“You know: snack-sized. Adorable. You’ve even got those big eyes that make you look all sympathetic and shit.”
“What thehellare you—”
“We’re here to see Mr. Frazier,” Grayson interrupted.
Now the giant—bouncer, Reece was guessing—looked confused. “Frodo doesn’t have any appointments.”
“He’ll see us,” said Grayson.
To Reece’s surprise, the bouncer took a step back and held the door wider. “Come on in, then.”
Reece looked at Grayson in confusion. “I’ve seen two other guards today try to pick fights with you.”
“They probably only see his pretty face,” said the bouncer.
Reece gave the bouncer a narrow-eyed look. “And what doyousee?”
“That Frodo doesn’t pay me enough to lose that fight,” the bouncer said easily.
“Riiight,” Reece said, drawing it out skeptically. “So your muscles are—what? Made of marshmallows?”
“Mr. Lane was a marine,” said Grayson, “and has black belts in three martial arts.”
“Please, Diesel’s fine,” the bouncer said.
“Diesel,” Reece repeated. “Is that your name or your engine?”
“I drive a Prius.”
Reece scrunched his nose.
“Not too bright,” Diesel said to Grayson. “That’ll be another point in his favor. The clientele isn’t looking for Einsteins.”
Reece’s mouth opened in outrage. “Did you just call me short andstupid?”
“Er—”
“And exactly whatclientelewants that?”
“The freaks into—ah.” Diesel squirmed under Reece’s glare. “You know what? Boss doesn’t pay me enough to handle you either. Follow me.”
Diesel led them deeper into the warehouse, and up a narrow staircase with dark carpeting and what must have been an odd smell, because Grayson almost wrinkled his nose. The top of the stairs opened into a large, windowless space with standing tables along the exposed brick walls and a DJ stage at the far side.
To the left was a granite bar with fancy liquor on glass shelves that stretched to the high ceiling. A guy with complicated hair was stacking glasses behind the counter while the TVs overhead played some kind of sport. That was a nice change from the footage of Reece vomiting—
On-screen, four men in helmets piled onto a fifth man with a ball, smashing him painfully to the ground. The audience roared.
On second thought, not better at all. Reece quickly looked away.
Diesel took them to the right, past some bunched velvet ropes and poles pushed to the side, and into a short hall. He knocked twice on one of the unmarked doors, then opened it. “Boss, you got guests,” he called, moving to let Reece and Grayson enter.
A short, hairy man—Frodo, Diesel had called him—was sitting behind a solid wood desk piled high with paper. When he looked up, his gaze zeroed in on Reece and he lit like Christmas had come early. “Yes.”
Reece furrowed his brow. “Yes what?”
“You’re hired.”
“He already works for me,” Grayson said.
