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“Wait what?” Veronica pauses mid rant to suddenly realize what he just said.
“What? You think just because I’m just a low life thug, I don’t care about anyone but myself?”
“I didn’t say that. I just figured you’d want to go all Robin Hood on this cash.”
She is surprised though, maybe at herself more than at him. The Robin Hood bullshit is a lie. Both of them know the value of money in that way that rich people can’t. They know what is much could mean for their lives. A little part of her has to admit that maybe she was outsourcing the voice in her head that said keep it to Weevil and now that he’s not giving her that excuse she might have to own it instead.
“Maybe I will,” Weevil shrugs, “I mean no reason to give some 09er asshole their drug cash back just so they can stick it up their nose when it could do some real good. But for all we know this is some little old abuelita’s coyote money for her grandkids or cash for bail for someone’s dad. It could be someone’s escape money from a boyfriend who hits her.”
She studies him for sarcasm or anything other than honesty, but all she finds is long lashes and smooth skin and an awareness of just how close they are standing. It is easier to pretend she sees something else when he’s teasing, being crude, but this idealistic streak is sharpening her senses in a way she didn’t mean to indulge.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to turn it in to the police.”
“Hell no,” Weevil scoffs, “You and I both know we’d just be funding Lamb’s personal slush fund.”
He’s right of course. Maybe if her dad were still sheriff he might have found out who this money really belonged to, but Lamb is too lazy, incompetent and selfish to do anything but keep it.
“So you want me to find out who this cash belonged to myself?”
“I’ll help.”
“And what if it is someone like Kendall Casblancas’ party fund?”
“Maybe I take you on a vacation,” he teases, suggestion too obvious and lewd to be anything but a joke, “We could have our own private party, baby.”
She imagines it though. The two of them lounging in a hot tub at some fancy beachside resort on some remote island, Weevil’s arm slung round her, his breath hot against her neck. Of course, then she imagines running right into Madison, or Logan, or somehow Duncan. She breaks free of her reverie.
“We donate it to a charity, the battered women’s shelter, or a food bank, or-”
“How about the pool,” Weevil suggests, “Those sons of bitches shut it down, it seems only fair that they pay for some necessary improvements and get it reopened so us plebs can cool off without freezing in the damned ocean.”
If she were someone else she would lower her voice and invite him to come use the pool in her complex any time. Lilly would have in her place. She’s not Lilly Kane though, she’s Veronica Mars. So she rolls her eyes inside of batting her eyelashes and turns away, stepping out of the danger zone to where she can no longer feel the heat coming off his body, can no longer smell whatever cologne or deodorant or whatever it is he has on.
“Sure. Whatever.”
It’s not whatever. Veronica takes two deep breaths and draws in a third. She forces herself to spin back towards Weevil and look him in the eye. She’s in control here, she lies to herself.