Painless (8 page)

“Go ahead,” I laughed lightly. “Scratch your paint job and mine. I’m sure your daddy pays for the best insurance money can buy.”

She glared at me and revved the Mercedes. “Move,” she growled around gritted teeth.

“No.” I stared her down.

She screamed in my face, “
MOOOOVE!!!
”

I winced and leaned back.

Wow, that girl sure had a set of lungs on her. And a voice that could cut glass. I think I was going to need to get my ears checked after that. But I stood my ground.

She thrust her head out her car window. “I’ve had it with you, you little bitch. You’ve been meddling in my life since you came to SDU. I’m sick of your ugly face. I’m going to make you regret the day you crawled out from whatever rock you lived under before you came to San Diego.”

“Are you threatening me, Tiff?” I asked cooly, an amused smile on my face.

“No. I’m warning you. Because it’s going to happen.”

“Okay,” I scoffed and waved a dismissive hand at her. No matter how many times Tiffany had tried to make my life miserable, she never succeeded. She was nothing more than a pesky housefly as far as I was concerned. I wasn’t going to take any more of her dramatic threats. She was a spoiled brat who didn’t know how good she had things.

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed and her brows dove into a tight, threatening scowl. She looked hawklike. “Don’t underestimate me, Samantha Anna Smith.”

Surprise lit up my face.
 

“That’s right,” she hissed, “I know who you are. Don’t think I’m some dumb blond you can laugh at. You have fucked with the wrong woman, you infected cunt.”

How the hell did she know my middle name was Anna? Had Christos told her? That seemed unlikely.

“Watch your back, bitch,” she said, then threw her car into reverse, backed up dramatically, and floored it. Her Mercedes growled a low threat as it disappeared at the end of the parking aisle.

Great. As if I didn’t have enough troubles already.

Chapter 4

CHRISTOS

Half an hour after leaving my house, I walked through the cool marble interior of the San Diego Hall of Justice, looking slick in my dark suit. People in similarly formal and conservative attire milled about the wide main hallway, conducting impromptu meetings before going into the various courtrooms. Uniformed deputies in tan shirts, olive pants and bulky gun belts were scattered throughout the space, as were a few members of the S.D.P.D. in dark blue uniforms. It was all so formal and civilized.

A woman in one of those sexy fitted business suits carrying a briefcase peered at me over a pair of reading glasses. Her hair was in a neat mess on top of her head. Sexy librarian or sexy attorney? Same difference. I tossed her a dimpled smile and her composed, professional expression crumbled into a school girl grin.

May as well amuse myself before going into battle.

Russell Merriweather, my attorney, stood head and shoulders above the crowd in a dark charcoal suit, chatting on his cell phone. His ebony dark skin contrasted brilliantly against his impeccable amethyst button down shirt and striped tie. When he noticed me, he narrowed his eyes and flicked a nod in my direction. As always, he was all business while inside the courthouse.
 

I walked up to him as he ended his call. He slipped his phone inside his suit jacket and turned to me. “What the hell did you do to your eye, son?”

I opened my mouth to answer.

He held up a halting palm. “Stop. I don’t want to know. Buy some concealer before the trial. We don’t need the jury jumping to conclusions about you at the trial Friday.”

I smiled. “Actually, I was thinking about getting the other one banged up so they match.”

Russell repressed a smile and shook his head. “You do that,” he said sarcastically. “But get some concealer either way.” He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. “On a more serious note, have you made a decision regarding the plea bargain offered by the District Attorney?”

I grit my teeth. “Fuck the D.A. I’m not guilty.”

Russell nodded. A glint of approval passed across his eyes. “I expected nothing less from you, son. But may I remind you,” he said ominously, “once you enter a plea, it’s set in stone. No going back. If we go to trial and the jury finds you guilty, you run the risk of up to four years in prison. Are you okay with that?”

“Yup.”

Russell nodded toward the doors to the courtroom. “You ready?”

“One other thing.”

Russell raised his brows. “Do I want to hear it? The look on your face tells me I don’t.”

I grinned. “I’m going to testify.”

Russell nodded, his eyes narrowing while his lips pursed thoughtfully. “As your attorney, I would be remiss if I didn’t remind you that it’s never wise for a defendant to testify. If you do, the Deputy District Attorney will have free rein to ask you anything he wants. Including questions about your criminal record. They will dredge up all of the demons from your past and parade them in front of the jury like a marching band. In the eyes of the jury, you will go from looking like a man who punched another man in a single case of self defense to Crime Spree Christos.”

I knew he was right. But I hadn’t started that fight with Horst Grossman. No matter how hard the D.A. tried to convince the jury I was a piece of shit, I knew the truth. I was going to stand up for myself. I was going to look every member of the jury straight in the eye and tell my story. If they didn’t believe me? Fuck ‘em.

They could all rot in hell.

“What other evidence do we have that I didn’t start the fight,” I asked, “other than my version of events?”

“Not as much as I would like,” Russell said curtly.

“Then I have to testify,” I said. “We don’t have any other options.”

Russell looked me in the eye. Hard. He didn’t shout. He didn’t lose his temper. He didn’t try to argue me out of it. I’m pretty sure he could see the resolve in my eyes. All he said was, “You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“All right then. I’ll make it work. Let’s do this thing,” Russell said, opening the door to the courtroom for me. He motioned inside. “After you, sir.”

===

SAMANTHA

Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn was working the ancient Egyptian sleep magic in Sociology class better than the sandman today. I’d drained my Venti Americano within the first five minutes of class. If I was going to make it through the rest of the day, I was going to need more coffee.

I texted Madison.

I have a coffee emergency. Meet me at Toasted Roast after class?

Her reply,
Can’t. I have Managerial Accounting with Dorquemann and Spanish after that. Lunch?

I replied,
K. C u then.

I heaved a sigh. Maybe I could find Kamiko or Romeo. I was seriously in need of some moral support. I didn’t want to stew in my own thoughts about what might happen to Christos for a second longer.

I did my best to concentrate on the Sociology lecture and take notes until class was finished. Still in need of coffee, I got a fresh cup at Toasted Roast by myself before heading over to my History lecture.

I squeezed into a seat and pulled out my laptop. There wasn’t enough room for my coffee and computer on the little fold out armrest desktop.
 

Did the University have a suggestion box somewhere? Because they totally needed to install cup holders in all the lecture halls.

“Well if it isn’t Cathy Guisewite,” some guy in the row behind me said over my shoulder in a smooth, smoldering voice.

I turned and looked into the eyes of a cute guy sitting behind me. He was chewing on the corner of a pen and grinning at me. He had this clean shaven boy band look going. No tattoos, and not especially muscular, but great hair and totally swoon worthy. I could imagine him sitting behind a piano and crooning while women threw underwear at him onstage.

I frowned but sort of smiled at him. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Nope.”

“I’m not Cathy Whoever.”

“Sure you are,” he grinned.

This poor boy had a screw loose. I arched an eyebrow. “Uh…no?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never read Cathy?”

“What?” I was totally confused. Maybe I had the loose screw. I’m sure if I shook my head something would rattle around inside.

“The comic strip? By Cathy Guisewite?”

Still not getting it, I shook my head.

“Do you even know what a comic strip is?” he smiled.

“Duh.” I wasn’t an idiot.

“Didn’t you ever read the comics in the newspaper? I know it’s totally unhip for people our age to admit to such a thing, but you can tell me,” he winked, “I won’t out you on Facebook or Twitter or whatever.”

Now that he mentioned it, my parents still got the newspaper. My dad couldn’t go to the office without first reading the comic strips at breakfast. He called them ‘the funnies.’ I used to look at them when I was a kid and try to copy the drawings, but I hadn’t done that in a long time. Then a hazy memory locked into place. “Oh! You mean Cathy, the comic strip!”

He nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I mean, I know the series ended three and a half years ago, but I figured you may have seen it once or twice before all the newspapers started going out of business.”

Who was this guy? He was bizarre. He was way too cute to be into something as last century as comic strips. “So, um, why are you calling me Cathy?”

“I’ve seen you drawing cartoons during class. Do you ever take notes, or just doodle?”

Guilty as charged. I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Probably not to the professor and the T.A.’s, so your secret is safe with me,” he winked. “You know, your work is pretty good. Have you ever considered submitting some of it to the school paper?”

I’m pretty sure he was pulling my leg. “No, those guys are all Snooty McSnoots-a-lots.” The SDU school newspaper, The Sentinel, had a reputation for being a high-brow elitist newspaper for preppie journalism majors. And considering I’d been ejected from high school society back in D.C., I didn’t have any desire to go before a tribunal of hip socialites and have them tell me I wasn’t good enough to join their club.

“The Analites at the Sentinel are totally snooty,” he smiled. “I was talking about The Wombat.”

The Wombat was SDU’s comedy newspaper run by the Associated Students of SDU. It was full of funny spins on current events, humor about college life, party reviews of actual parties (on and off campus), and the ever famous Wombat comic strips. I’d read the comic strips before. They satirized the seedier social aspects of college: drinking, drugs and doing it with members of the opposite sex, same sex, or even different species. Some of them were hilarious and some of the art was amazing.

I raised my eyebrows. “You think I should submit my cartoons to The Wombat?” I didn’t think my stuff was good enough.

“Yeah. I’ll put in a good word for you with the editor.”

“Who’s the editor?” I asked.

“Me,” he smiled. “Justin Tomlinson.” He leaned down and offered his hand.

 
I had to awkwardly turn in my seat to shake it. “Samantha Smith. Isn’t Tomlinson the name of one of the guys in One Direction?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. If I’d had a choice at birth, I would’ve had the stork deliver me to another house,” he smiled.

He sure had a great smile. Now all he needed was four more cuties and a boy band anthem and the girls would come out of the woodwork like termites. If they weren’t already. For all I knew, Justin had a limo filled with fan girls waiting outside.
 

“Anyway,” he said, “nice to meet you, Samantha. Email me some of your samples and I’ll show them to my peeps at the paper.”

“I’ve never written a comic strip. I mean, I just doodle in my sketchbook.”

“Do you have your sketchbook on you now? I’ve seen you drawing in it before.”

Ah, creepy stalker much? Or, had I been drawing in my sketchbook in History so often that it had become obvious to anyone who sat near me? That seemed unlikely. I religiously took notes in History class as if it was the most interesting topic ever invented. Not. “Yeah, I have it in my book bag.”

“Can I see it?”

I had never shown my sketchbook to a stranger. I was somewhat reluctant. Oh well, if he mocked me, then he was a jerk, boy band cute or not. I pulled my sketchbook out and handed it to him.

He flipped through it casually, smiling the entire time. He stopped to linger at various pages, I didn’t know which ones. He even chuckled a few times. “Yeah,” he said, “these are great. Do you have any strips? Like multiple panels telling a cohesive story?”

“Not really,”

“No worries. What do you think about working with a writer?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the strips in The Wombat are written by one person and drawn by another. I could team you up with a writer if you needed help. Until you get the hang of it. But I get the sense you’ll figure it out pretty quick, based on what I see here. Then you can write your own if you want. It would be up to you.”

Wow, this guy was really nice. And cute. Not that I was interested in him. But he was being totally helpful, and he didn’t even know me. “Okay. When do I start?” I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.

“I have to show your stuff around first. But, like I said, I think the other guys will dig your work. Gimme your number and I’ll give you a call after our next meeting—”

Oh. How smooth of him. I’d almost fallen for it. He was a master pickup artist.

“—or better yet,” he continued, “why don’t you come to our next staff meeting? It’s this Friday.”

Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe he was being genuine. “This Friday?”

“Yeah. We meet at 4:20 at Toasted Roast.”

I did a double take. “You guys meet at Toke Time? Do you smoke joints during the meeting?” I smiled.

“It’s up to you,” he grinned. “so bring your own joints. But usually we stick to coffee.”

“Sounds like my kind of crowd.” But it was on Valentine’s Day. The day of Christos’ trial. Shit. My guess would be that I wasn’t going to make their meeting. “But I don’t think I can make it. I have…something really important to do that day.”