in surprise. “It’s just gone five. Why are you home so early?”

More silence. I’m nervous suddenly. An air of discontent has shrouded me, dogging my steps since I parted ways with Carlton, like I did something wrong, something I shouldn’t have done.

“Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” I can hear his cogs turning. “I can come to you though.”

“No.” Too fast. I wince. Be cool . I’ve been lying for almost as long as I can remember and usually it comes second-nature, as easily as breathing and walking. Then again, around Alex my breath burns and my body shakes. He robs me of all my usual skills. “My place is definitely not fit for human habitation.”

“I’d like to see it,” he says at the same time, so our words mesh over the phone line.

It surprises me. I put it in the back of my mind, to ponder later. “Another time. Maybe.” I furrow my brow. “What are you doing home so early?”

He pauses. I stub my toe along the line of tiles, tracing the grout, waiting for him to speak.

“I have to work late tonight. I thought I could see you now.”

I frown but my heart is soaring. “You work late most nights.”

“Yeah.” I’m already reaching for clothes and stuffing them into a bag I got at the Borough Markets a couple of years back. It’s a far from suitable vessel for clothes and makeup but it’s all I can lay my hands on quickly. “I’ll send a car.”

“Not necessary.” TOO FAST . I smile, even though he can’t see it. “I’ll be there soon.”

“How soon?”

“An hour?”

His voice is gravelly. “Get here faster.”