Total pages in book: 227
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 220940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1105(@200wpm)___ 884(@250wpm)___ 736(@300wpm)
He nods, getting me a drink and a wet towel. I check my knuckles. Split. My suit. Splattered. I frown when I get an automated voicemail, swigging back my drink before wiping my suit over and dabbing at my bloody hand. I need a smoke. “All right, boss?” Des asks as I stalk past, pulling out my Marlboros.
I can’t speak. I light up and pull hard, taking the nicotine hit deep into my lungs and breathing out long and slowly.
Who’s looking for her? Her parents are dead, so who the fuck is she hiding from?
I dial her again and roar when it goes to voicemail again, swinging my fist into the wall. Cursing. Fuck, that hurts. I shake it out and call Esther, hardly wanting to admit that I’m worried. Really fucking worried. Where the fuck is she? Why is her phone off? “And who the fuck is looking for her?” I yell, pacing up and down.
“Brad?” Esther says in answer.
“Are you at home?” I try to calm my voice. Try. Don’t succeed.
“Where else would I be?”
“Who’s there?”
“What?”
“Just answer the question, Esther.”
“Would you like to change your tone?”
I breathe in, close my eyes, and look at the dusky sky. “I’m just checking in on everyone.”
“Has something happened?” she asks, sounding worried.
I laugh on the inside. So fucking much. “Nothing’s happened.”
“Then why do you sound like it has?”
For fuck’s sake. “You’re getting as bad as Beau and Rose. Can you please just answer my question?” I haven’t the capacity to locate some bullshit reason for my impatience and interrogation right now. “Who’s home?”
“Just me and the kids. Otto’s popped to the club. Len’s on the gate. James has taken Beau to the boatyard, out on the jet skis, I think. Danny and Rose have gone for dinner, Zinnea’s on another date, and Ringo and Goldie are heading to the club with Tank.” She pauses for a beat, and I will her to get to the person I actually want to know about. “Anya’s at work and Pearl’s out.”
I still. “Pearl’s out? Where?”
“Shopping I think. She took Fury.”
I relax, if only a little. “Thanks.” I hang up and dial Fury. He answers in two rings.
“Boss?”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t fucking know. Some plant shop on Lincoln with Pearl.”
Every muscle in me liquifies, my back meeting a nearby wall. I exhale, feeling lightheaded. “You’ve got eyes on her?”
“Yes, I’ve got eyes on her.” He sounds insulted. I can’t blame him. Tank and Fury are indispensable. Crucial. They’re also the only reason the girls are allowed out of Danny’s and James’s sight when shit’s flying around town. And now the only reason why I’ll allow Pearl out of my sight. “Something I should know?” he asks.
I take a drag of my Marlboro, looking up to see Drake hovering nearby, looking vigilant. “Nothing you don’t know already. Just . . .” How do I say it without raising questions? I might have killed the fucker, but I don’t know who he was, who hired him, what they want, and until I do, I won’t settle. He came to the club looking for Pearl. Knew she’s been here. Where did he get that information? “Just stay close, okay? Pearl wasn’t too happy about having you tailing her.”
Fury laughs. “Beau felt the same. Look at us now.”
I allow myself to smile and hang up, pushing off the wall with my shoulder blades. I need another fucking drink.
I give Drake a nod of appreciation and get my ass back in the club. CamelPhat & Elderbrook Cola plays, and every pole in the joint has a set of long legs wrapped around it. I see Nolan across the way drying his hands. He gives me a nod, and I turn my stare onto Ella. She’s at the front of the stage, tits out, hips grinding. What the fuck was he thinking?
Anya slips a drink in front of me. “Thanks,” I say, sipping now, as opposed to downing.
“Well,” Mason muses, slamming the cash register drawer shut, looking past me. “This one sticks out like a sore thumb.”
I look over my shoulder and see a woman, maybe mid-thirties, in come-fuck-me stilettos, a sharp trouser suit, with a fancy purse and layered blond hair. “Doesn’t she just,” I say quietly, watching her approach the bar. She leans over, asking Anya something. Anya looks down the bar to me before smiling at the woman and shaking her head. Mason moves in. Talks to her for a few moments. Gives her a glass of wine.
She sits on a stool and faces the stage, and Mason comes back down my end. “She’s asking after you.”
“Name?”
“Elsa Dove.”
I frown, thinking. “Why does that ring a bell?”
“Because she owns the Pink Flamingo.” Mason’s pierced brows rise as I shoot him a surprised look.
“Isn’t the Pink Flamingo the club James stormed six months ago with a few guns and found the Leprechaun?”