Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I cut it. It’s not a big deal.”

“You cut it playing handyman, didn’t you?”

“I’ll shower and change,” Greyson said, choosing not to respond to that. He really wasn’t in the mood to hear an I told you so.

“Why? It’s just a Skype call,” Harris asked.

Greyson shook his head in response to his brother’s question. Harris was wearing a fleece hoodie with a random number printed on the front, jeans, and no shoes. Granted, Fisher wouldn’t see anything but their heads and shoulders, but Greyson wasn’t about to let one of the company employees, especially a high-ranking one, see him unshaven and underdressed.

“I won’t be long,” he said, not bothering to answer. “You can brief me on the financials later.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Harris muttered, refocusing his gaze on his laptop screen. And Greyson hovered for a moment, wanting to respond with an equally pithy comeback. But he wasn’t great with one-liners and found himself standing there just long enough to make things awkward, before clearing his throat and turning toward the bathroom.

Greyson felt horribly overdressed when he walked into MJ’s with Harris three hours later. Their Skype meeting had run long and had frustratingly confirmed that they definitely still had a problem in Australia. They were hemorrhaging money. After a month or two without any suspicious activity, it looked like the person or persons unknown were back to their larcenous ways.

Dumb. It was only a matter of time before they were caught. They didn’t even recognize how much rope they’d been fed with which to hang themselves. Fisher had been expertly reeling them in and felt certain he would be able to identify them within the week.

After their meeting, Harris had nonchalantly suggested they head to MJ’s for brunch, and Greyson had immediately agreed. Harris had quite unequivocally stated that he would drive, and Greyson, eager to spend time with his brother, had agreed to that as well. Even though he absolutely loathed being driven by anyone. He didn’t trust any other driver to get him to his destination safely or on time. On the occasions when necessity called for him to use a driver, he found himself constantly on edge. And even though he had never said as much, Harris knew that about him and usually let Greyson drive.

Not today. Greyson wondered if it was yet another means of castigation.

He hadn’t given Greyson enough time to change, and now he felt conspicuous in the three-piece, pin-striped, navy Armani suit that he had worn for the Skype meeting.

No sooner had they set foot in the restaurant than he was accosted by a small, pale, redheaded virago. She looked pissed off as hell, glaring at him from beneath that vibrant, curly fall of hair. Martine was small, but her hair always made her seem larger and louder than life. It was a ridiculous contradiction—she was such a quiet, unassuming, and shy woman. Well, usually. Today, she looked ready to tear him limb from limb.

“Martine,” he greeted her quietly, preempting what he was sure would be yet another rude demand to know why he had dared set foot anywhere near her friend. She didn’t return his greeting; instead she shocked him by clamping her hand over his forearm and tugging him toward the back of the restaurant.

Recognizing that protesting would only antagonize her further, Greyson allowed himself to be dragged away. This confrontation was inevitable. Martine was Olivia’s best friend, and she clearly felt that gave her some right to comment on Greyson’s relationship with his wife. And while Greyson had never had a best friend, he understood that this was the kind of thing one did for one’s dearest compatriot.

“Try not to kill him, Tina,” he heard Harris say as she led him away. His brother’s voice was quiet, but he could hear an underlying tremor of amusement in the words.

“I’ll just stay here and order for us,” Harris continued in a louder voice. Yes, he was definitely amused. Greyson sighed softly and passively followed Martine into a tiny, untidy back office. Once there she immediately turned to confront him, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.

“What do you want, Greyson?” she demanded to know, and he schooled his features into passivity.

“Lunch. But I suppose we’re doing this instead,” he said, maintaining an even tone of voice. Her face went bright red, which clashed horrendously with her hair.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked angrily, her voice lowered to a fierce whisper. Knowing that she meant the town and not the restaurant, Greyson chose not to misunderstand, figuring it best to just lay his cards on the table. He hated how everybody seemed to think they had to know his business, but he understood that this was the price he had to pay for his cruel stupidity.