Now.
I SUPPOSE AT THE END of the day I really didn’t give a shit.
Not about people, and not about the whole popularity contest rich people were so neck-deep in because they didn’t have the usual pain-in-the-ass problems of paying bills and functioning as responsible adults.
I was the beach bum, the stoner, the dopehead—and the drug dealer on probation. I wasn’t Mr. Popular, but people feared me enough to stay out of my way. It wasn’t a conscious choice to become a crook. My mom was not rich, and my dad was never in the picture, so I had to do what I had to do to survive in the richest town in California, and have a little more than basic cable and frozen meals for lunch.
Then there was the whole pro surfing gig I got into when I was fifteen. That cost a pretty penny, too. It was also the only thing I cared about, beyond my mom. I otherwise found myself pretty apathetic toward life. So that’s how I ended up dealing drugs early on. Pot, mainly. It was easier than you’d think. Buy burner phones at Walmart. One for suppliers. One for clients. Change them often. Never deal with people you don’t know. Never talk about your shit. Stay nice and positive. I’d paid my way through my surfing journey and high school doing it, with the exception of pickpocketing every now and then when I’d needed a new surfboard. I tended to abuse mine.
This was how I got by until the probation, anyway, but then I figured out the whole jail gig was not really for me and had to expand my business. That was around five years ago, but I never thought I’d be sitting here, in front of the most formidable dude in Todos Santos, conducting…well, business. Legitimate business, at that.
“About your nickname.” Baron Spencer, dubbed Vicious by everyone who was unfortunate enough to know him, smirked. He poured four fingers of Macallan into two glasses, staring at the golden liquid with the kind of admiration people usually reserve for their kids.
I came all the way from Todos Santos to Los Angeles to meet Spencer at his office. It made zero logistical sense. We lived ten minutes from one another. But if there was one thing I’d learned about rich assholes, it was that they liked the act. The whole enchilada. This was not a social call, so we needed to meet at his workplace, where I’d see how big his corner office was, how fuckable his secretary was, and how expensive his whiskey was.
Truth was, I couldn’t care less if we were meeting on Mars, as long as I got what I’d come here for. I crossed my ankles under his desk, my unlaced boots knocking against one another, and ignored the drink he slid across his chrome desk toward me. I preferred vodka. I also preferred not to get shitfaced before climbing on my Harley. Unlike Mr. Spencer, I didn’t have a personal driver to chauffeur me around like a legless prick. But first things first. He’d asked a question.
“My nickname?” I stroked my beard thoughtfully.
He gave me a curt don’t-fuck-with-me nod. “Bane is awfully similar to Vicious, wouldn’t you agree?”
No, I wouldn’t, dipshit.
“Weren’t you the creator of the game Defy?” I pushed my chair off the floor, tipping it back on two legs and chewing on my cinnamon gum loudly. I should probably explain: Defy was an old school tradition at All Saints High, where students challenged other students to a fistfight. This clusterfuck was founded by the HotHoles, four kids who ruled the school like it belonged to their parents. Ironically, it sort of did. Baron Spencer’s ancestors built half the town, including the high school, and Jaime Followhill’s mom had been the principal up until six years ago.
Vicious angled his chin down, inspecting me. Dickwad had the kind of smirk that would make women moan his name even when he was on another continent. He was happily married to Emilia LeBlanc-Spencer and strictly off the market. Shame they rocked the happily-in-love vibe. Married women were a favorite flavor of mine. They never asked for more than a dirty fuck.
“Correct.”
“Well, you got the name Vicious for starting the game. I got the name Bane for killing it.” I produced a joint from my pocket. I figured Vicious smoked in his office, because his workspace bled into an open patio, and there were more ashtrays than pens on the desk. Not a job for Sherlock, apparently.
I told Spencer about the first time I was invited for a fight in my freshman year. How I hadn’t known the rules, because I’d been too busy finding creative ways to pay for my backpack and tuition to get all the ins and outs of All Saints High. How I’d broken a lunch tray on a guy’s head when he got in my face. How he’d suffered from a concussion and been saddled with the nickname SpongeBob FlatHead. How, two weeks later, he’d ambushed me outside of school, armed with six senior jocks and three baseball bats. How I’d beaten the crap out of them, too, and broken the bats for good measure. Then I told him about the trouble we’d all gotten into. The pussies whined that I’d fought too hard and hadn’t followed the rules. The name “Bane” stuck because the principal, Mrs. Followhill, accidentally pressed her elbow to the loudspeaker when she discussed my behavior with a counselor, calling me the “bane of her existence.”
Principal Followhill took the opportunity to kill the tradition her son, Jaime, had helped make.
It didn’t help that a month prior to the cafeteria incident, a private school in Washington had a Columbine 2.0 massacre on their hands. Everybody was scared of rich kids. But then, I’d be the first one to admit everyone was even more scared of me.
Call me a people-pleaser, but I’d provided them with good reasons to steer clear.
They’d given me a nickname, and I’d become it, lived it, and breathed it.
Way I looked at it, I was a Russian immigrant bastard living in one of the richest towns in the States. I never stood a chance to fit in in the first place. So, what was really the harm in standing out?
Vicious relaxed into his leather seat, his grin unwavering. He didn’t care that I’d killed Defy. I doubted if he cared much about anything. He was richer than God, married to one of the most beautiful women in our zip code, and a doting father. He won the battle, the war, and conquered every obstacle that had stood in his way. He had nothing to prove and reeked of contentment.
He was smug, but I was hungry. Hunger was dangerous.
“All right, Bane. Why are you here?”
“I’d like your investment,” I said, taking a hit from the joint and passing it to him. He barely moved his head in a no gesture, but his smirk widened an inch, morphing into a patronizing smile. “Easy there. We’re not friends, kid. Barely even acquaintances.”
I fanned smoke through my nostrils in a long, white stream.
“As you know, they’re bulldozing the old hotel on the edge of Tobago Beach. The acres will be available for commercial use, and the general idea is to open a shopping center there. There’s an auction at the end of the year. All the external companies who are planning to bid don’t know what they’re dealing with. They don’t know Todos Santos’ social fabric or the local contractors. I do. I’m offering you twenty-five percent equity for a six-million-dollar investment on a surfing park there consisting of a surfing school, surfing shops, a food court, and some touristy bullshit stores. The acquisition of the land and demolition costs will fall solely on me, so consider this my one and final offer.”
I was going to lose a lot of money in that deal, but I needed to attach Vicious’ name to my proposal. Stapling Spencer’s name to my bid would sweeten it in the eyes of the county. As you might imagine, I didn’t have the best reputation.
“I already own a mall in Todos Santos.” Vicious emptied his whiskey glass and slammed it against the desk, staring at the Los Angeles landscape through the open patio windows. “The only mall in Todos Santos, to be exact. Why would I help build another one?”
“You own a high-end shopping center. Prada, Armani, Chanel, and their ilk. The type of shit teenagers and tourists can’t afford. I’m building a surfing park. It’s like apples and oranges.”
“There’ll still be stores there.”
“Yeah, surfing-related stores. Beach stores. I’m not your competition.”
Vicious poured himself a second glass, his eyes hard on the liquid. “Every person with a pulse is my competition. Yours, too. Never forget that.”
I let smoke crawl out of my mouth upward, trying a different tactic. “Fine. Maybe the surf park will bite into your shit. If you can’t beat them, join them, right?”
“Who said I can’t beat you?” Vicious crossed his legs at the ankles on top of his desk. I stared at the clean soles of his shoes. He had no idea who he was dealing with. Sure, he knew about me. It was hard not to, at this point. At twenty-five, I owned the most successful coffee shop in Todos Santos—Café Diem. I had recently purchased an inn on the outskirts of town. I was in the process of gutting it and making it a boutique hotel. In addition, I charged protection money from every store and shop on the promenade and split it with my friend Hale Rourke fifty-fifty. It sounded like a lot, but really, I was spending more than I was earning on both places, and for all intents and purposes, I was still the same broke bastard. I just had more shit under my name to take care of.
My rise to power was slow, steady, and unstoppable. My mother’s family was affluent, but just enough to send us to the States when I was a toddler and leave us to fend for ourselves. Every penny I made was through pot-dealing, extortion, and fucking the wrong women for the right price. Sometimes the men, if I was really hard on cash. Every connection I’d made to get ahead in the game was through a string of illicit, short-term affairs and sexual favors. This left me with a less than squeaky-clean reputation, which was fine by me. I wasn’t here to run for office.
“I have to admit, Mr. Protsenko, I’m inclined to say no.”
“And from where, pray tell, does your inclination stem?”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
“Enlighten me as to what it says.”
He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, cocking his head sideways, his eyes a blazing ice storm. “That you’re a con artist, a bad egg—the kind that gives you food poisoning—and a goddamn thief.”
There was no point to disputing those facts. Call me a Renaissance man, but I checked every single fucking box on that list.
“For all I know, you may plan to use this place to launder money.” His jaw ticked in annoyance. I wasn’t planning to, but dude was definitely sharp.
“Nah, too risky. Money laundering is an art.” I blew out another plume of thick smoke.
“It is also a federal offense.”
“Can I ask you something?” I tapped the ash into the glass of whiskey he’d served me, showing him exactly what I thought about his sixty thousand dollar spirit. He arched a sardonic eyebrow, waiting for me to continue.
“Why did you invite me here if you knew you were going to say no? I’m one of the main runners for buying the lot. That’s public knowledge. You knew I wasn’t coming here to admire your pretty eyes.”
Vicious tapped his chin with his laced index fingers, his lower lip poking out. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”
“For one thing, they’re not attached to someone with a pussy and a rack.”
“According to the rumors, you don’t limit yourself to one gender. Either way, I wanted to see for myself.”
“See what?” I ignored his dig. Homophobia was beneath me. Besides, he wanted to get a rise out of me. It wasn’t my first or last rodeo with a pompous prick. I always came out on top (all puns intended).
“What my successor looks like.”
“Your successor? Color me confused, blushing, and deafened by my ringing bullshit radar.” I smirked, scratching my face with my middle finger.
We were polar opposites. A single-parented, middle-class spawn sitting across from a trust fund baby. I had a blond man-bun, enough tattoos to cover the better half of North America, and today’s attire consisted of a Primitive shirt, black cargo pants, and muddy boots. He was wrapped head-to-toe in Brioni, with sleek black hair and porcelain white skin. He looked like a Michelin-starred steak, and I looked like a greasy drive-thru cheeseburger. Didn’t bother me one bit. I loved cheeseburgers. Most people would opt for a McGreasy double cheeseburger over a tiny piece of tartar.
Vicious stretched in his seat. “You do understand that I cannot, in good conscience, help you build a shopping center—focused around surfing or otherwise—in Todos Santos? You’ll nibble at my business.” He ignored my question, and I didn’t like it. I dropped the joint into the whiskey glass and got up to my feet.
He stared up at me. Serene, sincere, and utterly blasé. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not rooting for you, Bane. I’m just not going to equip you for the war you’re planning to enter. Because I’ll also have an army in this battle. Whoever is opening a shopping center there is going to bite into my shit, and when people bite into my shit, I devour what’s theirs, too.”
I scratched my beard, allowing it to sink. Of course Vicious and his like didn’t care for me. He was at the top. I was getting there. Squashing me was survival instinct.
Spencer looked down, jotting something in a golden notepad with the logo of Fiscal Heights Holdings, his company’s name. “But here’s someone who could help you. He’s been trying to lay down roots in Todos Santos for years now. He needs to build a rep here, and is getting pretty desperate. He might not have the street cred, but he’s got a clean name and the Benjamins.” He glided the note across the black and gold chrome desk, and I reached for it with my inked, callused fingers.
Darren Morgansen, followed by a phone number.
“Oil money.” He smoothed his tie over his dress shirt. “Even more important—he’ll actually hear you out, unlike the vast majority of businessmen in this town.”
He was right, and that irritated me.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked. I liked Baron Spencer. He was my first choice of business partner when I’d decided to make a bid on those acres. I knew other rich, influential people in this town, but no one was quite as ruthless as he was.
“I’m merely giving you a head start. It makes things interesting, and I like the element of surprise,” he said, twirling his wedding band on his finger. “Open this surf park, Bane. I dare you. It’d be nice to finally meet my match.”
Before I left his office building, I made it a point to take a shit in the restroom and tuck a few of the fancy Fiscal Heights Holdings pens into my pocket, just for funsies. Oh, and I might have fucked his secretary, Sue. She emailed me the contact details of all the service providers working for her boss’ mall. They’d become handy when I opened the surf park. The one that was supposed to rid me of the bullshit and pay for my mom’s mortgage.
Baron Spencer thought he was going to war with me.
He was about to find out that I was the war.
I met Darren Morgansen that same evening.
First cue that he was overly eager? He invited me to his house. As I said, business tycoons rarely ever meet with you in their private domain. Morgansen completely ignored the act. Said on the phone that he was excited for the opportunity to get to know a key player like me, which almost made me cancel on his ass. I was the one who needed to wine and dine his ego, not vice versa. But I was willing to overlook the weird dynamics if it meant putting together the world’s biggest surf park and making Todos Santos the next Huntington Beach.
Mostly, I saw an opening with the potential to make me as rich as the people who looked at me like I was trash, and I was happy to have a go at it. Not gonna lie—I hadn’t expected to get half this far in my journey into buying the lot. People actually paid attention to what I was saying, and that surprised me a little.
Morgansen lived in El Dorado, a gated community on the hills of Todos Santos overlooking the ocean. The neighborhood was the home to most of the heavily loaded brats in town. The Spencers. The Coles. The Followhills. The Wallaces. The kind of money one couldn’t make in a lifetime, but rather inherited.
The Morgansen house was a colonial mansion sprawled across a mountainside. Nothing like living on a cliff to inspire you to want to jump off it. There was a small pond and cascading fountain with (real) swans and (fake) angels shooting arrows of water at the front driveway, a garden, a hammam and a sauna next to the kidney-shaped pool, and a load of other crap I bet my right nut no one in the house had ever used. He had huge-ass plants lining up each side of his double-door entrance. This asshole’s gardening bill for a month is probably what I’d paid for my entire houseboat when I purchased it.
Morgansen greeted me at the gate of the neighborhood, and I pretended to not already have an electronic key for it. He then showed me around his mansion like I was contemplating buying the place. We strolled through his front lawn, backyard, and the two downstairs kitchens. Then we climbed up the curved staircase to the second floor—“let me show you my offith”—he had a lisp. I inwardly let out a thank fuck breath. Finally, we were going in the right direction. We walked past a closed door, and he stopped, brushing his knuckles over the wooden door with a hesitant knock, pressing his forehead to it.
“Honey?” he whispered. He was lanky, crouched like a beatdown teenager, and morbidly WASP-y. Everything about him was mediocre. Brown, lemur-like eyes, bony nose that stood out like a weakness, lips narrow and pursed, salt and pepper hair, and a bland suit that gave him the unfortunate look of a Bar Mitzvah boy. He looked like an extra in someone else’s story. I almost felt sorry for him. He had the kind of inborn averageness no money in the world was going to fix.
There was no answer from the other end of the door.
“Thweetheart, I’m in my offith. Let me know if you need anything. Or…or tell Hannah.”
Breaking news: rich guy has a spoiled daughter.
“Okay. Going now.” He stalled, loitering against the sound of silence. “Jutht down the hall…”
Morgansen was a peculiar creature in the three-comma club. He was submissive and contrite, two things that inspired my inner bloodthirsty bulldog to chew him like a squeaky toy. We walked into his office, the door closing shut behind us on a hiss. Darren pushed his hair back then proceeded to wipe his palms over his dress pants and laugh nervously as he asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him I’d have vodka. He pressed a switchboard button on his oak desk and sank into his cashmere seat. “Hannah, vodka pleath.”
I was seriously starting to second-guess why Baron Spencer had given me this clown’s number. Maybe it was a joke at my expense. This dude may have been rich—correction, he was swimming in it, and had a house the size of the marina to prove it—but he was also a goddamn wreck. I doubted a scaredy-cat like him would shell out a cool six mill for twenty-five percent equity to a total stranger with a dubious reputation. I made myself comfortable in my chair, trying not to think about it. His eyes trailed my movement. I knew what he was staring at, and what I looked like.
People often asked me why. Why did I insist on looking like I was auditioning for Sons of Anarchy, with tattoos covering a good portion of my body? Why the man-bun? Why the beard? Why the fuck-you attire of a beach bum, with pants still stained with surfboard wax? Honestly, I didn’t see the point in making an effort to look like them. I wasn’t them. I was me. I was an outsider, with no lineage, fancy last name, or historic legacy.
Looking like every father’s nightmare was my way of saying I was out of the rat race.
“You’re quite the character in Todoth Thantoth.” Morgansen fiddled with the edges of his thick planner. I wasn’t sure whether he was referring to my professional reputation or my personal one. The rumor around town was that Café Diem and the hotel had been bought so I could smurf my protection money, and they weren’t exactly wrong. I porked every chick with a pulse, sometimes venturing to blowjobs from guys when I was feeling drunk and adventurous, then proceeded to engage in paid-for affairs with whomever could get me an inch closer to the total domination of Todos Santos’ recreational venues. I entertained the forty-year-old wives of men I looked up to professionally for the sole purpose of pissing them off and was the shameless arm-candy of even older women whom I knew could sponsor my brand and me. I was a manwhore in the biblical sense of the word and people viewed me about as trustworthy and loyal as an ounce of coke.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, just as Darren’s housekeeper pushed the door open, entering with a tray, two glasses and a Waterford vodka bottle in hand. She poured me a glass, then whiskey for Darren from the bar behind him, all meek silence and bowed head.
“P-pleath do,” Darren stuttered. “I’ve been meaning to network with you for quite thome time. My family moved here four yearth ago.”
Like I didn’t know. Todos Santos was known as an upper-cruster: a morosely white town that put one’s pedigree above their morals and reputation. Every time someone moved in, people knew. Every time someone moved out, people jumped on the gossip train, wondering what they were trying to hide. The Morgansens had managed to fly under the radar thus far. Not necessarily a good thing. It meant that they hadn’t managed to form strong connections despite coming from oil money, and that was suspicious.
“How are you liking it here?” I snapped my gum, looking around in boredom.
“It’th…intereth-ting. Very hierarchical.”
I grabbed my drink, knocked it back in one gulp, and placed the glass back on the tray in front of a thoroughly shocked Morgansen.
“Neat. Shall we get to business?”
Darren’s forehead crumpled once again.
He motioned with his hand for me to start pitching. I did.
I told him about the prospect. About the piece of beach that was going to make a fantastic SurfCity center. Then I told him about my plan and took out blueprints one of the finest architects in L.A. had made for me. I told Darren about my vision for it, then pulled out some statistics about the ever-growing population of teenagers in Todos Santos—rich people loved popping out kids, and kids in SoCal were either into skateboarding or surfing, plus, we were close enough to Huntington Beach, San Clemente, and San Diego to hijack their hardcore surfers. Not to mention the amount of pro competitions it was going to attract to Todos Santos. I explained how I needed a nice, bowtie name to put on my proposal to make sure someone took it seriously, and how he would be able to sit back and watch his money grow. I refrained from adding that sticking it to Baron Spencer, with his luxurious, half-dead mall downtown, would raise us to the position of deities. It was the truth, but Morgansen looked like the kind of person who’d crap his pants from the prospect of pissing someone off. Least of all Baron ‘Vicious’ Spencer.
I’d sniffed around before I’d called Darren. His grandfather had bought oil fields in Kuwait before all the cool kids did it. Morgansen was barely keeping the family business alive. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He had a wife and a stepdaughter, and a shit-ton of people with mustaches telling him what to do.
“And how much do you need from me?” he asked.
“Six mill,” I said, unblinking. He rubbed the back of his neck. For a second, I thought he was going to tell me to get the fuck out of there and throw something sharp at me. But he didn’t. He glanced around. Scratched his face. Downed his bullshit-expensive scotch like a champ, wincing afterwards, then—and only then—met my gaze, defeat shining in his eyes. “Fine.”
“Fine?” I echoed, almost dumbly. That was it? Fine? Whatever this guy was high on, I wish I could sell it.
“Fine, I will shell out the money. You can have three mill upfront.”
“I don’t need three mill upfront. There is no guarantee I will get the land,” I spat out. My instincts told me there was a catch, but Darren looked as harmless as a fucking Teletubby. Dude couldn’t play Twister, let alone someone like me.
“You will, when they thee my name on it. Anyway, conthider it a gethture of goodwill. I don’t need your equity.”
“Are you on something right now? Because we can’t have business together if you’re a junkie. Pot is fine, but if you’re on meth, I need to know.” I scratched my cheek with the edge of my joint, one eyebrow raised in amusement.
He gave me his version of a sneer, and I’ve seen more character on faces of goddamn goats. “I don’t need your equity. It’th not money I’m after. I have enough of it. I want thomething elth from you. As I thaid before, I heard all about you, Bane. I know who you are, and what you do. What I need from you ith not to make me richer. I need you to help my thtepdaughter.”
What you are.
What you do.
Holy hairy shitballs, Stepdaddy Darren wants his kid to get laid.
The first question I had in mind was how ugly was this daughter of his, exactly? Was she Quasimodo-ugly? With the amount of money and resources this chick had, hopefully she could at least pass as cute. Maybe not hot as shit, but surely, fuckable to someone. Anyone. Luckily, I was twenty-five, and when you’re twenty-five, you find everything bone-able, pencil sharpeners included. If he wanted me to screw his stepdaughter for six million dollars, I would get my lawyer to draft this shit tonight and by morning, she’d be so thoroughly fucked she’d have a few extra holes and orgasm-induced foggy brain for days. I’d even throw in oral and after-sex spooning for good measure, because it wouldn’t feel right not to give her a little extra for all this cash.
“That’s fine.” I waved him off. “I usually do a six month contract, no exclusivity clause. Twice a week. Condom is non-negotiable, and I want her tested before I touch her.” I’d been told I was a good-looking son of a bitch, and I never knew when I’d need to stick my dick in someone as a favor or to gain something. As it was, I stopped taking on new clients for money. Cash simply stopped being an incentive once all my bills were paid and my mom was taken care of. But no one told me my dick was worth so much. The Morgansen kid’s stepdaddy sure knew how to spoil her.
Darren shook his head, panic smeared all over his face.
“Wait, what? Oh, Lord. No. No. No, no, no.” He flapped his hands around frantically, coughing. I straightened in my seat, not really sure how this guy was not dead from a heart attack already. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want you to thleep with her. In fact, if there ith one clauth I want in, it’th one where you promith not to make a move on her. I want you becauth you’re for hire, and you do ath you’re paid to do, nothing leth, nothing more. Jethy doethn’t have many friendth. She’th been through a lot, and she jutht needth thomeone. A companion. I want you to help her gain her confidenth back and make thome friends. To hire her for your café, tho that she will have to leave the house every day. It will be thtrictly platonic. Jethy ith untouchable. She doethn’t let people touch her.”
Jesse. But, of course, his stepdaughter has a name he can’t properly pronounce. Poor bastard.
What was this Jesse girl’s deal? She didn’t even bother answering her stepdad, even though she was obviously there. It was tough luck that she sounded like a spoiled princess, because I was going to take the job, even if I needed to hear about her shopping sprees with mommy dearest until my ears fell off. For a few hundred thousand dollars, I wouldn’t have bothered. But there was so much money on the line, and such a lucrative investment, Jesse had just bought my attention. And, to an extent, my affection, too.
“What does this job entail?” I asked, fingering my beard.
“Her therapitht thays she needth a job. Any job. Hire her. Humor her. Court her. But don’t touch her.” His quivering fingers danced across the edges of his planner again. “Breathe life into her.”
“Is she…” I didn’t know how to articulate it without sounding like a politically incorrect dick. Slow? Impaired in any way? Not that it mattered, but I needed to know what I was dealing with here. Darren shifted in his seat.
“She’th a very bright kid. She jutht needth a little push back into thothiety.”
“Why?”
“Why?” he echoed, blinking rapidly, like the question had never occurred to him. His jaw ticked then he pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked on the verge of tears. Dude was about as put-together as a coked-up teenager at Coachella. He obviously needed a backbone transplant, and for the right price, I was a willing donor. If he needed help with his kid, I was going to give it to him. I wouldn’t even have to feel like a dick, because it’s just taking her to the movies or whatever. It wasn’t like I was going to stick my dick in her and whisper love declarations in her ear.
“I’ll tell you why, but you’ll have to thign a nondithclothure agreement.”
Rich people had the craziest stories. She was probably into bestiality or some shit. Money makes you bored, and being bored makes you an asshole.
“I’ve signed so many NDAs in my life, at this point I don’t talk to anyone about anything other than the weather.” I eased back into my chair, suddenly feeling very smug about getting into business with this dude.
His eyes darted to me, glistening with hope. He loved her. I’d always been embarrassed by love. It was such an uncomfortable feeling. People did a lot of stupid stuff in the name of it.
“Right. Right. Tho…do we have a deal?” he piped, taking a greedy hit of air. I looked around, scanning his office for the first time. Traditional. Dark oak and floor-to-ceiling shelves with hundreds of thick, pristine books. A Persian carpet and camel-hued silk armchairs. The bar was the only thing that looked used, the bottles half-empty, sad, and riddled with his fingerprints. Everything else was for show. This man was lost, and I was the lucky bastard who’d found him.
Like taking candy from a fucking baby.
“I’ll give her six months, and I want to know her story.”
Morgansen poured himself another glass of whiskey, stared into it as one would into an abyss, gulped the whole thing as one would when they jumped to their death, and let the glass dangle between his fingertips before it fell to the carpeted floor.
“You want her thtory?”
I hitched one shoulder up. I never repeated myself and wasn’t going to make a habit of it because of this fucker.
When the first words left his mouth, my fingers clutched my seat.
When the first sentences dug through my skull, my throat went dry.
And after ninety minutes of listening, I had only one response to spare. It was one word, actually. And it summarized what I was feeling pretty accurately.
Fuck.