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“Yeah,” I tell the car. “Let’s fucking go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ROME
Itried to convince my dad to drop me off at my house–the old, half-burnt down shithole next to Avery’s opulent mansion in Verona Heights–but the old man shut that down immediately. The restraining order against me makes it impossible to reside in my own dwelling legally, because as massive as the square footage on these properties is, I can’t remain a mile away from Avery when she’s housed right next door to me. It strikes me that most restraining orders are more like a hundred feet. I have no doubt her family and their slimy fucking lawyers made sure to ask for that specific clause to be added. “No way are you going back to that place,” my Dad said. “No fucking way.”
“It’s not that bad,” I’d protested.
“You can’t stay there. I can’t believe you’ve been staying there in the first place. That house is about to fall over. And it’s right next door to the Capulets. Anything goes wrong there, they’re going to blame you for it. It could spiral out of control.”
He was right, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate him for it. Mostly I just hate that wherever I go, I’m still a caged animal. That includes the three-star hotel my dad chose from a list of approved accommodations the SFPD helpfully provided. Pops took it upon himself to call the Verona police and update them on my whereabouts, so they could come install the damn ankle monitor I have to wear as a condition of my extravagant bail.
I wanted to fucking kill them when they came in here and did that. An ankle monitor isn’t supposed to be any big deal, but everything that touches me like that reminds me of being in that basement. Of the collar Avery was forced to wear.
I’m a cocky bastard. I didn’t let my horror show when the guy strapped the tracker onto my leg and tightened it. But I felt the panic rising in my chest, in my tightening rib cage, in theslam-slam-slamof my quickening heartbeat.
At least I can pace around in here, and eat real food whenever I like. At least the hotel room isn’t completely taken up by a bare king-size mattress and a bleeding girl.Though honestly, I’d rather have the girl here.
That’s another condition of my bail. I’m not allowed to have any contact with Avery Capulet. I haven’t seen her in weeks, and it’s killing me.
A knock at the door comes when I’m right next to it. I go still, waiting. The knock sounds again.
“Rome? It’s me.”
Not Avery. I don’t know why I think it’s always going to be Avery. If I see her again in this lifetime it’ll be a miracle.
I crack the door, making sure the chain is still on. Disappointingly, it’s my lawyer.
I open the door and usher her in casually, as if I’m not wearing a GPS tag that will sound the alarm if I so much as piss in the wrong bathroom. “Amara. How are you?”
“I’m well, Rome, thank you. I’m here to talk to you about your next court hearing.” Amara Langley drops her briefcase on the desk at the far end of the room. All business. She has places to go, people to see. I don’t. I might never have people to see again.Christ. I can’t get too melancholy about it, or else the rest of my day is shot.
I mean, the rest of my day is shot anyway.
“What I think we want to do is position ourselves as a model prisoner on bail.” She’s so pretty and brunette and lucky. God. She’s so…normal. I don’t know who that girl was they brought down to the basement for me to rape, besides her name, but she could have been anybody. She could have been this lawyer. Instead, this lawyer is in my hotel room in a comparatively civilized situation, and Penny is dead in a morgue somewhere.
“—look your best, present yourself in the best light possible.”
“Okay. Great.”
“Did you hear what I said, Rome?” Amara peers at me, and I can see her assessing me for the various things a lawyer would be looking for. Flight risk. Suicide risk. All of it. She must not find any evidence, or else it’s covered up by the disinterested expression on my face. My shoulder aches, reminding me of that gunshot in the dark, and I roll it back and forth with a grimace.
“Yeah. I heard you. Thanks for the update. I’ll shower before the next hearing.”
“And iron your clothes. Okay? In fact, I’ll have some suits couriered over for you to try on. Best foot forward. Everything we can do to craft an impression of trustworthiness will help you.”
Not real trustworthiness. Animpressionof trustworthiness. That is the most backhanded statement I’ve ever heard. Good for her.
She says some more things that don’t sink in and whisks herself right out the door of the hotel room. It closes with a heavy thud. She’s probably charging me five hundred bucks an hour, and I don’t even know why she visited in the first place.
I know, I know. I should pay more attention. This is my life on the line. But is there a point in paying attention when the outcome will be whatever it wants, with no input from me? I can shower and press a dress shirt and wear a damned suit with the best of them. My fate isn’t in my hands. Nothing is in my hands. That’s why I half-wish those pills had worked. I’m not going to tell my lawyer that though, because I’m not a fucking idiot.
Another knock at the door. She must have forgotten some important detail, like reminding me to change my socks or stop ordering room service because I’m bored.
“I was listening,” I say to the closed door on the way over. “You said to iron my shit so I don’t look like a fucking douche—” I open the door mid-sentence. My voice stops in my throat, the words dying from one quick hit.
It’s not my pretty lawyer.
