“Yeah,” she sighed.
“There’s food in the kitchen if you’re hungry. Take anything you want.” I kissed her again and went down to the garage and hopped in my Camaro.
===
SAMANTHA
After Christos left, I showered, dressed, and went downstairs. I opened the refrigerator in the kitchen and stared at the contents. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t think about eating when Christos was going to court. I gently closed the door and nearly jumped out of my skin.
Spiridon was standing right there.
“Oh!” I gasped. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Good morning, koritsáki mou,” he said. “My apologies. I didn’t realize you were still in the house.”
I was always amazed by how much Spiridon looked like an older, silver-haired version of his blue-eyed grandson. Spiridon’s eyes still shone as brightly as Christos’. I had no doubt that Spiridon had been quite the ladies’ man in his day and I suspected he still was, but I had yet to meet any of the women who most certainly were pursuing him. I knew he went out in the evenings all the time, but I wasn’t quite sure where he went or who he saw. Christos had hinted frequently about the women in his grandfather’s life, but so far it was nothing more than juicy insinuations.
“Would you like me to make you some breakfast?” he asked.
“Oh, no thank you. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
“You have to eat something, Samoula. You can’t go through an entire day without food.” Spiridon pulled out a loaf of olive bread and spread soft cheese onto a slice. He handed me the plate. “Try this.”
I took a bite. The cheese was salty and very peppery. It had some kick to it. It went great with the olive bread. “What kind of cheese is this?”
“You like?” he grinned.
“It’s delicious!”
“It’s called Kopansti. A friend of mine imports it from Mykonos.”
“Wow, it’s so good!” I chomped another bite and savored it. Somehow, the Manos men always managed to set me at ease, as if everything in the world was just right, and every moment was a decadent celebration of life. I hadn’t had an appetite five minutes ago, but now I was ravenous. “Can I have another slice?”
“Certainly, koritsáki mou,” he said, spreading more cheese on a fresh slice of olive bread. “I take it Christos made it home safely?”
“Yeah. Safe and sound.” For now, I thought. I knew his pre-trial wasn’t supposed to be a big deal, but I felt a doomsday clock ticking down to Valentine’s Day on Friday, the day of his actual trial. Lameness. Could I petition to have Valentine’s Day pushed forward a day? Probably not. “Spiridon?”
“Yes, Samoula?” Spiridon smiled.
“Do you, um, ah, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t be asking this, but do you, uh…do you know about Christos’ trial?” I was afraid maybe he didn’t know and I was going to break his heart, but I also felt like I was stuck in the dark on this whole trial topic, and I needed some emergency support.
His smile faded. It didn’t turn sour, like I could imagine my mom or dad doing, after which yelling and condescension would commence. Instead, Spiridon looked sad. “Yes, koritsáki mou, I know.”
Phew. One obstacle out of the way. “Are you worried?”
“Yes,” he said softly. “As many times as Christos has been in court, it never gets easier. There’s little I can do but pray for him and hope that the jury sees the good boy I know my grandson to be.”
“Yeah,” I sighed thoughtfully. “Are you going to go to the trial?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you go to the pre-trial today?”
“Because, based on my experience, it’s largely a matter for the lawyers. But I will be at the trial on Friday.”
“Oh.”
I sort of felt left out because Spiridon knew all the details. But it made sense. Christos lived with him, so I’m sure he’d told his grandfather about it awhile ago. But I felt hurt that Christos hadn’t told me. I wanted to be supportive in any way that I could, but that was impossible if he didn’t include me in the process. I sighed to myself and shook my head.
Spiridon patted my shoulder. “It’s okay, Samoula. Christos will be fine.”
I hoped so. But the tortured look in Spiridon’s eyes ignited the smoldering worry that had been twisting my guts in knots for the last twelve hours.
===
I drove to campus along the Pacific Coast Highway, slumped over the wheel of my VW. Class was the last thing I wanted to think about today. Worse, today was Sociology 2, starring my sleep-inducing Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn, and American History 2, where I always managed to draw cartoons in my sketchbook while conveniently avoiding putting notes in my laptop.
I contemplated bailing on class entirely. One of the perks of being a college student. But what was I going to do if I didn’t go to class? Fret? Wring my hands together?
The beach was visible as I drove out of Del Mar. Too bad it was foggy and gray and I could barely see the ocean. Not much of a beach day, otherwise I might very well have parked my car and strolled down with my towel so I could lay out and catch some rays. Tanning under the buttery San Diego sun always soothed me.
Stupid fog.
The light at Carmel Valley turned red and I came to a stop. This was the intersection where I’d first met Christos last fall. I’d driven through here a hundred times since that day. The view of the beach never got old. I was so lucky to live in San Diego. I swear, it was a crime that people had to live anyplace else in the country. I felt bad for my parents, who were still stuck in the arctic urban wasteland of Washington D.C. It was probably snowing there right now. All I had to contend with was a little fog. The thermometer on my dash said sixty degrees.
A little fog wasn’t so bad.
I reached for the Venti Americano I’d bought at the Starbucks in Del Mar. They didn’t have a drive thru, so I’d had to park and it had taken forever. But today, I didn’t care if I was late for class.
Not like that first day when I’d spilled my coffee everywhere. I shook my head and smiled. I’d been such a spaz that day. I remembered that fat guy behind me who’d been yelling at me.
Bitch…
He’d called me all kinds of crazy names.
Slut…
And he’d practically bitten my face off, he was so mad at me for holding up traffic.
Whore…
What a tool that guy was. Thinking about all of it now brought back Taylor Lamberth and Damian Wolfram, and the roller coaster my life had been for three long years. Was it ever going to stop? I felt like I’d left some crazy loop-de-loop behind me in D.C., but now I was headed into six more.
Agápi mou…
At least I had Christos to ride with me through life’s twists and turns. Christos…
I started to tear up. I wiped my eyes, no longer worried about smearing the mascara I never wore anymore. My life had changed so much in the last six months. But was any of it for the better?
The light at Carmel Valley Road turned green and I drove the rest of the way to SDU.
===
I pulled into the parking lot on the north end of campus and searched for a space. The lot was packed with cars. I turned down yet another aisle and spotted an open space. As I drove toward it, a black Mercedes whipped around the corner at the far end of the aisle and raced for the space. I was closer and reached it well ahead of the Mercedes. The slick black car screeched to a stop as I was turning into the space, jamming its nose in the way of my VW.
“Hey!” I shouted. “What are you doing! This is totally my space! Move your car! I was here first!”
The Mercedes revved its engine. I couldn’t see the driver because the overcast sky painted the front windshield over with a light gray glare.
I held my ground in my VW. This space was mine by right. First come, first served and all that.
The Mercedes’ horn blared at me and the car inched forward like a menacing cobra.
“You’re insane! I was totally here first!” I shifted my VW into park and got out of my car. For a second I thought it might be Hunter Blakeley, the figurative sculpting model who’d been stalking me all quarter. Then I remembered he drove a Porsche Boxster. I knocked on the window of the Mercedes sharply.
The power window whirred down.
“You,” sneered Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, eyes narrowed.
“Yes, me,” I smirked confidently. “Move your car.”
“Move my car? You’ve got it wrong, Merry Maid. Shouldn’t you be cleaning up fecal matter somewhere?”
As always, Tiffany looked like a team of stylists had done her hair, makeup, and nails this morning. She was dressed in the latest San Diego winter fashion: a sexy studded leather motorcycle jacket over a white scoop neck T that emphasized her ersatz rack, skinny black jeans, and a rugged belt. A super cute studded black leather clutch with white piping sat on the empty seat next to her. I had to admit, the girl knew how to dress. But it didn’t make her any less of a bitch.
Which was why I was seriously considering grabbing a fistful of her fuck me blond hair and giving it a good yank. Could you scalp someone by yanking? Or did you need a knife to do it right?
“I hate to disappoint you, Tiff, but I was here first. Kindly remove your Mercedes from my way.”
“I’m not moving anything, you shit stain. Get your car out of my way before I push it.” She revved the engine of her Mercedes.
Her blond locks were within easy reach. I flexed my fingers in anticipation. Where was that knife? Screw it. I wasn’t going to need it. I had nails. I was tired of taking shit from Tiffany Buttplug-Nuthouse.
“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?”
Painless (The Story of Samantha Smith #3) Page 6