Rhea Thurman has always been goal-driven despite the tragedies of her past. Her obsession with criminal law leads her to the most prestigious internship in the city, working under up-and-coming lawyer, Davina Jenkins.
But Rhea never prepared to meet...
I'm reading on the way to work. I can't concentrate on a single word, but it's enough to keep my eyes away from Brax. Anything I ever say to him seems to end in an argument.
Like today, for instance. He told me I had no choice but to have him drive me to work. I'd argued that I didn't need a 24 hour bodyguard, but he wouldn't take no for an answer.
So here I am. Sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, holding a book with an unknown plot.
"You haven't flipped the page in more than five minutes," he suddenly states. "Slow reader?"
His comment almost sounds like an accusation. Like I should be worried he's sought out the truth. "Maybe I am," I defend, biting my tongue when I realise I've broken my own rule about talking.
I frown, trying to concentrate before I eventually give up, slamming the book closed. I rest it in my lap; fingers curling over the top as I try to decipher what kind of mood he's in.
"Don't wanna talk to me, Rhea?" he says sarcastically.
He pronounces my name the way you grimace from a bad taste in your mouth. I wonder if that's what I am to him.
"I can count on one hand how many times we've talked. But I can count on seven trillion hands how many times those have ended in arguments," I retort.
"There aren't even seven trillion hands on the planet," he deadpans.
"You know what I meant," I growl.
"Do I?"
"You're giving me a headache," I sigh, turning towards the window.
"Don't I know it," he grumbles.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
He pulls up outside Cash's bar. He doesn't bother finding a car spot; he sits idling in the car park. I turn back to him, waiting for an answer.
"Did you ever think that maybe the reason I'm confusing, is because you confuse me?"
I'm startled by his honesty. I blink a few times before pulling on the door handle, mumbling a goodbye. I shoulder my bag, walking briskly inside to fight the sudden chill that wasn't caused by the winter air.
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I feel Beckett's eyes — or more accurately, his glare, — on me for the remainder of my shift. He won't talk to me. I know he's upset about where I'm living again, but it isn't up to him to decide.
It isn't even really up to me anymore. Some days, I think I'm a passenger in my own life.
"Here we are, sir," I place a peppercorn steak and chips in front of a customer, offering him a half hearted smile. "Anything else I can get for you?"
