Tibbs laughed, punching me in the arm like he couldn’t see the problem. “Use that charm of yours, brother. Hell, you talked Quinn into taking those photos for your mom when her and North were broken up. Seen you sweet-talk the chief when he was about to blow a fuse. And it was you who managed to convince Presley to let you drive her home the other night when she told me to fuck off. Flash those baby-blues, give her that charismatic grin, and say whatever you need to say. We’ve got to do what we have to do. I take full responsibility, and if she gets mad, I’ll take the heat. Only fair since it was my idea.”
There was so much in there, I didn’t even know where to start. And if Tibbs only knew the half of what we’d done, he wouldn’t be volunteering to take the heat.
The way I saw it, I had two choices. Sack up, tell him his sister and I had crossed a line and give him the option to change his assessment. Or shut my fucking mouth, be a man and do what I needed to do so she was safe, and her brother didn’t blow a gasket.
“I’ll talk to her later today. But Tibbs, if I’m going to be busy with Presley.” Such a baaaaaad choice of words. I swallowed, trying to recover. “I mean, keeping an eye on her, then you need to clue me in on the shithead. I want to be there when it goes down.”
Tibbs held out his hand, giving me a grunt of approval. “Easy. Done. Couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want there more. Besides, I’m going to need someone to run interference with the chief. Mack will be so far up my ass, I’m going to need some Preparation H.”
“You should thank your lucky stars he’s got Hayden to distract him.” The chief’s new woman not only gave the man something to smile about, but would take most of his attention.
“Right?” Tibbs laughed. “Quinn getting him that dating profile for his birthday was a strike of pure genius. If North hadn’t already married and knocked her up, I’d totally have made a play.”
I rolled my eyes, knowing he wouldn’t have gotten very far. “Sure you would’ve. And I’d be visiting you at Mount Sinai where you sucked your dinner through a straw.”
“I can take North. He’s a big bastard, but I’m quick.” He nodded, convincing himself—because he didn’t have a hope in swaying me—that he’d have won that fight.
“Go make us coffee, moron.” I lifted myself out of the La-Z-Boy, needing a shower before heading to work. “And make it extra strong.”
“Don’t use all the hot water,” he yelled, hopefully heading to the kitchen as I disappeared into the bathroom.
Yeah, because me using all the hot water was the biggest problem we had.
I was going to have to talk to Presley.
Shit.
Presley
CLUB HOURS WEREN’T conducive to regular sleep patterns.
I went to bed between four and five, and slept till about noon. Which meant mornings were not my friend.
So when my phone went off sometime before lunchtime—me, the idiot, believing turning it to silent was for suckers—I knew it couldn’t mean anything good. Groaning, my hand reached out blindly, grabbing it off my nightstand and bringing it to my ear. I couldn’t face opening my eyes, keeping them scrunched tight as I coughed out, “Presley Tibbs, this better be an emergency.”
“Presley, it’s Scott Collins. How are you doing?”
Oh Lord, give me strength.
I peeled one eye open, checking my phone display for the time and saw it was only eleven. Cursing him and his movie star dad—and anyone else who had anything to do with him—I shuffled up the bed.
I’d assumed I’d be hearing from him today, Hank giving him my card before he left. But he couldn’t have waited an extra hour? The missed sleep mourned as I tried to be pleasant.
“Scott, hi. I assumed you’d have an assistant call me.”
“Yeah, and miss out on a chance to talk to you? No way. So tell me, Presley, you been thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about you?”
Apparently, I hadn’t made myself clear last night, the inference that I wasn’t interested in flirting or whatever the hell he was attempting to do, I thought pretty fucking obvious. But it seemed Scott needed a refresher, and since I hadn’t had my required eight hours sleep, I was positive it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Scott, Scott, Scott,” you poor beautiful, boring, and soon-to-be dead man, “I know you probably don’t hear this a lot, but I’m really not interested. I assumed when you said you wanted to discuss business with me, you meant actual business. Not sure what kind of business that would be, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I do that, Scott, not because I have a kind heart, but because that’s what businesspeople do. We listen to people who talk shit because there might be something in it for us. But trust me when I say that you aren’t the first—and will not be the last—guy I blackball from the club for wasting my time and misappropriating my phone number. And, it won’t just be my club. You’ll suddenly find yourself persona non grata to a long list.”
At Diablo I made an effort to be diplomatic. I wanted return patronage and to keep my ledger healthy. But in my own time—not so much.
“Wait. I promise I’m legit. Just hear me out.”
It gave me a warped sense of pleasure to hear a man beg. I liked it, especially when I knew the man would rather swallow glass than submit. Which was the only reason why I hadn’t hung up.
“Tick, tock, Scott. What have you got for me?”
“It’s about a club. Here in L.A. I mean, there in L.A. I want to talk to you about a partnership.” He stammered through most of it, the cool Hollywood heartthrob he was in interviews, sidelined with the flirting.
“Elaborate,” I breathed into the phone, not convinced I still wanted to listen.
“Can we do this in person? Set up a meeting?”
“Not until I know this is going to be worth my time. What club in L.A. and what does it have to do with me?”
It had been a while since I’d visited the west coast, and I was okay with that. I wasn’t fond of palm trees, and all that sunshine wasn’t good for my skin. So how I fit into the equation was still a mystery.
“I want to buy a club, okay, and I need someone to run it. I want it to be you.”
And silence.
On both sides of the phone. Because I still wasn’t sure he wasn’t deploying a new tactic. “Hey baby, come run my club,” meaning something entirely different. And he probably was preparing for me to tell him to go fuck himself.
Which I would.
Once I worked out what he was saying.
The measured breath slipped silently from my lips as I kept my tone unemotional. “Thursday, one in the afternoon, at Diablo.”
“Huh?”
“Your meeting. Be prepared, Scott. And don’t ever call me before noon again.” I hung up the phone, not waiting for his reply.
He was either going to turn up at the appointed time or not. And while I had an itching curiosity to know what Scott had to offer, I wasn’t going to advertise that to him. Nope. I never showed my cards. It was the quickest way to get taken advantage of. And if I wanted a long and successful career, I could not be making stupid mistakes. Ones that would probably be forgiven if I didn’t have a uterus, but have me vilified for the same reason.