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Her hands shoot to my belt buckle with a level of eagerness that tells me this isn’t any regular Tinder date. He’s been messing around with escorts again. These girls have been paid well if Krystal is this eager to suck my dick. I grab her hands and fling them off me, sending her tipping backward off her knees.
“You think I want a blowjob from some buck-fifty prostitute with lopsided fake tits? Get the fuck out of my office… both of you!”
The girls scramble out of my sight. Their cutesy giggles have turned into shrill cries of indignation. They can’t believe I kicked them out like I have.
I round on Stitches. “Never again. If I wanted pussy, I’d go get some from one of the slutty drunk girls downstairs.”
But I won’t. Because Delphine is the only one on my mind. The more she ignores me, the more obsessive I become.
Stitches apologizes. Sort of.
“Sorry, Psycho,” he says with a guilty wince. His wire-framed glasses have slipped low on his nose. “When Candy mentioned her friend was up for meeting you, I thought it could be a good distraction. She parties here at the club often and has always wanted to hook up with you. You’ve spent the past three Friday nights holed up in your office pissed off about Miss ADA. I was just trying to help get her out of your system.”
“Want to help out? Figure out why Delphine’s not answering her phone.”
“She has you blocked.”
“She’s probably on another date,” I mutter, glaring out the office window. “She’d go on another one just to spite me.”
“We could tail her again. Like old times. I got a lot of comic reading done back then.”
“No.” I turn away from the window and pace the length of my desk. “That would only prove her point. That I’m obsessed.”
“But…” Stitches bites his tongue and holds off from finishing his contrarian sentence.
It’s probably for the best. I’m in no mood.
He leaves me be. I practice throwing more knives before growing bored and returning to my phone. My finger hovers over Delphine’s name on my contact list. If she hasn’t answered the other times, she won’t now.
Yet, my urge to call her is no less.
I distract myself with another obsession of mine—my deep dive into Ernest Adams, his sketchy campaign and his mistress Lena.
I’ve been working hard to trace every red cent of his financials. The money pouring inandpouring out. Where it’s going and why. If you want to discover what somebody’s up to, particularly somebody involved in politics, you follow the paper trail. It’ll almost always lead you where you want to go.
Ernest is hiding something he’d hate to go public. Lena is likely involved.
Lena, who was allegedly his mistress so many years ago, and is still part of his life today for some mysterious reason.
Now a professor at Northam University who teaches Russian, but who I’m certain I’ve seen before. I just don’t know where.
There’s some dirt on the two of them somewhere that I’m missing.
It hits me so out of nowhere to call it a long shot would be an understatement. But what if I’m right?
I’ve seen that face. I know I’ve seen it because I’ve rewatched the insurance I have against Lucius enough times to have it memorized backwards and forwards.
My dirt on him—the tape.
There’s only one way to know for sure.
I dial Fabio. “Bring the car around back. We’re going on a field trip.”
* * *
Thick clouds rule the plum sky, hiding the moon. The air is crisp and cool in the dark. Fabio drives me to Old Northam in our bullet-proof Audi. Normally, I don’t like relying on a driver, but it’s a precaution I must take since the incident with the Hummers. Hector being a patient in the burn unit at Northam General doesn’t mean the Belinis won’t try anything.
They’re probably plotting against me right this moment. Just like Lucius. And Daddy Adams.
