Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63195 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
I’m not interested in this shit. The only thing I give a damn about is my Kat, keeping her safe from the cross fire. So I’ll play nice. I’ll do what he says. But I’m not his bitch and I don’t play games.
“I didn’t get it,” he says, stopping in front of me in the foyer. He has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eyes since he’s a few inches shorter.
I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, not bothering to confirm or deny whether a text was sent. “Well, I’m here now,” I tell him as I slide off my jacket, soaked from the usual London rain, and hang it on the coatrack.
“You look like shit,” he comments and an asymmetric grin tilts up my lips.
“Thanks.” Running a hand over my damp hair and wiping it off on my jeans, I respond, “I’d say I feel better than I look, but that’d be a lie.”
I’ve known James a long time, nearly a decade and I expect him to ask why, even though he already knows. I anticipate him starting the conversation, but instead he says nothing. Avoiding the obvious and walking down the hallway of the townhouse.
That’s right, how could I forget? We’re at war.
My feet move on their own, following him even though adrenaline courses faster in my blood. It makes me feel sick to not talk about it. To not clear the air.
“Whiskey?” he asks me as he pours himself a glass in the converted dining room. It’s more of a bar now with a long plank of cedar serving as a makeshift counter in the back of the room. The recessed lighting shines softly on the bottles of clear and amber liquids and creates an intimate feel in the room. The humidor full of Cuban cigars and pair of dark leather wingback chairs on either side of it must have been added after I was here last.
“Kane Buchan,” he says, speaking the name and then hands me a manila folder. I’m sure it’s filled with the same shit that was emailed to me. I’ve got Kane’s profile memorized already. He was the lead singer in a rock band from the Bronx. They had one smash hit and then he split from the rest of them. He decided to go his own way thinking he was too good for the band. Most said it was his ego, but it turns out he was right. Three number one hits on the top record charts and now he’s a client.
They all want the same. To flaunt their wealth, get drunk or high. Fuck whomever they want. Kane Buchan is no different.
“He said something about going to Annabel’s tonight,” James tells me and I nod my head. I’ve been there more than a time or two. It’s exclusive and ridiculously overpriced, so of course an up-and-coming star wants to be seen there.
I already know exactly how the night’s going to play out. I just have to keep it clean enough so there are no problems. Kane’s had enough of them from the fallout with his previous drummer.
“Did you even hear what I said?” James asks in a raised voice laced with irritation.
“Annabel’s,” I answer as I look him in the eyes and hope he was still going on about the club.
“No, I said he’s married now so make sure there are no pictures if he does something stupid.”
“I know.” That’s a given.
“He’s staying a few days, maybe less depending on what his agent wants. Just keep an eye on him, show him a good time—” He’s pissing me off. Treating me like a new hire and nothing more.
“I know what to do,” I say, cutting off James deliberately with my retort. “I’ve been here before.”
I’ve had days to think of how to approach this, but I still hesitate to get everything off my chest.
He huffs a response, sounding something like disbelief and then grabs the tumbler of whiskey from the table. The ice clinks as he takes a sip and holds it in front of him.
“Buchan’s agent doesn’t need any more press other than what they’ve arranged.”
“I want you to know,” I start to say as I stare him in the eyes, forcing him to listen to what I’m telling him. “I think it was a setup.” Maybe I’m paranoid, but I don’t give a fuck. I have to tell someone. And I’m sure as shit not going to Samantha. “It was an accident, but it just doesn’t seem right. Something’s off.”
He shrugs and says, “It was handled.” He takes a sip of his whiskey before adding, “So I don’t give a shit if it was.”
“I do.” My words come out hard and bitter, but James is already walking away from me. I know if I move an inch, if I even breathe, I’ll beat the piss out of him for leaving this all on me. And risk losing everything.