Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“That’s between Haute and the IRS. His loopholes can’t blowback on us as long as we don’t get mixed up in his charities.” Archer links his fingers together with practiced patience. “For the record, we donate plenty ourselves.”
“Seriously?” Pat smirks at us both. “You make it sound like we’re just as shady as him, trying to cover our tracks.”
“Giving to charity isn’t what makes him shady,” I bite off. Usually, Patton’s bullshit makes me laugh, but today I’m wound too tight to find him funny. “It’s the fact that he could be hiding all the shady shit underneath his good deeds.”
“On paper, it’s unlikely. He’s clean, Dex,” Archer says. “No connection to anyone implicated in the bust at the golf course. Hell, the report from your PI says he’s not even cheating on his wife. Though I guess that’s up for debate if he’s as obscene as you make him sound with his sweets.”
Knowing Haute, he probably is cheating.
He just hasn’t left any sort of trail.
“There’s something we’re missing,” I growl. “Fuck, I know it.”
Archer sighs and rubs his temples.
“Look, part of me wants to believe you. But I don’t know what more I can do. Either we pull the plug on this project based on a gut feeling or we listen to the evidence.”
“Pull the plug?” Patton rocks his chair forward with a thump. “Not a fucking chance, Bro. Do you know how hard we’ve worked on this? And now you want to go and butcher the golden goose?”
I glance at the clock again.
With the traffic downtown, I’ll need to haul ass to get to the Sugar Bowl before the pickup.
“We don’t have to make any final decisions today,” I venture. “He still hasn’t sent us the final contract.”
“Yeah, about that—his assistant says it should be coming today. A few people were out sick on his legal team,” Archer says.
Fuck.
I stare at the table. It’s all glossy wood, gleaming and heavy as a tombstone. Just the sort of impressive and expensive Archer likes.
Patton’s right, though, even if he’s as insufferable as ever about it.
This is the deal of a lifetime.
We should be over the moon, kissing Haute’s pastry-inflated ass so he goes ahead with it.
If I’m honest with myself—and this is the sort of honesty I hate—it’s because of Junie.
If Haute hadn’t roped her into his supply chain—if I hadn’t gotten involved with her and the risk was just ours—I might have shrugged off my doubts.
Archer’s reports might make more sense.
I might not feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.
Business is all about risk, that’s nothing new.
But not Junie. I won’t risk her family legacy and everything she’s toiled over on a hunch.
“This meeting’s gone on long enough. I need to go,” I say, pushing up from the table.
Archer stares at me, but I don’t offer an explanation. He doesn’t know how far the thing with Junie has gone, and I don’t need him to.
“If you guys find anything new, let me know ASAP.”
“Someone’s in a hurry. Wonder why?” Patton gives me a wide shit-eating smile as I pass him, but I don’t take the bait. There’s no time today.
Outside, the sky opens up and dumps a steady summer rain on my head.
I walk past my Tesla and choose a nondescript company car. Just in case I do find anything, I don’t want anyone to notice me.
Before I set off, I check my phone, but Junie hasn’t texted.
Looks like she got the memo about keeping our distance.
There’s an empty itch under my skin, hating that she’s given up on me even though that’s what I demanded.
Fucking hell, I’m going to be sick.
As I pull out, I try to forget all about Junie on my way to the Sugar Bowl. I arrive just in time for the delivery boys.
They show up in a white van that isn’t sporting a logo from the golf course or anything else. Odd, but certainly not damning.
Two guys climb out, laughing and joking like any working class stiff on a long shift.
They’re more boys than men—I’d peg them as being in their early twenties. Broad-shouldered, but normal enough.
They look like they work out, though they’re not the hulking human Dobermans I was subconsciously expecting in my mafia nightmares.
Still, I make a mental note of their faces.
One guy has cropped brown hair. Army-style, the kind I recognize right away. Average face, no distinctive features, around my height, minus a few inches.
The other is blond. Tattoos crawl down his right arm. He’s built like a runner, long and lanky.
I check the time on the dash. Midmorning.
Junie comes out the back and helps the guys load her stuff into the van. She looks totally at home with them, her hair long and loosely tied back, her sleeves rolled up in the heat.
From the way they look at her, they’ve noticed she’s a sweeter treat than anything in those pink boxes.