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“I’m always careful,” Samson spat out the lie with a grin.
“You’ve never been careful in your whole fuckin’ life.” Nick swiped his smokes off the desk and lit up. “To make matters worse, you set yourself up as Frank’s personal fighting machine.”
“It was the best deal I could make.”
“So you said.” Nick dragged deep on his cig. “I just hope Lisbeth is worth it.”
“She is.” Samson didn’t have to elaborate because he knew what he wanted in his heart and nothing else mattered.
“Just curious, have you told her you’ll be Frank’s fight slave until this favor is paid up?”
Samson shifted his feet. “What do you think?”
“And if you did, how do you think she’d react?”
“She’d fuckin’ hate it.”
“No shit.” Nick screwed his lips into a smirk. “Be smart and don’t get cocky 'cause as we both know, a scam can fall apart real easy.”
They tagged fists and did the man backslap hug thing. “Stay safe.”
“Always.”
31
Twelve hours later, Samson boarded Frank’s private plane along with the pilot and four of Frank’s bodyguards. The scam and all the players were set in motion. They landed at LAX fifty minutes later and took a private car to a sports bar on Santa Monica Boulevard, close enough to the Beverly Wilshire but crowded sufficiently not to be noticed.
Frank sipped his bourbon. “It’s gonna be sweet giving that pompous ass Monroe what he deserves.”
Samson nodded as he gripped the frosted glass of club soda. He wanted to be alert and on point because pulling this off meant his future with Lisbeth. And yeah, he couldn’t wait to stick it to Alex Monroe, either.
Frank’s phone buzzed. He answered it, made some mumbled responses, then swiped the call away. “Let’s move.”
He downed the rest of the bourbon, his goons settled the bill, and they headed for the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, two blocks over.
They silently rode up the elevator to Alex Monroe’s room, each of the men familiar with their part in this intricate plan.
Frank knocked on the thick wooden door marked PH3, one of the exclusive suites that went for ten thousand dollars a night. Samson couldn’t imagine the kind of money that allowed you to fork over ten grand a night for a hotel room.
The door swung open immediately, and a very disheveled Alex Monroe let them in. Sweat lined his entitled, pale face as his panicked eyes darted around the room. He pulled at his rumpled t-shirt hanging over a pair of gym shorts. Amazing how the high and mighty crumbled when they were put to the test.
“You have to help me. I-I don’t know how—I mean, I didn’t do this,” Alex babbled as he ushered them through the spacious rooms, ending in the bedroom where a naked girl lay dead with rubber tubing tied around her bicep.
“Looks like she wasn’t the only one indulging.” Frank surveyed the empty vodka bottle, the dusting of white powder over the nightstand, and all the works needed for a night of heavy partying.
“I don’t know what happened. When I passed out, this girl was still alive. I tried to wake her, but she’s . . . she won’t come around.”
Frank nodded toward the girl and one of his guys pressed two fingers to her neck, then shook his head.
“She’s dead?” Monroe’s high-pitched whine was the sweetest sound ever.
“Simple OD. What’s the big fuckin’ problem?” Samson stepped forward, and Alex’s eyes bugged out.
“Why is he here?” Alex said to Frank, then turned to Samson. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came to save your ass.”
Alex glared at Samson and the other guys like he was seeing them for the first time. “I told you to come alone.”
