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I knocked on the door to room number 205 and sucked in a breath. Sounds of movement and dull voices filtered through the door, and for the dozenth time since pulling into the lot, I wondered why on earth someone like Henry O’Keefe had chosen such a dive of a place to conduct our meeting.
The last time he’d called me into a meeting, I’d been ushered into a gleaming conference room with high tech projection equipment, a handful of guys in power suits, and all the pizazz a corporate drone could offer.
This meeting was the polar opposite. The Sandy Road Inn was a dingy little hole-in-the-wall place with a “No Vacancy” sign that I had a feeling was constantly lit. It was half past eight, and the sun had set within the last ten minutes, leaving the outdoor breezeway dimly lit with overhead can lighting. The problem was that most of the lights were either burnt out or so coated in spider webs, dust, and dirt—they didn’t provide much help either. The entire thing had an eerie Bates Motel vibe, and I wondered if that had been O’Keefe’s intention. Maybe he thought the atmosphere would throw me off or instill fear.
Sorry, jackass, but you’d have to try a lot harder than this if you wanna scare me.
I’d seen much worse places.
The door opened, snapping my attention back to the task at hand, and I stiffened at the sight of Henry’s smiling face. “Good evening, Mr. Rosen. I do so appreciate you joining me on such late notice.”
Every smarmy word rebounded through me, bouncing off my tense muscles and adrenaline-pumped veins. I returned the fake smile, finding it easy, knowing that within minutes he would dig his own grave just in time for me to kick his ass into it. “O’Keefe,” I greeted with a slight tilt of my head.
“I do hope your injuries are healing nicely,” he said, dropping his eyes to my hand inside the cast on my arm and then to my side. I wondered how he knew about the wound in my side but quickly dismissed it. It didn’t really matter how he knew. The point he was trying to make loud and clear was that he saw my weaknesses. “Can I take your jacket?”
“No thanks. I don’t plan on staying long.”
He nodded, his eyes gleaming as though the game had only just begun. “Fair enough. Please come in.”
I stepped over the threshold and spotted another man inside. He was a large, broad shouldered man that I didn’t immediately recognize. “I hope you don’t mind, but this is Giovanni, he’s an associate and also a certified notary. He’ll be here to oversee the signing of the contract,” O’Keefe explained. Only then did it click that he had been present at the last meeting O’Keefe had beckoned me to. He hadn’t been seated around the table, but he’d been there, as some kind of bodyguard in all black.
“Nice to meet you, Mr…” I trailed off, hoping he would provide a last name.
“Just Giovanni,” he said, his voice low but not unfriendly.
Fine, no last name then. That was the FBI’s problem anyway. I didn’t care.
The only person I cared about was rounding my side and gesturing for me to sit at the small, round table.
“Please sit,” O’Keefe said, flicking a glance at Giovanni, who sat like an obedient dog. “Mr. Rosen, you as well.”
This was it. My heart jumped into my throat, rumbling with anticipation.
“No thanks. I’ll stand. I don’t plan on this being a very long meeting.”
O’Keefe sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Rosen, do we really have to go over this again? Life will be easier for you if you just follow my lead. I promise you; I’m not trying to do anything untoward. You have a contract. I’ve brought a notary. This can all be over with…so painlessly,” he said, placing special emphasis on the last word, his eyes flashing a warning to me.
I pulled the contract out of the inner pocket of my leather jacket and held it up for him. “This contract? Yeah, I’m not so interested in signing it. See, I had my lawyer look over it, and it turns out it’s not a very good deal for me.”
O’Keefe’s eyes blazed as he watched me reach out and drop the contract pages to the table. His false smile faded and a snarl erupted from his curled back lips. “Very unwise, Mr. Rosen. I thought we had finally seen eye to eye on this matter.”
“Or what, O’Keefe? My lawyer told me I can’t be held liable for Rick’s business, so short of getting an old buddy of mine in trouble—you have no power over me. So, I suggest you take your contract and your fancy-ass car and your massive pile of bullshit and get the fuck out of Holiday Cove.”
