My eyes crawl back up to his face. “Too busy partying on yachts with superstars and strippers?” The glare I receive in response is positively nasty. “What? I watch Ballers.”
“That’s Hollywood, Jones. I live in the real world, where an important part of my job is teaching my young guys how to be responsible with their money.” He has yet to take his eyes off of me. “Can’t do that effectively if I blow mine on things like exorbitant rent.”
“Solid point,” I answer, even though I stopped listening at ‘blow’. What is he doing with his eyes? This is not a figment of my overactive imagination. He is definitely acting strange today. “Are you feeling okay?”
He looks momentarily confused. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”
Cuz you’re acting like a nut job. “No reason. Where’s your buddy? Let’s get this party started.”
“Down the hall.” He dials the phone and says, “Ready whenever you are.”
A few minutes later a guy around Fancy’s age walks in holding a file. Equally fit, he’s a bit shorter than Fancy and a hundred times more jovial. The devilish smirk he wears seems to be permanent. We get up and he walks over, an extended hand leading.
“David Pitt, nice to meet you.” His grip is firm and dry. I like him instantly.
“Any relation?”
Pitt’s smirk widens into a mischievous grin. “Only if it’ll get me a date.”
“Cheeky. I like him.”
“Dave.” The warning comes sharp and fast. I look over and find Fancy Pants scowling, hands on his hips and the set of his shoulders rigid.
Turning back to Pitt, I say, “He’s no fun.”
Pitt looks over at his friend. “I like her.”
“You don’t have to like her, you have to get her out of these bullshit charges,” he grounds out. We all pause at the noticeable anger unpinning his voice. Realizing his error, Vaughn brushes his face with his palm. “You know what I mean.”
Pitt’s focus returns to me, his face tight in an effort to hamper his amusement. “I looked at the case file. It shouldn’t be too difficult. First and foremost time is our friend. We want cooler heads to prevail. And if we put enough time and distance between us and the event, we may have a shot at getting the charges dropped altogether.”
Hallefreakinluiah.
“I’m sure Ethan has instructed you not to contact Gregory in any way. That’s my job. Let me be the liaison.”
I nod in agreement. That will not be a struggle. Quite frankly, I don’t entirely trust myself. If I were to lay eyes on the p.o.s. ever again, I could very well find myself indicted of first degree murder. With cause, this time.
“Should I block him?”
“No. Leave it alone. We don’t want to inflame the situation. Don’t answer if he contacts you. The first hearing is scheduled for the beginning of February but I’m going to ask for a postponement. I don’t need to remind you not to leave the state, do I? Ethan would forfeit his bail money and you would be sent back to prison.”
My gaze immediately snaps to Vaughn, and finds him shaking his head. “Calvin’s money.”
“My grandmother is in assisted living in New Jersey. I need to see her.”
“Tri-state is fine,” Pitt tells me. “I’ll get a note to the judge if you provide an address.”
Fifteen minutes later, after we’ve hammered out schedules and agreed on dates for our next meetings, the three of us walk out of the Vaughn’s office and into the hallway––smack dab into drama.
Female voices arguing in the reception area cause the three of us to turn. A busty blonde holding two bags from BLT Steak is head wagging at Andromeda who’s bearing down at her with an expression that can only be described as sexy boredom.
A quick glance at Fancy’s face tells me this is another dedicated member of the pussy parade. Really? Does this guy’s dick have a vibrate button?
The expression he’s wearing is so tragic I almost feel bad for him…almost…maybe a little bit.
“Isn’t that––” Pitt says absently.
“The paralegal we fired.”
“The one that you––”
I don’t miss the slight widening of the eyes and the stiff shake of Vaughn’s head, all of it directed furtively at his business partner over my head.
Maybe not. And by the looks of it, he already has pube fleas.
Chapter Seven
The next day I head to midtown, to the offices of Glaser Talent Agency to meet with the man that has been not only a steadfast supporter of my career the last eight arduous years, but also a good friend. The building is sandwiched between a florist and a deli on a busy street off Broadway.
Marty is old school. He’s still in the small space he started in forty years ago, refusing to move to a better location when his business took off because he feared it would be ‘bad luck’.