CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Three-fucking-thirty in the morning. Not when he wanted to be awake. Not when he wanted to be dealing with shit. But when the alarm sounded that there was trouble with one of their clients, Michael bolted.

He flew straight out of bed, into his clothes, and to the client’s site. He was closer than Ryan, so he called his brother and said he’d handle the incident. White Box, a gentlemen’s club, was just a few blocks off the Strip, making it just a few blocks from Michael. He pulled into the lot, parked his car, and ran a hand through his messy hair.

His armed guard was outside, lit up by the glow of the purple and white lights streaming from the art deco sign above the club, a sleek, metal structure that oozed sexy class. The guard stood next to a plainclothes cop, along with Curtis, the VP and biz dev guy at White Box, who’d hired Sloan Protection Resources.

Michael said hello, then gestured to the premises. “So what’s the story?”

Curtis cleared his throat and went first. He was a beefy guy, exactly the type of man physically you’d want fronting a club, if you could choose a manager based on size. His face was like a block of wood and so were his arms. His eyes were brown and warm, though, like a favorite uncle’s. “We got word of some gang activity here on premises,” Curtis said, disgust in his tone as he recounted details of an attempted robbery and then the arrest of a young man with a Protect Our Own Royal Sinners tattoo. Apparently, the guy had tried to steal a watch worth five grand off another patron in the men’s room. He’d brandished a knife, turning his crime into an armed robbery attempt. The cops came quickly, and the guy was in custody.

“Your patron, the guy with the watch—is he okay?” Michael asked.

“He’s fine. Your man stopped things before it turned ugly,” Curtis said, nodding to the armed guard Michael had supplied to the club.

He clapped his guy on the arm. “Good to hear.”

Michael breathed easier knowing the incident was routine enough, and frankly the type of thing that happened now and again at these sorts of establishments. When you trafficked in sex and sin, you could sometimes attract the seedier elements.

After another fifteen minutes, all was well enough, and Curtis strolled with Michael back to his car. “Thanks for coming by in the middle of the night to check it out. Charlie and I appreciate the service,” Curtis said, referring to the owner of White Box. “He wanted me to extend his gratitude, too.”

“It’s the least I can do. I’m sorry this happened, but I’m glad no one was hurt,” Michael said.

“We’re keeping a close watch out for this sort of stuff, and for gang trouble. It’s been heating up lately all over town, so you can’t be too safe.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Michael said, placing his hand on the hood of his car, sensing an opportunity. He raised his chin. “Hey. Question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“You seen any other gang activity around here?” he asked. This gang was insidious and could sink its claws into businesses like a parasite on an unsuspecting host. Michael didn’t want one of his clients to be that host. Selfishly, he couldn’t help but wonder if the gang activity here could lead him to Luke or T.J. If the Royal Sinners were encroaching on this patch of land, circling it and threatening the innocent, maybe there was a chance to double down—help his clients, and find the men he was looking for.

Curtis shook his head. “Not too much. This is the first I’m aware of. Let’s hope it’s the last,” he said, his voice determined.

“Let me know if you hear anything else.”

Curtis nodded, his face solemn. “We’ve got high-end patrons here, and we don’t want to mess around with that shit, or the Royal Sinners. I’m with you on this.”

“There’s someone from the Sinners we’ve got our eyes on. Guy named T.J. Nelson. He’s wanted for some crimes over the years. Don’t know a ton about him, but he has a gold earring. Scar on his right cheek. Tall, towering frame.” Michael gave the scant details he was aware of. He didn’t share Luke’s name, though. He didn’t want to let on he was looking that high up within the gang. Besides, Luke wasn’t likely to be seen in public as a gang member.

Curtis nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out for him. Let you know if we spot him.”

“Good,” Michael said as he unlocked the car door.

“Get some sleep,” Curtis said with a faint smile.

But sleep was nowhere to be found when he returned home, so Michael settled in to work, plowing through paperwork as dawn spread across the dark sky, casting pale pink morning light over Vegas from twenty stories high. He worked through contract approvals so he was free to get on that plane and focus on the woman. Sure, he had work to do in New York, and meetings to attend that would keep him busy, but he didn’t want to squander an ounce of his time with Annalise.

It was best to be ahead of the game, and he was.

That also meant he had enough time to see Donald before he jetted out of town.

* * *

His dad’s oldest friend shook his head, thumbing through a deck of cards at his table at the Golden Nugget—empty for the moment, since it was early in the morning. “He never mentioned anything about someone named T.J. coming by, not that I can recall,” Donald said.

“Shit,” Michael hissed. “I’ve got to figure this out. You sure? Not a word?”

Donald held up his hands. “We talked about lots of stuff, but I don’t remember him mentioning it. ’Bout the only thing he said was that he was trying to get the new job, and he thought he might have a lead on it when he found something that was missing at the company.”

Something that was missing. If so, was that what T.J. had come to talk to him about at work? Michael narrowed his eyes. “And he never said what that something was?”

Donald shook his head. “Sorry, kid. I barely remember what I had for breakfast some days. I hardly remember the specifics of a conversation that didn’t stand out from two decades ago.”

“Do you think Sanders knows? Since he worked there?”

Donald shrugged. “S’possible.”

“Do you trust Sanders?” Michael asked pointedly, because the question had been gnawing at him.

“With my life.” Donald tilted his head, studying the younger man. “But why would you ask? Is there some reason you think you can’t trust him?”

Yes. Because he’s avoiding me. Because he’s avoiding everyone. Because something is up. “No reason. Except I honestly don’t know who to trust anymore.”

Donald shot him a faint smile and nodded, then stepped around from behind the table and gripped his shoulder. “I hear ya, kid. All I can tell you is this—keep on digging; keep on asking. Your dad was like that, too. He was focused and driven. You got that from him. Stay on it, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Focused and driven. His dad had used those words, too, to describe him—only his father had been talking about Michael’s quest to keep Annalise in his life. They were also fitting adjectives for how determined Michael had been to follow his dad’s wishes about her. Those words were spelled out in the note he’d found from his dad’s wallet, scattered across the driveway with credit cards and photos the night he’d died.

Annalise was his dream, his one-time reality, and his end game.

Then she was gone, reduced to a memory that haunted him. Now, she’d become real again, and he needed to go meet her at the airport.