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“Can you drive me to the hotel, please?” She doesn’t wait for his response, rushing to the elevators.
Punk raises an eyebrow at me. He doesn’t move, giving me one last shot to make it right.
My hurt ego has me waving him off. There’s no way I can fix my mistakes while we’re still hot-headed and my brain can’t articulate the correct words.
He shakes his shaved head, clearly disappointed with my response. Without saying a word, he follows Simone to the elevators.
Butch approaches me, rubbing his jaw. “I may not be an expert on women, but I don’t think you groveled properly, bro.”
“I prefer it when you talk less,” I mutter as I stalk off to the elevators. Butch follows close on my heels, snickering.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
CHASE
Back at the hotel, I give Simone some breathing room. She deserves some time to decompress without me putting her on edge. That, and I still have no clue how to correct my clusterfuck.
To kill time, I hit the hotel bar and order a bourbon neat. My fingers play with the rim of my whiskey tumbler, while Simone consumes my thoughts. I stare vacantly ahead at nothing in particular as the wheels in my head try to orchestrate a way to fix things with Numbers.
When I have no answers after finishing my first drink, I order another. Maybe a buzzed mind will offer more clarity than a sober one. If nothing else, it may dull the ache growing in my chest.
My head swivels around the bar, taking in the ritzy establishment. It’s a posh room decked out in matte black and stark white furnishings, with touches of gold to make the space a swanky retreat. It’s a far cry from my MC’s woodsy local water hole, Mikey’s Pub. I stick out like a sore thumb in my tactical clothing, piercings, and tattoos, looking more like a bad decision than a businessman.
Simone would be in her element in this sophisticated space. I can imagine her blending right in with the other white-collar patrons, talking stocks and sipping wine—a queen holding her court. I guess I’d be the jester in this scenario. I may not belong, but I’d rather be her fool than not be in her orbit.
Fuck.I should be in bed with my arms wrapped around her, whispering every filthy thing I want to do to make her body hum. Not sitting here alone in this cold bar, losing myself in the bottom of a bottle. I bite at my lip ring to suppress my needy groan.
A couple sitting at the opposite end of the bar paint the picture of what Simone’s life may have been like when she was with Trent. The two lovers are dressed in expensive suits, heads bent toward each other as they share the events of their day. It hurts to admit it, but Trent fits into this picturesque world—a world my Numbers favors—and I never will.
Thinking of the Cheeto-colored bastard has me clenching my fist around my drink, imagining it’s his scrawny chicken neck. Before I crack the tumbler, I raise the glass to my lips, knocking back the last of my bourbon. The burn numbs my insides yet does nothing to numb my turmoil.
I’m fairly good at solving problems—it’s part of my job description. But romantic relationships are outside my jurisdiction. I would talk to Punk if I thought he wouldn’t harass me for being clueless. Butch is a no-go, too. He has as much experience dealing with the opposite sex as I do, probably less.
There’s only two guys on the crew who’ve been in a long-standing relationship with a habit of screwing up and setting things right again. I need their guidance. Pulling my cell from my back pocket, I pick the name at the top of my contacts.
The phone rings once before Atlas’s deep baritone voice greets me gruffly. “Chase? What’s going on, brother?”
“Hey, Prez. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”
There’s movement on the other end of the line. I hear the distinct sound of lips smacking before I hear the soft click of a door shutting. Knowing Atlas, he kissed Jo before excusing himself into a private area.
“Everything okay with the case?”
“Yup. We got a good head start today.” I pause, unsure of how to broach the subject I wish to discuss.
After giving him the silent treatment for an unmeasured amount of time, Atlas clears his throat. “Chase?”
“Hmm?”
Atlas growls, his normal response when irritated. “Don’t tell me you called me in the middle of the night, pulling me away from my old lady’s warm body, to not spit out whatever the fuck it is you want to talk about.”
My eyes quickly glance at my Luminox wristwatch. It’s midnight here, meaning it’s later back home. I should have considered the time zones before calling the man with infant twins.
Damn, I’m slipping tonight.
I groan, rubbing at my eyes under my glasses. “Fuck, Prez. I’m sorry. I’ll let you go.”
“Nu-uh-uh. You woke me. Now you’re going to tell me why you called. It’s not like you to not have your shit together. The Chase I know would’ve realized it’s one in the morning here in Fort Collins. Where are you? I hear lots of voices.”
