“We need to talk.”
“No, I don’t think we do.” Triumph worked even harder to project that he was busy. Busy doing nothing, but busy. He was not in the mood for another lecture.
“You’re hitting overload status, bro. We’ve been here in London for eight weeks. You worked like a maniac for four weeks to get everything up and running in the new space. You worked the next two weeks to make sure our staff were at one hundred percent efficiency, which they are. You could have gone home then, two weeks ago, but your ass is still here punching this ridiculous time clock.”
Triumph continued to ignore him.
“Tilly wouldn’t want this for you,” the man said quietly.
Here came the same argument they’d been having since after she’d died. “Well, she’s not here to ask, now, is she?” he spat out.
“No, she’s not, which is the whole point of this conversation. Again.” Tripoli sighed. “I feel guilt too. Every fuckin’ day. Iblame myself for strong-arming her to San Antonio. I blame myself for not keeping her at my apartment, even though she was perfectly safe with you. I blame myself for not watching her more closely. It eats Cosmos up daily as well. It will always live with us, but it’s no one’s fault except her killer’s.”
“You should have shot him in the balls and then pulled his heart out while he was still alive,” he growled.
“Believe me, if I could have, I would have missed a few shots before the killshot, but there wasn’t exactly time to be that precise. Every day, I wish I could kill that fuckstick again.”
A brief pause followed, and then Tripoli refocused. When he spoke, the change of subject was so abrupt, Triumph felt like he’d been slapped. “You dwell on things too much. It’s not healthy. I’m putting an end to this now. You’re on vacation, effective immediately. I don’t care how long you take. A month, a year, whatever, but no less than two weeks. Then you go back to work at Elysium.”
“I’m not sure you can tell me what I can and can’t do, Trip. I’m one of the owners here.”
“I have a higher percentage.”
Triumph snorted. “By six percent.”
“Still higher than you.” Tripoli’s eyes narrowed, then the zinger came from nowhere. “What color are the curtains in your rental?”
All pretense of looking at the monitors officially gone, Triumph scrubbed his itchy, achy eyes with the heels of his hands. “What the fuck do curtains have to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I have no fucking clue what color the curtains are.”
“Exactly. You know why? Because you come in at ten every morning, work until three a.m., walk home to said flat, and I’m willing to bet my entire last quarter’s earnings you don’t even bother to turn on the lights. You collapse for a couple of hours,then get up, get ready, and walk here to be back at it by ten a.m. What part did I get wrong?”
Triumph stared at him.
“None of it. My point exactly.” Tripoli stood, resituated his tie, and rebuttoned his coat. “Cosmos and I are escorting you to the airport tonight. No excuses, or we’re suspending you.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Remember that meeting we had today that you were too busy to attend? Guess what? You were the subject of the meeting. You weren’t there to cast your vote. It was approved eighty percent to zero, the abstention of the remaining twenty being your percentage, to kick you out.”
Rolling his eyes, Triumph asked, “What the hell am I going to do for two weeks?”
“I don’t care. Go lie on a Caribbean beach somewhere. Go to Shadowlands and get laid.” He pointed a finger at Triumph. “Don’t blame Cosmos. I already knew you went there and kept your secret, but you know what he’s like when he decides to play detective.” Rapidly, he shifted back to suggestion mode. “Hell, go home and binge some television. Read some books. Sleep would probably be good.” His voice warmed. “People are worried. Take that to heart. It means they care.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
Tripoli stood at the door, one hand on the knob, his eyebrow raised.
Every ounce of fight went out of him.
He was simply too fucking tired to argue.
“Message received.”
“Thank fuck.”
