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“Boss, seriously, you look wrecked.”
I narrow my eyes as Nolan takes a seat opposite me. “Did I ask for your concern?” I slip the photograph back in my pocket. “No. So shut the fuck up, stand the fuck up, and get the fuck out of my office.” I get up and fetch myself a drink, leaving Nolan still sitting at my desk. Unfazed. Immune to my shitty mood. “Who’s on tonight?”
“Ella and Francine. Do you want me to check over the applicants again and arrange some more auditions?”
“No, get the girls from earlier back for a second shot.”
“I thought you said they were all shit.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” I didn’t see them dance. I was in a trance. Unfocused. “The blonde was up to scratch.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Now you can fuck off,” I grunt, necking a Scotch and looking at my watch again, mentally running through my phone contacts. Who can I call? Who can I fuck?
Nolan gets up and leaves. “Just go home,” he says, just before the door meets the jamb. Another look at my watch. It’s been a day. More has happened in twenty-four hours than in six fucking months. I can’t go home. Don’t want to sit here all night. I’m hungry. Horny. “Fuck it.” I pull out my cell and dial the first female I come across. The same one I called last week. And the week before. Because it’s easy. No effort. I’ll call, she’ll come. And an added bonus, she’s not a hooker. Just some classy chick I met at the bar in the hotel. This won’t rid me of my problem, but it certainly alleviated some of the . . . pressure. “It’s me,” I say when she answers. “Busy?”
“No.”
“Meet me at the Four Seasons in an hour.”
“See you there.”
I hang up and get my ass out of the club, waving to Nolan and Mason as I pass.
When I make it outside, I pull my Marlboros out and light up as I text Jeeves, telling him to give Allison the key to the presidential suite when she arrives. I’ll fuck her, maybe twice, make my excuses for her to leave, and get myself a good night’s sleep. It’ll cost me ten grand, but right now, I’d pay a million just to feel better than I do.
I slip my cell into my pocket, pulling on my cigarette. Drake’s a statue next to me, hands joined behind his back, and Tank’s eyes are unmoving, focused on something down the street.
“What’s up?” I ask, following his stare to an Escalade parked a few hundred yards away.
“That car,” he says, nodding subtly. “Been there for an hour. No one’s got out.”
I pull a drag and exhale, just as the headlights come on and the engine starts. “And suddenly there’s somewhere it needs to be.” Or someone it’s waited for. I flick my scarcely smoked cigarette away and walk into the road. “You loaded?” I ask Tank over my shoulder as I reach into the back of my trousers.
“Fully.”
“Stay where you are, Drake.” My pace picks up, my walk turning into a jog down the center of the road, my gun rising. I’m in no mood to fuck about. And neither, it seems, is the Escalade. It comes at me, tires spinning, engine roaring, and I aim and fire, putting two bullets through the windshield, one in a headlight.
And it still comes.
“Brad,” Tank rumbles from behind, keeping up with my pace. “Move.”
I veer off to the left slightly, giving Tank line of sight to the vehicle, and he proceeds to empty his magazine, and yet the Escalade keeps coming. I slow my jog until I come to a stop, aiming again.
“Brad, get off the road.”
I don’t move.
“Brad, for fuck’s sake!”
Close one eye.
“Brad!”
Squeeze the trigger.
“Brad!”
