Page 104 of Unruly

Catherine did a quick, cursory check of the place. She found the man she needed to speak to sitting in the far corner—alone.

Typically, those who sat alone, intended to be left alone.

Sorry, Brad. Not today.

Catherine made her way over with a smile. The A-list celebrity didn’t even take his gaze off the phone in his hands. She sat down on the plush leather bucket chair next to his.

Sniff.

And then another sniff followed a second later.

Catherine looked to the side just in time to see Brad rub at the reddened skin around his nose. Perhaps he had been using a bit too much lately.

“You might want to check that sniffing,” Catherine said quietly, “or someone could start looking into why.”

Brad’s head popped up, and his narrowed gaze fell on Catherine. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, and now your nose is bleeding.”

He touched his nostrils, and sure enough, the left side was trickling dark red, almost black blood. Before he could even react, Catherine pulled a tissue from her clutch, and handed it over.

“Here, clean up,” she told him.

He snatched the tissue with a glare, and dabbed at his nose. “Hit the damn thing this morning on a door—one of my kids closed it and didn’t see me coming.”

Sure.

Catherine knew what repeated, long-term cocaine use did to somebody’s face. Hence, Brad Cornell no longer looked like the handsome man he had in his twenties and thirties. Makeup and Photoshop fixed the sunken eyes, gaunt features, and alabaster-gray skin right up, though.

Hollywood was what it was.

“Or have you been snorting a bit too much lately?” Catherine asked. “I did see something in a rag about you working on your next divorce. Shit, this one didn’t even make it through the pregnancy before she had enough, huh?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Brad hissed.

“I’m not surprised you don’t know me, or recognize me. After all, it’s my girls who deliver to you, Brad. The poison they put in your hand that you snort up your nose? They get it from me.”

Catherine held out her hand to offer a shake.

Brad stared at it, dumbfounded.

“Catherine Donati,” she said, “nice to meet you.”

He made a move to stand, but Catherine’s haughty laugh stopped him. He glanced over at her, a lingering fear in his cocaine-blown pupils. “What do you want from me?”

“Info,” Catherine said, “and nothing more.”

Her cell buzzed in her pocket.

She ignored it.

“Give me the info I need, and I will leave here like this never even happened. You can go back to getting your cocaine delivered once a week, or hell, maybe you’ll check yourself into a rehab somewhere. Frankly, sir, I don’t give a fuck what you do.”

“What info?”

“You dropped off my client list about three months ago. I want to know who is delivering your cocaine now.”

Brad’s gaze darted away.