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She looks to him. “You already know the answer.”
“You’re smarter than this,” he says.
She motions to me. He’s right here.
“Fuck this. I’m not gonna be the voice of reason. Ruin your lives if you want,” he says.
Leighton’s eyes turn down. She presses her lips together, fighting a frown.
I hate the frustration in her brow.
I want to wipe it away.
I want to destroy all the pain in her life.
But that isn’t different. She’s my best friend. I’ve wanted the world for her for a long time.
This isn’t changing shit.
It’s just not.
I turn to my brother. Find the first change of topic I can. “We need to hire help.”
Dean shakes his head. “What about the dozen artists you rejected?”
“What about them?” I ask.
He laughs. “Half of them were better than you.”
“No.” Some of them were good, but none of them were better than me. No one takes their shit as seriously as I do.
“All right. But they were plenty good.”
“And?” I ask.
“You’re transparent.” He turns to Leighton. “Isn’t he?”
She shrugs. “All four of you turn down appointments. You need to hire more help.”
“Set up some appointments,” I say.
“Sure. But I’m holding you to hiring someone.” Dean turns. Looks to Walker, who’s currently in the middle of a back piece. “You eavesdropping, Williams?”
The hum of his gun ceases. He whispers something to his client. Then said client pushes himself up with a thank fuck for the break sigh and moves to the bathroom.
Walker stands. Moves into the lobby. Studies the three of us like he’s an anthropologist encountering an entirely new civilization.
His dark eyes fix on Dean. “What did you do?”
“Ryan wants to hire help,” Dean says.
Walker shakes his head. “Bullshit. Ryan turned down every artist on the Westside.”
“You for this plan?” Dean asks.
“Hell yeah.” Walker runs his hand through his dark hair. “I don’t want to keep working while Iris is off.”
“Don’t you need money?” Dean asks.
