Page 50 of Personal Foul

The other thing I could do is call my mom and ask her for tips and advice—unofficially, of course. But I could at least find out if her dad’s attorney is likely to be giving them good advice or making their situation worse. She’d know.

Out of all the ways I could help, that seems like the one she’d most likely accept.

“I could call my mom,” I offer.

She jerks her head in my direction, a laugh of disbelief coming out of her open mouth. “What? Why?”

Raising an eyebrow, I give her anAre you serious?look. “Don’t you know who my mom is?”

She shakes her head slowly. “I can’t say that I do.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Cynthia Thompson. She’s a bulldog corporate attorney, and she knows everyone in the western Washington legal scene. She’ll know if your dad’s attorney is good or not, who he should use instead if the guy sucks, and might have some advice on things you can do to help yourself and mitigate the fallout.”

“Why would you do that?” The question is accompanied by a stare of disbelief.

I shrug. “Why wouldn’t I do that?”

She looks all around. “Uh, because you hate me?”

Holding up a finger, I wag it back and forth. “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t hate you, Charity. I never have.” She snorts her disbelief, but doesn’t interrupt otherwise. “You, on the other hand, have made it abundantly clear that you hate me. Which is why I thought you’d prefer to end this arrangement we have.”

“But if we do that,” she mumbles, “I have no way of guaranteeing your silence.”

I tip my head back and forth. “Technically, I could tell anyone anything at any time anyway, so …” I lift my hands in a fatalistic gesture.

She stares at me, eyes bugging, color rising. And while I do like seeing her get some of her fight back—riling her up is still pretty fun, not gonna lie—I was kinda enjoying the reprieve.

I guess the reality is that I want her in that frustrated, almost angry, but also laughing state where we’re giving each other shit.

This—the sobbing and crying and not knowing what to do next? That’s just sad. It makes me sad.

So yeah, I want her to get her fire back. I just don’t want it to be so adversarial.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Charity

“You are the literal worst,” I tell Dylan evenly. I don’t even know how to respond to his assertion that he could’ve told all my secrets all along anyway.

“What?” he asks defensively. “It’s true. It’s not like our arrangement is some kind of magical spell that makes it so my voice stops working if I try to tell someone about you. But maybe”—he holds up a finger—“you could take the fact that Ihaven’tsaid anything as proof that I won’t.”

“Even if I stop cleaning your apartment?”

“Even if you stop cleaning my apartment. I think it’s time for me to find a real cleaning lady anyway.”

I wrinkle my nose and glare at him. “What? Am I not doing a good enough job?”

He laughs, the asshole, and shakes his head. “No, Charity. That’s not it at all. You’re doing a great job. I’m just tired of being a blackmailer.”

My mouth drops open, half from shock, half from feeling like I should have some kind of response to that, but I have no idea what it should be.

His eyebrows tick up. “Surprised I might dislike blackmailing someone?”

“I mean …” I look all around the room. “Yeah? You haven’t seemed too bothered about it before now.”

He grunts, seeming disgusted, and shakes his head. “You have the worst opinion of me of anyone I know.”

“And you’re surprised because …” I roll my hand, inviting him to fill in the blank.

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