Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
LILY
" D amon O'Connell," I repeat, looking down at the photo of the red-haired man wearing a checkered shirt. "So, he's the person who owns the bar?"
"Basically, yes," Landon replies. "Technically, it's his childhood friend, but yeah, it might as well be Damon."
We're sitting in the corner booth of a midscale restaurant. It's a family-friendly place, further convincing me he didn't intend this to be romantic. The only slipup I made was when I playfully touched his arm. I never do things like that.
"If this isn't romantic," Maddie whispers in my mind, " why did he ask if you have a boyfriend?"
I can't let myself think about that. It could lead to silly, delusional fantasies. As the host leads us to our table, I spot three women checking Landon out. Two of them do it subtly, at least, but the third twists around in her chair so she can get a better look at him. He has serious options.
"So that bar is an Irish mob place when you clear away all the other details? That's what it is, essentially?"
He nods, looking down at me with those soulful, serious eyes. I never understood when people say they got lost in their lover's eyes. Yet with Landon, I can imagine it—just staring, disappearing, forgetting.
"Yeah, and if the parents' reports are true, then clearly, these bastards have a reason for wanting to make the kids comfortable there. Once they've attracted enough …" He shudders, biting down. "If there were any real justice, I'd be able to burn the place down right now and face no consequences."
"We have to work inside the system. Otherwise, it's chaos."
"Wise words," he says with dark sarcasm.
"They're your words," I say.
"Mine?" he says huskily, moving his finger around the edge of his glass.
"When I was a kid, that's what you told me. I wished something bad on Dad. That's what you said: We have to work inside the system. It stuck with me."
It did more than stick with me. It fueled me to want to become a social worker. It made me believe, on a deep and fundamental level, that I could make the world a better place by participating in society.
"I used to be very optimistic, didn't I?"
"You must still be. Otherwise, why do any of this?"
He stares at me for a few moments. He looks almost pissed. It's like he's emanating resentment. "This is the first pro bono case I've worked on in almost five years," he says.
"Oh," I mutter, my head spinning unfairly. I just assumed he did this often. "Why?"
"Why?" he repeats, drumming his fingers on the table. "Why? My buddy and I started a divorce agency. I've been busy."
"Divorce?" I say in shock.
I need to get a handle on my outraged, surprised, and na?ve tone of voice. I'm speaking as though he is obligated always to be the same because I saw him as my knight as a kid. I'm talking like a mad woman, essentially.
"I know. It's not exactly selfless. We saw a gap in the market. We had some contacts, and we took our chance. Now, we're the top agency in the city. We deal with some of the richest and most well-known cases."
"It's an honest living," I mutter.
He snorts. "Come on. Be honest."
"What?"
He tilts his head at me as if it's obvious. "You're not very good at hiding what you're thinking …"
"Do we have any other information on the bar? Any known visitors or anything that might be useful."
"Lily."
It's just my name, but he says it in a demanding way, a way that jolts me from my civilized attempt to smooth over the awkwardness. I meet his gaze again, finding him staring at me with an unflinching expression.
"Why does what I think matter?"
"Because it does," he grunts. "So let's hear it."
"What I think is that if we can stop The Bear from ruining this neighborhood, we'll be doing a good thing."
"Hmm, sure," he says, "but that's not all you're thinking."
I fold my arms, staring up at him. I have tried to be civilized. Is it my fault if he's forcing me to reveal the truth? Maybe this will be for the best in a messed-up way. It'll create a rift between us. It can kill this crush of mine once and for all.
"Okay, fine … I thought you would've turned your passion for doing the right thing into your job. It never occurred to me you'd do anything else. That you're a divorce lawyer seems completely at odds with the person I knew or thought I knew when I was a kid. I know how na?ve that sounds. Don't worry; people often tell me my head is in the clouds."
He smirks. "Not this person. I think you're right."
"If I'm right, then why …"
"Why work as a divorce lawyer?" When I nod, he says, "Because I've made every decision in my life based on logic. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a cop, not a lawyer, but I had a logical discussion with my father, and we realized that law school would be the better option. As a young man, I logically had the freedom to experiment with various types of work, but soon, I had to commit. So, I chose the logical option of making the best income and involving the least danger. The least stress. The best return on my effort."
He's speaking ruefully, staring off into space as though reliving every decision that's led here.
"I didn't mean to judge," I say.
"I asked," he replies. "I'm glad you told me the truth."
"Why the change if it's been so long since pro bono work? Why this case?"
He stares meaningfully at me. His smolder contains so much. It's like there are whole essays and explanations he wants to offer me. Then he picks up his glass and takes a sip.
"I searched online on the message board I used back in the day. This seemed like a worthy case. I hate bastards who hurt kids."
"But why did you suddenly get the urge to do pro bono work?"
"Why not?" He shrugs, looking down at the table. I'm almost sure he's hiding something. "Sometimes, I guess, a man just gets the urge to do the right thing."
"Yeah, I get that. When I talked to that mom, she was clearly on something. Now that she's denied letting her kid go to the bar, there's not much we can do except wait for more complaints. I probably won't even be allowed back there until then."
"But you want to help," he says.
"Of course."
"Then we should keep working together. Or, at least, I can keep you in the loop."
"I can help ," I say. "Like you said. I don't want just to be kept in the loop. Anything I can do, I'll do."
"I'm still figuring out what anybody can do," he replies. "These bastards are being clever about hiding the kids when the cops come. Either that or the cops are in on it, but let's assume they're not. That means these bastards have trained the kids and have scared them into keeping quiet. This means they'll probably go quietly when the mob wants to act on them, whatever that means."
"It can't end well," I mutter, an icy shiver moving through me. "Those poor kids. Why can't people just leave kids alone? That's all I've ever wanted. If you have to be evil, sadistic, fine, but not with kids."
"I know." He hesitates, then stands up. "Excuse me for a moment."
As he walks across the restaurant, I can't resist the urge to watch him or notice the way other women turn to look at him. It's like they can't help it, as if there's some force tugging their gazes in his direction. Maybe it's how he has his shirt rolled up, showing thick, muscled forearms, demonstrating that despite his white-collar work, he's more than capable with his hands.
Or maybe I'm projecting my fantasies on the whole restaurant.