Chapter Twenty-Four
HEATH
Friday afternoon
Manhattan sure knows how to kick the shit out of a man.
The music is pumping, the speakers buzzing. A bass too intense for the sound system blares through the air, and as I stroll my way into the club—soaked on every inch of skin—I shake a slew of ice flakes from my shoulders.
So much for having an LA winter.
It would have been my first real Los Angeles winter season, my first foray into an eighty-degree Christmas. Instead, I’m here—a strip club, no less.
I came back to New York for two reasons…and both involved Marilyn. Now, standing here in a cheesy exotic bar rife with bottom shelf liquor and purple walls, I don’t know how to tell a friend—a man I haven’t seen in seven years that the person he once knew…is a fucking fraud.
Jesse sits down as I approach the violet-lit VIP section, his gray overcoat sitting precariously on his shoulders, his arms spread wide as he takes in the view in front of him.
A mass of brunette wavy hair and fake tits. A dancer spins around the pole, mimicking the swirl happening in my hungry gut.
I take a seat on the faux leather, tempted to swipe his drink. God knows I could use the alcohol. I inhale slowly.
“The Abominable Snowman wouldn’t bring his ass out in this weather. And yet here I am.” Jesses motion for the scantily clad waitress. “This better be good, Sparrow. Otherwise, you owe me an Armani trench.” He glances down. “‘Cause this shit is sure to be ruined.” He knocks another inch of ice from its wool surface as he takes off his coat.
“When we’re done talking, I’m sure you’ll be able to buy twenty more just like it. I wouldn’t have dragged you here in the middle of the day, if it wasn’t worth it, Jesse.”
He nods. “I understand. So talk.”
Humming his agreement, Harvard’s most ruthless valedictorian smiles the same smile I’d seen him use to trip up nineteen year-old gang-bangers.
But we’re not nineteen anymore. And these gang-bangers are much more different now. Now? They’re in business suits.
Their gambles have grown more sophisticated, more calculated, betting a sport they now leave to their lawyers, risk a game they play better than roulette.
I order a whisky from the waitress, anxious to chase the cold away with its warmth. I stare at my old friend, wishing I had more time to tell him…that someone is after my family…or the firm.
“Is there a reason you called me down here on the shittiest day of the year?” He stresses. “We have bigger fish to fry. In case you hadn’t heard, our stock prices are…”
I cut him off. “I know about our stock prices. In fact…” I trail off, grabbing his drink and taking a sizable gulp. “That’s the reason why I called this business meeting.”
He gazes at the stripper still circling the metal pole, his stare swiveling back to me with a smile.
“This is a business meeting? And I’m guessing she’s your secretary, huh.” I glance over. “Wonder where she keeps the notepad…”
I glare “I’m serious, Jesse.”
“Me too. I don’t even want to think about where her pens are stashed.” My old college roommate clears his throat, and I’m tempted to jam my fist down it, impatience getting the best of me.
“Listen,” I snap. “I’m talking about a war, Jess. You should be familiar with this routine by now.”
He raises one eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
I sigh, leaning my head back, the red and violet lights bouncing off the edge of my dark liquor as I lick my lower lip. My mouth goes dry.
“What do you know about Violet Keats?”
Just saying her name shoots an arrow through my heart, but I barely blink. The waitress arrives, and I take my drink, not moving to sip it, straightening my back to better watch the expression of Jesse’s unsuspecting face. He shows nothing.
“Not much.” He finally takes a gulp of his own drink, his words scratchier than ever. “I barely know her.” He shrugs. “Do you?”
Except for the way she smells, the way she fucking tastes. I know the pitch of her breathy moans, her little sighs. In fact… I know every single, sexy inch of Violet Keats. But that’s none of Jesse’s business.
He leans forward in his dark suit, Violet’s name still hanging on the edge of his angular lips. His frown starts to deepen as he sits.
“I know she’s friends with your sister, Marilyn. Is that why you’re curious?”
My stare slants. “About what exactly?”
“About whether or not she was going to affect your decision to work on Chris Jackson’s case, of course. I know David wants to. Hell, he’s been holding secret meetings about it since Fitzgerald went in the hospital. If that’s the case…” He stares, setting his drink down. “Then I quit. Rep’ing a man like Chris Jackson isn’t the sort of…working environment I’m walking into.”
The word working sounds like a curse coming out of Jesse’s mouth. Or worse—a dirty word.
“We’re not representing Chris Jackson, Jess. Not on my fucking watch. But that doesn’t mean that someone isn’t floating around the rumor that we are to drive our stocks down, to bring the business my father built crumbling to the goddamned ground.”
Jesse shakes his head. “I’m still not following you, Heath.”
“I’ll make it simple…” I lean closer, my pulse playing along with beat of the loud music. “I’m talking about corporate espionage. I’m talking about big business corruption. Stock manipulation. The works.” I whisper lower. “Hell, Jesse, this goddamned club we’re sitting in is the site of so much fucking crime and extortion that it makes Alcatraz look like a private Catholic school. Any of this ringing a bell?”
He scoffs, sitting back, his broad shoulders slouching as he inclines. “Well, there goes my buzz…”
“I’m fucking serious here.”
“So am I, Heath.” Jesse leans forward, his nearly black eyebrows furrowing as he inspects me slowly, his green irises scanning my entire face. “So am I.” My old friend glares. “I want you to keep talking because I want to hear this. Because I think you’re getting ready to confess something I probably don’t want to hear, something you had to drag me miles away from the office just to show…” He hesitates. “Or am I completely wrong?”
He’s not wrong. And I hate that he knows me so well. Can see right through the bitter wall I’d tried to build. The emotional safe-guards.
I want to tell Jesse about the gamble. That fucking bet. I want to tell him that I’ve been bamboozled into taking a wager that was impossible to win. When some secret plot was behind the scenes manipulating the very integrity of King & Sparrow as we speak.
I want to tell him…that we’re being fucking set up.
But before I can say anything else—admit my dirty deeds, a curvy blonde with spiked bangs sashays in my direction, rocking a pink lingerie set thin enough to clean my teeth with.
She bends towards me.