Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126564 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
The driver swirled to the opposite lane again, trying to make the driver of a passing Prius divert their car into my lane and collide with the Nissan.
The Prius grazed me on the left side and I felt the car almost tipping onto the guardrail. I broke left, trying not to lose the Escalade, which was picking up speed, capitalizing on the fact I needed to regain my balance.
The Prius pulled to the right uphill. I could tell the driver was shaken, but uninjured.
The Escalade and I were heading to a multi-lane intersection forking north, south, and east. The Escalade shot through traffic, slipping in and out of the lanes. People honked. Some pulled to the side, not taking any chances. Ten seconds later, the light turned green and the intersection flooded in a river of cars coming from all directions. The Escalade disappeared between them.
“Fuck.” I punched the car horn, producing a deafening sound.
It was done. I couldn’t find them. 1-0 to the home team. This was my cue to tell Tom he was right. The Russians were in the picture. I should bow out and let someone else take care of the Thorne Princess. It was the right thing to do. Shit, it was the smart thing to do. And all my excuses for staying were dumb at best and pathetic at worst.
I needed to think.
Lurching the Nissan LEAF into reverse, I made an illegal U-turn and darted back to Hallie’s neighborhood. By the time I arrived, Max was already there. He sat with Hallie and Keller in the kitchen.
It looked like they were having some sort of vegan DoorDash feast. Keller was in the middle of telling them about his non-conflict, organic, sustainable Brazilian farm where he sourced most of the fruits and vegetables for his juices. It sounded like the least cost-efficient business plan I’d ever heard of.
Max just kept muttering, “Wow,” while sipping on his green smoothie.
“Can I just say,” Keller lifted his head from his green bowl, his gaze zeroing in on my crotch, “you look delectable in your birthday suit.”
I looked down. The towel was still wrapped around my waist, but my cock was swinging about under it, like a limp third leg. I glanced at Hallie coolly to see if she shared his fascination. She busied herself trying to spear a cherry tomato onto her fork.
“I’m going to head out for a few hours.” I directed this at Max, the only person in the room who didn’t want to ride my cock.
Max nodded. “Let me know if you need me to stay overnight.”
A part of me longed to put him in way of temptation. If he fucked her, I could fire him, could bail on this post, and go back to my ordinary life.
“I’ll let you know.”
I went upstairs and dressed in a pair of dark cigar pants, leather sneakers, and a black tee. I grabbed my wallet and phone and made my way downstairs.
I opted for Hallie’s BMW Hydrogen 7. The Nissan LEAF was banged up due to my brush with the Russians.
I drove down to the nearest bar. A black-bricked low building with a pink neon sign stared back at me. Cocks and Tails. Los Angeles was not known for its subtlety. I wanted to be found by Kozlov. Wanted them to corner me.
Pushing the wooden, round-topped door, I shoved past a mass of sweaty, half-naked people dancing to the tune of a truly horrible remix of “In a Manner of Speaking” by Nouvelle Vague. I was about to turn around and head out—this was a mistake, I didn’t need a beer, I needed to make shit right—when I noticed a smaller, separate room for bar-goers. I waltzed inside. The space was dark, gloomy, with high stools and soft erotic paintings. The array of people at the bar sat either in couples or alone, squinting at their smartphones to see where their Tinder date was.
What the hell. One drink wouldn’t hurt.
I slid onto a stool and rapped the bar.
“Jameson, neat.”
“Coming right up,” a barkeep with a blunt haircut and facial piercings squeaked.
As if on cue, a woman of the Desperate Housewives variety—tall, leggy, blonde, with enough makeup to paint a house, slipped onto the seat next to me. She wore a hot pink blazer, matching shorts, and white kitten heels.
“According to the women’s magazine I read today as I waited for my dentist appointment, men who order Jameson know what they’re doing.” She signaled the bartender with her hand.
“White Russian for me.” Then, turning toward me, the woman—twenty-nine? Thirty?—grinned seductively. “What does my drink order say about me?”
“That you’ve never worked in a bar before, so you are under the misguided assumption the milk in the fridge hasn’t expired,” I deadpanned.
She let loose a throaty laugh, caressing her throat. “Maybe I’m optimistic.”