I’d begun the day by crushing the kneecaps of two ambitious little gang nobodies. A job for one of my clients, an up-and-coming rich politico who happened to like it rough and was a sub for a transgender girl who tried milking him for half a million dollars after she secretly videotaped them. Normally, I’d settle the score directly with the girl, only in this case, things got messy.
The gang members broke into the girl’s apartment, stole her shit and unfortunately her camera too. Instead of erasing everything on it and selling it, they found the video footage of the politician and his dom doing ungodly things. Things respectable, proper community leaders like him weren’t supposed to be doing. Somehow, don’t ask me how because gang members are usually as stupid as turds, these two realized the full potential of what landed in their laps and decided to blackmail the preppy bastard, too. Only they wanted a million. I had to step in and do some damage control.
Getting myself into trouble by solving other people’s shit was part of my job description. This wasn’t a first, but it had still sucked ass. By the time I got to the office at Rouge Bis, I’d looked like shit.
I walked in with a lump the size of a baseball on my forehead, courtesy of one of the blackmailing lowlifes.
And he sat there behind his desk, typing on his laptop.
Brock took care of my legitimate businesses. I mostly hired out for the illegal stuff to people like Connor, but Brock managed the fronts I used to launder the money I was paid by people like the fucking politician. Along with Rouge Bis, Brock handled the grocery store and the gambling joints. (Strictly speaking, those joints weren’t legal, but the police overlooked this little fact for the right price.) Brock also had one other skill. The sonovabitch knew how to perform as a field doctor and could detox junkies as expertly as I broke faces.
“Shit hit the fan?” he asked, not looking up from his Excel spreadsheets.
I took off my blazer and blood-stained black shirt (I knew better than to wear white on workdays) and tossed them into the trash. I opened one of the drawers in the filing cabinet and pulled out a plastic bag of instant-ice and one of the clean shirts I kept stashed there.
“Smashed their kneecaps with my Callaway golf club,” I grunted, squeezing the bag and pressing the now ice-cold rectangle against the knot on my head
Brock kept typing. “And you’re bummed because they’ll never be able to walk again?” He sounded skeptical.
“I’m bummed because I fucked up my Callaway’s shaft. It was my favorite.” I buttoned up my clean, crisp black shirt
His expression hardened, but not with nearly as much disgust as six years ago, when he first started working for me. “Does your new wife know how sick you are?” Disapproval dripped from his voice. He still didn’t look up.
“Probably, if she’s got half a brain.” I mentally added, but your wife knows exactly how sick I am.
His fingers stilled on the keyboard, and this time he did look up. “Don’t feel obligated to act like an asshole to her.” He was talking about Sparrow. “She didn’t do anything, and it’s bad enough what you did to her mother.”
My fist tightened around the ice pack. I slowly raised my chin, a patronizing smile on my face. “Mind your own fucking business, Greystone.”
And before he could retrieve some of his pride, before he could answer back, I turned around and walked out the door.
I’d leave him a note to replace that golf club later. Treat him like he was the secretary. Like a waitress at Hooters. Then I’d take him out for a beer. After all, we were friends, weren’t we?
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, they said. Brock’s leash was shorter than my temper, and I made sure that I was always three steps ahead of him.
And that I always had the upper hand.
I FINISHED OFF the disastrous day by paying a visit to Catalina, thinking I’d let off some steam and give her a piece of my mind about Sparrow’s inappropriate wedding gift.
Catalina was my Friday piece and only long-term mistress. Tonight was an unscheduled visit.
It was a risky thing, like anything else worth doing. Brock worked late at the restaurant on Fridays. I always made sure he was extra busy those days so I could play with his wife, even though a part of me really did want him to find out.
Tonight, I wasn’t in the mood for fucking. Maybe it was the Callaway, and maybe it was the fact I knew I’d be going back to a penthouse full of Sparrow, a chick I didn’t know or like. Hell, maybe it was just me growing bored with my mistress’s crazy antics.