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“How much do you owe?” Brad asks.
“Nothing.” Nolan picks up a cushion and tosses it on the couch, then approaches the desk, prompting Brad to move. “I made the final payment just last week.” He starts tidying up the surface, moving things around.
I can see what’s coming a mile off. “For fuck’s sake,” Brad breathes, heading toward me. “You can stay with me for a while.”
“What?” Nolan asks, looking up, stunned. “I’m not fired?”
“No, you’re fucking not, but if you so much as breathe on another one of the girls, I’ll rape your ass with that blender jug.” He disappears through the concealed door toward the upstairs office.
I flinch, as does Nolan, both of us looking at the jug. It’s a hefty jug. Thick glass. A few knobbles here and there.
“Now get that office cleaned up.” Brad shouts back.
“Or you’re grounded,” I say, backing away, my face serious. But Nolan still smiles and proceeds to do as he’s been told.
I make it upstairs, firing a quick text off to Otto, and wander across to the glass, looking down on the club, while Brad reacquaints himself with the desk. “So, Daddy Brad,” I say, feeling his tired eyes on my back. I wander over to the table on the other side of the room and run my eyes over the piles of cash. “What’s—” My stare falls onto three sports bags on the other side of the room. “What’s that?” I ask, going over and opening one, coming face to face with Abraham Lincoln.
“What is it?” Brad asks, approaching behind.
“Cash.”
He swings the door open. “Nolan!” he bellows.
“Yes, Boss?”
“What’s this?”
Nolan enters and looks at me crouched by the bags. “Delivered an hour ago,” he says. “Final payment of the Mexicans’ shipment.”
“Fuck!” Brad yells, stomping back to his desk and dropping to the chair.
Indeed,fuck. Prompt payment equals prompt delivery, and we can’t fucking deliver on time.
“Problem, Boss?” Nolan asks as I collect up the bags and take them to the safe.
“Yes, this should be in the fucking safe,” I grumble. “You’re really on bad form today, Nolan.”
“I was just getting to it, I swear, but then—”
“Your brain fell into your dick.” I throw the bags into the safe and slam the door, spinning the dial. “How about I slash your cock off and solve this problem for us all.”
His hand falls over his crotch as he steps back. “Easy, James,” he says, looking injured.
Fuck me, I can’t be angry with him, and that just makes me angrier. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Nolan bolts, and I see Brad looking at the endless piles of paperwork on his desk. He scowls. “All this”—he motions to the mess—“is too much for Nolan to handle on his own. The club, the money, the security—”
“The dancers and employees,” I muse, taking a seat on the couch.
Brad lifts his eyes but not his head. “The dancers and employees,” he agrees. “I need to hire him some help now I’m a little distracted. Someone we can trust.”
“Got anyone in mind?”
“Actually, yes.”
“Who?”
“B—”
