Page 19 of Business vs. Pleasure

“Securities, wire, and visa fraud cases in Türkiye,” he said, and watched with delight as Bremmer’s pugnacious jawline went a bit slack. “Intent to deceive investors and identity theft, of all things, in France. Obstruction of justice right here in the good old US of A, and you’ve just been personally linked to a series of documents that show you’ve kept some incredibly questionable company over the years.”

Bremmer tried to rally. “None of that has any bearing on the legal standing of my company or the systems we have in place.”

“On the contrary, it has a profound bearing on your company,” August replied, dabbing at the corners of his mouth in hopes that his dining companion might be moved to follow suit.

No such luck. Looked like he’d be sporting little pools of Caesar dressing in his lip creases for the foreseeable future. Rude.

“Your company’s IPO was a disaster,” August said, then raised both his hands in a wavey, conciliatory gesture. “I mean, not that that’s your fault—I totally understand dealing with backstabbers,” being one myself, “but I understand you had to do some behind-the-scenes horse trading to keep it from being a complete and utter failure. On paper, you still own a majority share of Rebel AI’s stock, but in reality you’ve promised a lot of people a lot of things in exchange for their support, haven’t you?”

Bremmer was gaping now. Gaping and still not wiping his mouth. Ugh, August was going to drown this limp-dicked, ass-faced, boot-licking piece of sheep shit in a vat of salad dressing and see how he liked wearing it then.

Or I’ll just get him alone and stab him. Stabbing was looking better and better. He wouldn’t even need to use the steak knife to do it. The biggest obstacle was getting rid of the servers and staff.

Thank heavens the next item on the menu was crêpes Suzette, and that the restaurant preferred the use of the old-style flare lamps fed with methylated alcohol instead of the gas-powered kind.

Still, he had to keep Bremmer from abandoning him at the table in a fit of pique while the chef prepared the lamp, or August would have to chase him down, and he was not running in his bespoke Desmond Merrion suit, not after all the time it took to get the creases just right after their flight. Plus, his feet would hurt more than they already did.

“The only reason I’m bringing any of this up is so that you know I’m taking you seriously,” August said, and watched as a hint of color came back to Bremmer’s face. “Mason Group has done business with far less reputable people. We even have a legal division in France that can very likely handle that set of charges, and I daresay we could help out with the Turkish ones as well.”

“Why would you?” Bremmer asked cautiously.

August smiled. “Because every man of a certain class has something to hide. And what good is having all this money if you don’t spread it around for good causes every now and then?” Ugh, he wanted to bleach his own mouth. “I’ve got the flexibility for up to five billion dollars of investment, but you’d have to agree to keep me as your main point of contact. No whining to my big sister and trying to get me kicked out of the agreement.”

My sister would happily see you put in prison for the rest of your pathetic life.

August watched as Bremmer worked out the balance of the scales in his head, weighing the mortification of being known as a shit-stain of a human being against the fact that August apparently didn’t care; the promise of metric fuck-tons of money versus the discomfort of continuing to deal with August; the satisfaction of having the last word versus the possibility that he might literally get out of jail free with their help.

As the waiter took away their barely touched main courses, the chef reached into a drawer at the back of the guéridon and withdrew a long-handled lighter. He lit it, then extended the flame toward the flare lamp, full of clear fuel that would soon transform into heat for the suzette pan.

In three…

“Mr. Mason,” Bremmer said, extending a hand across the table.

Two…

“You’ve got yourself a⁠—”

One.

Right as the flame began to lick the alcohol, August sharply kicked the bottom edge of the cart. It was heavier than he thought, and a stab of pain shot up from his heel and into his spine like a live wire, but it did the trick and jostled the lamp enough to tip over at just the right time.

Burning alcohol flooded the top of the service station and onto the floor, the table…and the chef.

“Shit!” the guy exclaimed, beating at the flames licking up his formal white uniform before darting out of the room.

“Oh my God!” August shrieked, jumping up, one hand pressed to his face as the other grabbed the tablecloth while he backed away. Oh no, darn, there went the whole meal right onto the floor, along with the flaming tablecloth, and shucks, now the carpet was going up too!

Real Persian rugs, my perfectly round ass. Natural fibers would never go up in flames so fast, especially not from an alcohol fire.

“It’s on fire! This whole place is going to burn down!” He raced around the table and grabbed Bremmer by the collar, hoisting him out of his chair, then began to drag him toward the emergency exit. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Bremmer flailed ineffectually against August’s grip. “The elevators are in the other direction!”

“Are you kidding me? Elevators, in a burning building. Do you want to catch on fire and suffocate from smoke and fall thirty stories to your death all at the same time?” He turned and shook Bremmer hard, channeling all his glee into a manic expression that made his captive audience blanch. “Do you, motherfucker?”

“No, I don’t!”

“Damn right, you don’t! We’re taking the stairs!” Where there were no security cameras to get in the way of progress.