CHAPTER THIRTY

The grocery store. The piano shop. His house.

That was what the private detective had said Luke Carlton’s daily life consisted of. The day Michael returned from New York, he shoved aside all thoughts of Annalise.

Narrowing his focus on the investigation, he conducted some recon of his own.

He pulled into the parking lot at Luke’s regular grocery store on his usual evening to shop. Maybe it was an act of desperation. But hell, this guy was slippery. And Michael didn’t like slippery. He wanted the man to be caught. Put behind bars. Locked the fuck up.

Maybe he could find a clue. The detail that would tip the cards in the favor of justice. He sat in his car and waited, like he was the private eye.

And hell, if this job didn’t suck.

But Luke was clockwork, and at six p.m., he walked through the front doors of the store. Michael got out of his car and kept a decent pace behind him, clenching his fists.

How could that man—that Royal Sinner—have such an ordinary, average life?

Luke pushed a cart through the aisles, buying bananas, a whole chicken, some cereal, toilet paper, potato chips, orange juice, and a can of white beans.

Each aisle Luke wandered down, Michael was tempted to confront the fucker. To grab him by the collar of his short-sleeve button-down shirt, slam him against the canned peas, and ask him what the fuck he had done eighteen years ago. How he’d gotten away with it. How he was still getting away with everything, including buying bananas.

Michael hated bananas.

But somewhere between the bathroom supplies and the salty snacks, he slowed his pursuit and tamped down the treacherous ball of anger inside him. Talking to Luke, confronting Luke, spitting on the man’s face—none of that would help solve the crime. Those would only serve to mess with the investigation. To tip him off.

Michael turned around, marched to his car, and yanked open the door. Once inside, he dropped his head to the steering wheel and cursed up a blue streak.

When he looked up, Luke was depositing grocery bags in the trunk of his car a few rows over. Shrugging, Michael decided to follow him when he left. Keeping a reasonable distance, he drove behind him for a few miles on a long stretch of road, stopping at traffic lights, never going above the speed limit. Luke turned into a strip mall, and Michael followed, too, watching as the man parked and headed into a piano shop.

The bastard probably needed more “London Bridge is Falling Down” sheet music.

Michael loathed him for that, too.

For his boring fucking life.

* * *

Work consumed him. The next few days roared by in a sea of trouble, triage, and shit storms. He’d been called to one of the financial firms that employed them for private security to deal with some threats against the building. Then he and Ryan tackled an issue with one of their banks involving an attempted robbery of an armed vehicle. Bad mojo was going around daily, and Michael was tense, poised for the next shoe to drop. It was like one of those weeks of celebrity deaths, where bad things happen in threes.

The next one would come any second…

And it happened on a Thursday night.

Michael and Ryan were working late at the office when the call came, Michael at his desk, Ryan poring over paperwork on the couch.

Michael answered the office line on speaker. “Michael Sloan here.”

“Hey, Mr. Sloan. We had more gang trouble at White Box.” It was their on-the-ground guy at the club.

He groaned as Ryan looked up from the contracts.

“What happened?”

“Actually, it all worked out,” the man said, and Michael breathed more easily as his guy recounted what went down. “Some dude from the Royal Sinners tried to solicit one of the dancers.”

“But that happens all the time at a club,” Michael pointed out, as Ryan nodded silently, following along.

“True. But he wasn’t just trying to get her to go home with him. He wanted her to be part of a prostitution ring.”

“Jesus,” Michael said, seething.

“But don’t worry. We handled it. Threw the guy out.”

“Good,” Ryan chimed in.

“Thanks for the heads up. Glad it was all taken care of,” Michael said, and when he hung up, he met Ryan’s eyes.

They were thinking the same thing.

“We should go there and touch base. Check in,” Ryan said.

Michael nodded. White Box was far too important a client.

Fifteen minutes later, they walked into the main doors and quickly found Curtis and Charlie at the sleek, silver bar. Women in next to nothing danced on stage, and scantily clad waitresses delivered highballs and scotches, as low techno music thumped through the club. Patrons lounged on red velvet couches, mostly businessmen, judging by the sheer number of suits and ties. In the far corner, a group of men puffed on expensive cigars in the smoking lounge.

“Everything work out okay?” Ryan asked after saying hello to Curtis and clapping Charlie on the back.

They both nodded, and Charlie stroked his chin. “If I wanted to run an escort service, I’d do that myself,” he huffed indignantly. “Obviously, that’s not the business I’m in. I can’t stand those street thugs trying to recruit the women here.” He counted off on his fingers. “My dancers are salaried. They have health insurance. I even have a retirement plan for them. This isn’t how I run this place. They aren’t ladies of the night.”

“Sorry that happened,” Michael said.

Charlie waved him off. “No apologies needed. It comes with the territory. But I will be breathing easier at night when the authorities finally break up the gangs. They are making business difficult for many here in town. They draw an element we do not want.”

“Trust me, we all want to see the street crime problem lessen,” Ryan said sympathetically.

“But your men handled the problem beautifully, with none of my regulars the wiser, and I am grateful for that.”

Charlie liked to run a high-class business, and while it was a strip club for all intents and purposes, White Box was geared to the more discerning crowd.

“Glad it was handled discreetly and well.”

“It was perfect. Exactly what we hired you for,” he said and flashed a brief smile before lacing his fingers together. “What do you think we can do as private business owners to combat the gang problem?”

Michael eyed Ryan, and a look passed between them. These guys were speaking their language. They loved having a client who cared so much, who wanted the same things.

They spent the next thirty minutes strategizing, brainstorming, and discussing best practices for private citizens and companies to handle the problem.

When they were through, Curtis glanced at his boss, and Charlie nodded, giving him permission to say what was on his mind.

“This is why we want to do more work with you,” Curtis said. “We want you to handle security for our clubs in Phoenix, Dallas, and Miami.”

More business sounded good, so Michael took his brother out for a celebratory round of poker and beer. That was a welcome end to a shitty work week.

With so much trouble still on the streets, Michael and his brother decided it made sense for them to start carrying again. They both had concealed weapons permits and knew how to be safe. With crime on the uptick, it was a necessary precaution.

Michael said good-bye to his brother. As Ryan headed home to his bride-to-be, a pang of sadness hit Michael. He was happy for Ryan, and he also couldn’t help but want some of that for himself.

With one woman in particular.

As he shut the door to his home with a thunk, his phone buzzed. It was Friday morning in France, and there was a note from Annalise lighting up his screen.