Palmer
“You were telling the truth,” the blonde girl cries out, her jaw hanging open as she takes in the luxurious dining area of The Pearl on Park. “You really are Palmer!”
“That’s right,” I tell her casually, taking off my jacket and throwing it over one of the empty tables. I knock down a vase of flowers, but I couldn’t care less; this ship is already going down, so what do some flowers matter?
As far as I’m concerned, the whole place could go down in flames.
Hell, I might even be the one setting a match to it.
“Where are you going, Palmer?” The girl asks me, closing the distance between me and trying to kiss me. I guess now that she believes I’m Palmer, the oh-so-fucking-famous-chef, that she won’t grow tired of using my name.
I sidestep her fast, and then make my way toward the bar. I step inside the service area, and then grab a bottle of a 35-year-old Yamazaki whiskey. The whole bottle costs more than thirty thousand dollars, but I don’t give a shit; I need a fucking drink right now.
Well, I need another drink.
I’ve spent the whole night trying to drown myself in beer and cheap liquor, trying to forget all about The Pearl on Park, Nicole, and what must be my impending death sentence.
A failing restaurant, a girl on the run, and a fucking brain tumor—yeah, my life’s perfect right now. Even Pollock’s paintings aren’t as messy as my life has become.
“Oh, I don’t like whiskey,” the girl tells me, and I instantly regret bringing her here. What the hell was I thinking? Sure, she looked fine from a distance—firm breasts, curves that seemed like a perfect fit for my hands, and a smile easy enough for me to know she’d be down for some fun.
But that’s not all there is to a woman. Not after Nicole.
“Can you fix me a Sex on the Beach?” she asks me, looking at me as if she expected me to put down my bottle of whisky and get started on her fucking cocktail.
“Here,” I mutter, grabbing a beer from under the counter and slamming it down in front of her. I do it so fast that foam starts rising up the neck of the bottle, and she jumps back from the counter to avoid spilling some on her dress.
“I didn’t ask for a beer,” she continues, her tone of voice now telling me she’s getting slightly annoyed at me. Not annoyed enough to leave, it seems.
“Well, that’s what you’re getting tonight.”
Without even looking back at her, I start pouring the Yamazaki into a glass, watching as the amber liquid splashes on top of two ice cubes. I let it flow from the bottle onto the glass until I’m sure there’s almost five thousand dollars of whisky on top of the ice, and only then do I put the cap back on the bottle.
“It’s true what they say about you,” she says, leaning against the counter in such a way that I can see nothing but her cleavage.
“And what’s that?”
“You really are an asshole,” she replies, giggling as if she had just told me the funniest joke in the universe.
“A rich asshole, mind you,” I shrug, waving my free hand at the empty restaurant. “I guess being rich balances out all the rest, doesn’t it?”
“Maybe it does,” she laughs, going around the counter and biting down on her bottom lip.
“Amanda, I -”
“My name’s not Amanda,” she tells me, taking one more step toward me.
“Listen, Anna.”
“It’s not Anna either,” she continues, placing one hand on my chest and allowing it to slide down to my belt.
“Look, whatever the fuck your name is, I’m not interested,” I find myself saying.
And, fuck, I can’t believe I’ve said it. This is a first for me. She was about go down on her knees and here I am, refusing a pretty woman’s lips just because I’m feeling down.
“Then why did you bring me here?” she snaps at me.
“I have no fucking idea.”
I’m guessing she didn’t like my honesty, pursing her lips, she steals the glass of whisky from my hands and throws its content at my face.
I stand frozen in place as five-thousand dollars worth of whiskey drips down my hair and face, and then I watch her snatch her purse from the counter and storm out of the restaurant, slamming the door behind her.
Good fucking riddance.
Alone again, I turn my attention back to the whiskey bottle sitting on the counter.
“Hey, ol’ friend,” I whisper to the bottle as I pour some more inside my now empty glass. “Now that we kicked out Amanda—or whatever the fuck her name was—I guess we can enjoy each other’s company, huh?”
Without even blinking, I throw my head back and down the whisky in one single gulp. Then, as the fire goes down my throat, lightning seems to take over my mind. The memories come fast, and they come hard.
Cooking with Nicole in here.
Having her cook for me at her apartment.
Having lunch with her family.
Her curves, the warmth of her skin.
Her smile.
What the fuck am I doing here, talking to a bottle of a whisky like an alcoholic jackass?
I love her.
If there’s one thing I’m sure of in my life—however long it may be—is that I fucking love Nicole.
Leaving the bottle forgotten on the counter, I grab my jacket from the table and put it on. Then, I grab my helmet and put it on as I race out of the restaurant, my heart beating at a thousand miles per hour.
I can’t even think straight as I hop on my bike and make my way toward her apartment, hell-bent on kicking down her door and taking her into my arms, the one place where she belongs.
Forget about money, fame, and restaurants.
Nicole’s the only thing I care about.
I park my bike just around the block, and I’m about to make my way down the street as I see a cab stop in front of her apartment building. I stare at it through the visor of my tinted helmet, and I feel my heart shrinking inside my chest as I recognize the guy getting out the cab.
Percy fucking Whitman.
What is he doing in Nicole’s apartment building? I watch him enter the building, and then I just sit there on my bike, my pulse quickening. I see dark spots taking over the corner of my eyes, and I grit my teeth to try and regain some focus.
Nicole knows Percy, which means she was aware of the war he was waging against me. But it doesn’t make any sense, unless... unless Nicole’s behind Percy.
Unless she wanted to see The Pearl on Park close its doors for good.