I edged around the tiny, hideously inadequate lot. On my second lap, I was relieved to see that somebody was just leaving, so I pulled up alongside them and put on my flicker. As the person edged out of the space, I got ready to pull in, but as I rolled slowly forward, I was beaten to it by a shiny black penis extension posing as a sports car.
“Hey!” I pressed down on my horn, making myself jump as the angry sound reverbed around the small space. The other driver didn’t stop pulling into my spot. What the actual fuck?
I kept my hand on the horn, but this time also wound down the window.
“Hey, excuse me! What the hell? I was waiting for that space.” The car’s lights went out and the doors opened. As the driver and passenger exited, I continued my tirade.
“Hey buddy, you can’t do that! That was my space.”
The driver looked at me, then looked at the space where his car was now firmly parked.
“Oh really? I don’t see anyone’s name on it.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered away with his passenger, without a care in the world. What an asshole. Who took something that was quite clearly not theirs, and didn’t even show any remorse, like the world owed them a favor? I could barely contain my rage, but had nowhere to direct it, as the two leather-jacket-clad figures disappeared into the building.
I sat for a few more moments in stunned disbelief before inching my way back out of the lot. The likelihood of another space opening up was slim to a snowball’s chance in hell, and I couldn’t afford to wait around any longer.
In any event, I got “lucky” and found a metered space a few blocks away. Not that my feet considered themselves lucky, as I teetered along on my fuck-me heels that were way more practical for being screwed in than they were for traversing city blocks. Fuck. My. Life.
I was fuming as I hobbled into the sixth-floor reception area with blisters blooming on each little toe, and sweat beading my brow and other places I’d rather not think about. I saw Carson, my manager, just as the familiar and sickeningly overpowering scent of his obscenely expensive bespoke cologne hit my nostrils. He’d had it created just for him by a top-drawer perfumer, and, as such, nobody had the heart to tell him that he smelled like their grandma’s bathroom freshener.
“Hi. Sorry I’m a few minutes late. I had to park on the street and walk back, so now I’m pissed off and sweaty. Worse still, I would have been fine. I found a spot in the lot out back, but it was stolen by a shiny black endowment-enhancer-driving douche canoe.”
As the last words of my sentence died in the air, I took in the rest of the room: Carson was in front of me. To my right was the reception desk and receptionist, to my left, the douche canoe in question, along with his friend. Recognition bloomed in his eyes, and I was sure the same expression was reflected on my face. Oh. Shit
I’d gone too far down that route to extract my foot from my mouth, so I met his hostile glare with an equally frosty one, and called it quits. I turned my gaze quickly back to Carson, as though the douche was the least important thing ever to have happened to me. I leaned forward slightly and lowered my voice.
“Do you have any more information about this meeting?”
“Nada.” He shrugged. “Radio silence. I’ve called and left messages a few times, and sent two follow-up emails. Tumbleweeds. I guess whatever it is, they really want to tell us in person,” he responded in hushed tones.
“Why does that idea fill me with dread?”
“Because, it’s not their usual MO, and”—he lowered his voice further—“because of all the other shit that’s been going on. I mean I guess we’ll find out shortly, but the conclusions I’ve come to in my head ain’t pretty.”
“Same here,” I agreed.
He reached down to pat my hand. “Don’t give yourself an ulcer thinking about it. We could both be wrong”—I very much doubted it—“and even if we’re not, you have me here to handle it, whatever ‘it’ is. And handle it I will.”
Still, with the best will in the world, and all of Carson’s connections and skills, there was only so much anyone could do, no matter what. He was a talented and renowned manager, but he wasn’t the Wizard of Oz, or Jesus. Or Kanye. He couldn’t perform miracles. My unease grew as the thoughts swirled around my head.
“Hey, hey, hey. I can feel the worry pouring out of you. I know it’s hard, but try not to stress too much.” He led me gently by the elbow to some nearby seats and I sat down dutifully.
“There will be plenty of time for that afterward, if it comes to it, so you might as well save your energy for when it’s really needed. In the meantime, can I just tell you that you look amazing? That leopard dress brings out your everything.” He swirled a hand in my direction in his typically camp fashion. I silently thanked him for changing the subject and attempting to drag me out of my funk.
“Thanks. You should have seen me before I had to run a damned marathon to get here.” I shot a pissed-off glance across the room and found Douche Canoe staring at me as though he hadn’t looked away since the first time. He didn’t even have the decency to avert his gaze once he’d been caught in the act. Instead he winked, and I fought the urge to flip him off, remembering where I was.
Chapter 4
King
* * *
Rome’s body visibly bristled beside me as he stared down the beautiful woman from the parking lot. The amount of angry energy buzzing from him was phenomenal. It was like an electrified forcefield. I was sure that if I had a cigarette, I could have lit it just on the sparks flying between the two of them. Of course I didn’t smoke, so I’d have to borrow one from Rome, but that wasn’t the point.
I nudged him with my knee, to remind him where he was, and not to do anything reckless—which with him was tantamount to telling him not to breathe. The reckless gene was strong in his lineage. Either that, or he and his brother Marko had inherited the dose meant for their large extended family.
Rome leaned forward and glared at me. If looks could kill I’d have been past dead, but I’d stopped paying his daggered looks even the slightest bit of attention years ago. It was standard operating procedure for him. Instead, I tipped my chin, indicating for him to sit back, and chill the fuck out.
I found his caveman routine tiring, but it was just the way he was wired. He had two settings—too much, and way too much. Right now he was at the top of way too much, but looking like he might go over the edge.
We were saved by the appearance of James, our manager, looking every bit the greasy salesman that he was. Not that his greasiness was necessarily a bad thing—I didn’t have to like the guy; I just needed to know that he could get the best for us in the various negotiations on the table. He could. And he did. Often.
He pulled each of us in turn into a bro shake, then looked at his Rolex, I was pretty sure only because that’s exactly what he wanted us both to do—look at his grossly expensive watch. I didn’t know why he felt the need to do that—try and impress us with whatever sparkly bauble was his newest acquisition—it was totally wasted on us. I just didn’t care about any of that stuff. Rome did, but only in as much as it made him angry that people lived that way.