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“From a fucking Nerf gun!”
“Yes . . . I know, but . . .” Now didn’t seem like the most opportune time to explain about the Pius Assassins, so she settled on the abbreviated explanation. “It’s a game. Money and peer acceptance for the new kid are at stake.”
“In case you didn’t get the memo, I am not one of the players.”
“No. Absolutely not. If you hadn’t been standing in the way, I’d have blocked the shot myself.”
The muscles tightened at the corners of his eyes. “Barely ten minutes ago, you were bragging about taking a bullet for me. How’s that working out?”
“Well . . .” She gulped. “Now you know exactly how fast my reflexes are. That has to be sort of comforting. How many humans on this planet are quick enough to sack you?”
Uh-oh. Wrong thing to say, because the steam boiled right out of his ears. “You didn’t sack me! You ambushed me.”
“Potato, poh-tah-to. But I get your point.” He hadn’t noticed the blood trickling from the heel of one of his multimillion-dollar hands, but she had. She rushed to hold the door open. “Let’s go inside so you can get cleaned up and I can get that coffee you promised me.” She tried to think of something that would appease him. “We can have a business meeting at the same time. I’ll give you my first report.”
Miraculously, that did seem to settle him a bit, although he grabbed the door from her and pushed her none too gently into the hallway. Only then did he notice his bloody hand. He blistered an obscenity.
“Just a scratch.” She shot ahead of him to open the second door into the kitchen. “I’ll patch you up in no time.”
“Like hell you will.”
“All I need is a first aid kid.”
“And a license to kill.” He stalked past her. “Or maybe you already have that?”
“Funny and smart. I’m so lucky to be working for you.”
“Shut up.” Still, his rancor was a little less heated.
The small, spotless kitchen had a stainless-steel counter, oven, deep fryer, and grill to prepare the club’s limited food menu: minisliders, French fries with malt vinegar, and—at two in the morning—platters of complimentary bourbon fudge brownies. As Graham washed up at the sink, Piper found a first aid kit in the well-organized pantry, but he snatched it away from her. “Give me that thing. Call me greedy, but I want to keep this hand.”
“So insulting.”
When he flipped open the plastic lid, she saw specks of gravel in his palm. “I really am sorry.” She was going to have to do more than apologize to appease him. “Here’s some good news. From what I’ve observed so far, your VIP staff is exemplary. Considering the size of the tips they’re getting, they should be, but it’s reassuring to have that confirmed.” He didn’t look mollified. She needed more. It wasn’t the right time to talk to him about his lazy bouncers, and she had no evidence to back her suspicions about Taylor, the server. That left her with only limited possibilities. “I know this will make you happy. I’m going to personally update your Internet fan club site.”
He rummaged inside the first aid kit. “I already have someone doing that.”
“Yes, but unlike them, I know the difference between a subject and a verb.” A trickle of blood was running down his wrist. She grabbed a paper towel and gave it to him but decided not to mention the dab of mud still lodged in his chin cleft. “You’re a big celebrity in Chicago now, but how long will that last if you don’t keep pumping the social media machine? You only played for the Stars for three years, not like Bonner or Tucker or Robillard, who built their careers here. Fame fades, and if you want your business to grow, you have to keep your edge.”
He didn’t like that. “I always play at the top of my game, something you need to remember.”
She was trying to pacify him, not insult him, and she steeled herself. “For the next few weeks, I’ll also monitor and respond to the club’s online reviews.” This was exactly the kind of work she thought she’d escaped. “And that, my friend, is totally worth a few muddy potholes.”
He pulled out a set of tweezers. “Keep talking.”
“You want more?”
He shrugged.
“Give me those.” She snatched the tweezers from him.
He didn’t seem to believe in holding a grudge, and as he handed them over, he appeared more contemplative than angry. “You’re pretty much a train wreck, you know that, right?”
“Only around you.”
“Why is that?”
Because he controlled her future. “Because you’re a legend.”
