but that’s just me. Seriously, though, take advantage of it. Clean out the minibar, rack up the room-service bill, steal the bathrobes. Worst thing that can happen, you’ll piss off the old man and he won’t talk to you for a year.”
“Not the worst punishment I can imagine,” Lucas murmured.
“Exactly. So live it up. And call me if you need help with the minibar.”
I closed the door, cast a locking spell, and collapsed on the couch.
“I’m sorry,” Lucas said. “I know that was difficult for you, turning them down.”
“Let’s just—let’s not think about it. Not now. Maybe in the morning…Will we have time to stop by the hospital in the morning? See how she’s doing?”
“We’ll make time.”
“Good. I can make sure she’s okay, see if there’s anything I can do from that angle and try to forget the rest. Now, let’s help ourselves to that drink.”
I started pushing to my feet, but Lucas waved me down.
“Stay there. I’ll get it.”
He glanced at the minibar, then at the door.
“The minibar’s closer,” I said. “And if you go out for booze, you’ll have to take Troy. Your father brought us running down here, the least he can do is pay for our hotel and a drink.”
“You’re right. First, the drink. Then dinner. We’ll order in—” He stopped and shook his head. “No, we’re going out. Someplace nice. Followed by a show or a walk on the beach or whatever you want. My treat.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. And, though I neglected to mention it earlier, I have money. Well, some money. I received payment on a legal matter, and I am, for the first time in months, reasonably flush.”
“Is this for the case you’re working now? With the shaman?”
“No, this is from a few years ago, a client whose financial situation has improved and who wanted to repay me. As for the current case, there is the possibility of a payment. A barter, so to speak. He has—” Lucas paused, then shook his head. “A matter we can discuss later, if and when it comes to fruition. For now, I have enough money to treat you to a proper evening out, and pay the rent for the next few months. Let me mix that drink, then I’ll tell Troy we’ll be leaving for dinner within the hour.”
I didn’t miss the “pay the rent” part, however skillfully he slipped it in. I paid the lion’s share of the household expenses. Paid them by choice, I should add. I knew this bothered Lucas—not in an “I am man; I am breadwinner” kind of way, but as a subtler matter of pride.
Lucas barely earned a living wage. Most of his court and investigative work was pro bono, helping supernaturals who couldn’t afford a lawyer or PI. What little money he made usually came from doing legal paperwork for wealthier supernatural clients, many of whom could easily and more conveniently have hired a local lawyer, but who retained Lucas as a way of supporting his pro bono efforts. Even that made Lucas uncomfortable, smacking too much of charity, but his only alternative would be to stop taking nonpaying cases, which he’d never do.
It hurt like hell to see him sleeping in fleabag motels, barely able to afford public transit, saving every penny so he could pay part of our expenses. I had enough for both of us. But how could I turn down his contributions without belittling his efforts? Yet another kink in the relationship we had to work out.
We stumbled back into the hotel room just before midnight, having followed dinner with a few rounds of pool and more than a few rounds of beer. Definite advantage to the whole chauffeur/bodyguard deal: built-in designated driver. The downside, though, was that Troy beat me in two out of three pool games, a serious blow to my ego. I blamed it on the booze. Deadened my reflexes…though it did wonders for helping me forget the rest of the day. As for Lucas, he was feeling better, too.
“I did not cheat!” I said, struggling to wriggle free of the upside-down over-the-back-of-the-sofa position in which I found myself pinned.
He pulled my blouse from my skirt and tickled my ribs. “You so cheated. Second game. Seven ball, left corner pocket. Minor telekinesis spell.”
I squealed and swatted his hands. “I—the ball rolled.”
“With help.”
“Once. Only once. I—stop—” Another embarrassingly girlish shriek. “You—third game—the eight ball. You moved it out of the way of your shot.”