I’m hot on his tail and closing in on secrets he doesn’t want exposed.
I catch myself doodling on the scratchpad on my tablet and frown.
§14.2.
Barry must’ve written that symbol so many times that it crept into my own subconscious, this constant melody playing in the back of my mind like a strange song.
But my mind goes blank and silent with lightning-struck shock as Frank blabs on.
“...that’s the other reason I’m calling. He’s playing some sort of game, all right, and very clearly has an end in mind, considering his lawyer contacted me to arrange a meeting. I don’t mean between legal teams.” He pauses, the silence so heavy it could break bones. “Between you and him, boss. Alone and off the record.”
The pen I’m holding falls on my desk with a clatter.
I jerk forward in my chair, staring blindly across the room.
“He wants what?”
The long silence tells me exactly what Frank thinks of this. It’s a horrendous idea.
It’s also the best thing that could ever happen.
I haven’t seen Vance Haydn face-to-face since the day I laid him out with a split lower lip.
He’s avoided me almost pathologically ever since. Now, if I can get him alone...
I’m a different man now.
I’ve got ammunition.
More importantly, I have the experience to twist him around in a thousand circles and get him to tattle on himself with just the right slip of tongue.
“When?” I demand breathlessly. “Where?”
“He tentatively suggested tonight at nine,” Frank answers reluctantly. “I don’t recognize the address provided. Looks like it’s downtown. I’ll forward it on, but boss—”
“But?”
Frank sighs. “Don’t do this, Mr. Osprey. Seriously. You could wind up escalating his suit against us if it goes sideways.”
“And if I do,” I say, already lunging to my feet and snatching my tablet, “we’ll fight our way through it in court like we always do, won’t we? Send me the address, Frank.”
“There’s no stopping you, is there?” he whispers.
“Is there ever?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He sounds like Wanda now, all disapproval and resigned concern. “Check your email. And please report back to me the second it’s over, okay?”
“What’s there to report?” I throw back, already rushing for the door and smiling like a crazed jackal as the new email notification pings on my tablet. “As far as the legal record’s concerned, this meeting never happened.”
* * *
The location Frank forwarded turns out to be a small downtown bar called the Roli-Poli, shadowed and dim and almost seedy.
It’s the kind of place where they aren’t always as strict about last call as they have to be and people slip cash under the clustered tables when no one’s looking. Hell, there’s probably an illegal gambling ring running out of the back.
I don’t look that out of place here in my three-piece suit as I settle at the bar to wait, hovering over a tumbler of top-shelf whiskey without touching it.
I can’t be drunk off my ass for this.
I watch a few people who look above the bar’s pay grade. Every last one of them minds their own business, studiously avoiding eye contact.
It’s so dark all I can make out is light reflecting off sharp jawlines, off expensive rings and watches, the gleam of red lips as a woman leans into a man whose face is shrouded in shadows.
Red lips.
Callie waits for me back at my house. She’s probably fussing over her luggage for our flight to New Orleans, wondering if she needs to run back to her place for some last little knickknack she forgot.
Miss Type A is already packed well in advance even though it’s only Thursday night. Our flight doesn’t leave until the wee hours of Saturday morning.
It’s become such a habit to spend every night together that it wasn’t even a question of her staying over before our trip.
Some small part of me regrets not telling her where I’ve gone.
I barely even remember the excuse I made, something about needing to run back to the office.
I just know if I told her I was off to a clandestine meeting with Vance Haydn, she’d have freaked the fuck out.
There’s always this sadness that clings around her whenever he comes up.
For such a savvy woman, she fails at hiding her emotions, her concern.
It’s easy to tell how much she wants me to stop Haydn from hurting Easterly or anyone else again.
At the same time, she fears what this quest is doing to me.
What Haydn could still do.
The fact that she cares so much—and that I care enough to try not to upset her—raises the question of what we really are to each other underneath the casual fling illusion.
This weekend, we’ll find out.
I’m not a fan of lying to myself, no matter how easily I lie to others when needed.
Frankly I’m sick of living in denial where Callie Landry is concerned.
“Roland Osprey,” a familiar oily voice whispers, tossing all other thoughts from my brain.