Ben

“The weekend?” Charlotte said. “He has to stay in jail for the whole weekend?”

“He’ll be fine,” I said. “Have a drink.”

I pushed my shot glass across the table toward her, but she pushed it back. Those slashes of brows were lowered over her dark eyes, sharp enough to cut glass. “I don’t want a drink,” she said. “You told me you’d get him out.”

“And I will,” I said, “Monday morning, when I talk to the public prosecutor and the judge and I get them to let Jeremy go. In the meantime, he’s fine where he is.” I picked up my shot glass. “Relatively speaking.”

I liked it when she glared at me. She had no idea she looked sexy like that. “Why are we even here, anyway?” she asked me.

We were in a place called Peter’s, which sold sandwiches and beer. The owner, Peter, was Eastern European, and every time I came in he gave me a shot from his personal bottle—of what, I had no idea. Something Eastern European and strong enough to grow your dick bigger. I always downed my shot like medicine, and today was no different. I tossed it back, tried to look manly about it, and answered Charlotte.

“We’re here because we need to talk,” I said. “I have questions.”

“You couldn’t ask your questions in your office?”

I decided not to mention that my office might not be perfectly safe at the moment, since Jeremy had just told me there were bikers after him—and her. “It’s Friday night,” I said. “Don’t ever say I made a woman answer questions on a Friday night without buying her a drink.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Yes, you do. A sandwich, too.” I waved Peter over, pointed to a couple of sandwiches on the menu, and he nodded and went back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t even tell you what I wanted,” she protested.

“Trust me,” I said. “The sandwiches are very good. Now tell me what the fuck is going on.”

That made her think twice. She sat back in the fake leather of her booth. “I told you what was going on.”

“No, not really,” I said. “I need more.”

She frowned when Peter put a glass of beer in front of her, but it was only a small frown. Then she picked up the glass and wafted it under her nose, like it was fine wine. “Like what?” she asked.

“Okay, I’ll start,” I said. “Here’s what I’ve guessed from meeting you and your brother. You came from money—not rich, but enough to be comfortable. And now there’s no money at all.”

Her eyes widened over the rim of the glass.

“You dress properly, you speak properly,” I said. “Young Jeremy got a pricey education, but you can’t pay my bill.” She wouldn’t be able to post bail, either, but I had a plan for that. “Also, in this entire shitstorm, neither you nor your brother has mentioned parents. So tell me about it.”

She sipped her beer, looking a little wary. Then she gave in. “Well,” she said, “our mother and stepfather split up three years ago. It turned out our stepfather had a gambling problem—a big one. The kind that emptied all of our bank accounts and spent all of our savings, then started on the credit cards.”

I leaned back in my seat and listened. Peter brought me a beer.

“Mom took off to Costa Rica,” Charlotte went on. “She said she could live there on a few dollars a day. The last we heard, she’d found a boyfriend down there—or maybe he’s a husband by now. In any case, she’s never coming back.”

“And the stepfather?” I asked.

“Gone,” she said with a shrug. “He was supposed to go to a gambling rehab thing, but he bailed on it after a week and said he was going to ‘start new’ somewhere. Our biological father was no one—he’s never been around. So there’s just Jeremy and me.”

I took a swig of my beer as Peter put our sandwiches in front of us. “Well, that’s shitty,” I said. “So the two of you are broke.”

“Jeremy had to leave college,” Charlotte said. “There was nothing left but gambling debts. We sold the house and used the money to pay off what we could, and here we are. Just Jeremy and me.”

I picked up half of my sandwich, my eyes still on her. She didn’t want my sympathy, so I didn’t give her any. “South San Francisco is expensive,” I said. “There are cheaper places to live.”

“This is home,” she said. “I know it’s expensive and shitty and not very interesting, but it’s what we know. Besides, Jeremy has the best chances in this part of the country.”

“Why?”

“Because all of the tech companies are here.” She poked at her sandwich, lifting the top bread and peeking in. “This does look good.”

“I told you,” I said. Peter’s chicken parmesan was fucking amazing. “So Jeremy’s expensive education was in tech?”

That made her smile—a real one, brief and amused. It lit up her face and I tried not to stare. Fucking hell, this woman. “No,” she said, “his education wasn’t in tech. It was in American history.”

I frowned, confused. “So he needs to be in California because there’s demand here for guys who know about the Civil War?”

“No,” she said again. “A degree in American history in useless. But when Jeremy left school, he took some programming courses. He’s really good. His dream is to get in to Facebook.” The amusement left her face at that, and she looked tired. A guy with a record for drug dealing didn’t have much chance at Facebook.

“Hey,” I said, leaning forward a little to get her attention. “It’ll be fine. I’ll take care of it. He’s a good kid, no priors, no record, obviously set up. It’s just that Judge Patton doesn’t have any slots on a Friday night.” In fact I’d pulled strings, including with the judge himself, to get in on Monday morning. I’d known Patton for ten years, and I’d never given him a reason to dislike me, no matter who I represented. “Your brother isn’t going down as a criminal. Not with me in charge. Got it?”

She looked at me, those brown eyes temporarily devoid of their usual spark. Her brother meant everything to her—I could see it, and now I could see why. I pushed her beer and her sandwich toward her. “Drink your beer and eat,” I said. “It’s a done deal. I’m not going to be sitting on my ass this weekend while Jeremy sits inside. I’m going to be helping him.”

“How?” she asked, but she picked up her sandwich.

“Well, first I have to find a dirtbag named White Castle, who is a member of the Lake of Fire MC. Since it’s Friday night, he’s probably at the Oakland club house. And I need to ask White Castle why the Lake of Fire is framing your brother, and hopefully get them to stop.”

She put down her sandwich and stared at me. “A motorcycle club?”

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” I took a drink of my beer. “A nice computer programmer like your brother showing up in their sights. The Lake doesn’t pick on people at random. Your brother got involved with them somehow, whether wittingly or not, and he’s pissed them off. I’m going to find out why.”

Charlotte put her hands on the table, like she was trying to calm down. “This is insane,” she said, almost to herself. Then she looked at me again. “Wait a minute. You said you didn’t care about what Jeremy did or didn’t do. You said it didn’t matter.”

“It didn’t,” I said, “not when it was just the law involved. But when the Lake of Fire sets their sights on someone, it’s fucking serious. They are not very nice people. That’s why your brother wanted me on this case—because if anyone can talk to the Lake, it’s me.”

She was quiet for a long minute, her hands still on the table, her eyes on me. The spark was back, but I couldn’t read what she was thinking. I let her think it through, whatever it was, while I looked at the soft line of her mouth and thought, with great seriousness, about what it would taste like and whether I’d ever get a chance to know.

“I have my own questions,” she said at last, breaking me out of my pleasantly erotic daydream.

“Sure,” I said.

“Devon Wilder called the office while you were out.”

I nodded. “Yeah, he called my phone a few times.”

“Devon Wilder,” she said again.

I felt myself smiling. “He scare you? I promise Dev is a nice guy beneath the growl. Usually. Unless you make him mad.”

“He gave me three names,” Charlotte said, ignoring me. “His, Max Reilly’s, and Cavan Wilder’s. He said they are your only three clients.”

“Also true,” I said, taking a drink of my beer. “They have a lot of money. They pay me plenty. And they keep me very busy.”

She shook her head. “Then why did you take my brother’s case? Why bother going to see some awful biker, on behalf of a guy who has no money to pay you?”

It wasn’t for him. As nice as Jeremy was, it was never for him; it was only for her. But she didn’t want to hear that, so I said, “I needed the assistant help.”

Her lips pressed together in a brief, firm line, then relaxed again. I didn’t know what that gesture meant, but I had a feeling it meant trouble. “Well, you’re going to get my help,” she said. “I’m coming with you tonight.”

I actually laughed at that; I couldn’t help it. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Charlotte—first of all, that’s insane. Second of all, I’m not bringing you. End of discussion.”

“Then I’ll go myself,” she said. “You just said it: man named White Castle, at the Oakland club house tonight. If you don’t bring me, I’ll go alone.”

Fuck. She had me there. She wasn’t bluffing, either. She didn’t know where the Lake’s club house was, but I had no doubt she could dig it up somewhere. Unless I tied her up—which was a very interesting prospect in any other situation—she would go find the Lake of Fire MC and start asking questions. Alone.

Me and my big mouth.

We stared at each other across the table for a long minute. A standoff.

“Fuck,” I said.

The corner of her mouth twitched in triumph. “When do we go?” she asked.

“Late,” I said. MC Friday nights weren’t early affairs. They were known to go until eight a.m. “Midnight, I think.” I’d have to catch White Castle when he was partly drunk, but before his tenth shot of tequila.

“Then I’ll be ready at midnight,” Charlotte said. “I’m game.”