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)
“You want to work with me? Even after this?” He snorts loudly, the champagne thick on his breath.
“Help me make her pastries famous,” I growl. “I’ll do anything to make it happen—and I do mean anything—I just need answers. Help me help you. And if you could take the damn bottle off my neck, that’d be nice.”
His hand shakes as it hovers over my neck.
With a discontent groan, he sweeps back, like he’s disappointing some bloodthirsty monster inside him.
“Big words, Rory. You’re asking for a lot of trust.”
“Trust? I could’ve gone to the cops over this, Haute.” I don’t let an ounce of fear into my voice. “I could’ve stood in your way, but I’m here, aren’t I? Asking for an in. I want to help the Sugar Bowl and my family. Just like I want to help you.”
Haute takes another step back and lowers the bottle.
It’s like watching his shield go down, appealing to that strange part of his flawed soul that understands an obsessed, death-defying love.
If only I had time to process what talking about Junie like this really means when it doesn’t feel a damned bit like lying.
“I love her,” I say. “Being with Junie—it’s not like anything I’ve ever experienced. Before her, I never dreamed I’d be willing to do the unthinkable. I never thought I’d be glad to risk everything.” I let my shoulders sag, hoping he’ll see me as a desperate lovestruck sicko. Someone he can use. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make her happy. Anything. You just tell me what you need.”
“I’ve seen you together. I know how you feel, I suppose,” he says slowly. The broken bottle hangs in his hand now.
“She deserves better than me.” I laugh, hating the way it sounds. “But if I can make her dreams come true, it’ll all be worth it.”
Haute finally steps away, looking over the darkening city as he says, “She’s something special, yes. The Sugar Bowl could easily become a national brand—and a conduit for so much more.”
Goddamn, he’s close to slipping.
Just keep him talking.
“If we’re involving her business without her knowing, we need to talk this out,” I venture. “Just tell me how this works. Whatever you can.”
He spares me the briefest glance and another layer of his armor comes off.
“Isn’t it obvious?” He sighs like an exhausted teacher explaining an algebra problem for the fifth time.
Good. Let him think I’m dense and harmless.
I stare at him intently, waiting for more.
“I piloted the goods for the drop sites first. The men I deal with, the bosses, they keep their soldiers on a need-to-know basis. The less said and the more discreetly they say it, the better. The lower the risk if anyone ever decides to flip for the authorities or a rival group. It’s a pretty decentralized operation at the lower levels, and it works for us.” He turns to look at the city again. “If this works, your fiancée’s lovely pastries could become more than a logistical tool. Long term, they’re perfect for transporting more important cargo.”
My face burns, hating the way he talks about this disgusting shit like it’s just another real estate transaction. The thought of his friends bastardizing Junie’s creations, stuffing them with drugs or coordinates or who the fuck knows, makes my blood molten.
“Impressive,” I bite off, trying like hell to keep my voice neutral. “I’m sure she can step up the orders, no problem. We could even set up a Sugar Bowl bakery case at the golf course to explain the new business boom. It’ll be easy.”
“That would be a first in this line of work.” He inhales sharply. “Easy or not, we need to talk numbers first.”
I walk toward him again, knowing it’s a risk as long as he’s clutching that bottle.
I do it anyway for the sake of the recorder in my pants.
For Junie.
I’ve got under ten minutes to kill before my brothers check in. I glance at my watch, but Haute tracks every movement. I don’t dare reach for my phone.
“Okay. Numbers,” I say, spreading my hands.
Then Haute’s phone rings.
A sharp, blaring sound set to the factory default that, from the look of it, he isn’t used to hearing unexpectedly. His head snaps up and his eyes slit as he pulls out his phone and squints at the screen.
The big hand holding the broken bottle twitches.
Shit, this isn’t good.
Even the way he’s looking at the screen tells me it’s a call he doesn’t want to take, almost certainly related to his primary business.
“What is it?” he snaps, holding it to his ear. “I told you not to call unless it’s an emergency—”
As the voice on the other end of the phone talks quickly, Haute’s eyes heat. It’s a different sort of expression from before—not the lazy, controlled anger—but a white-hot, knowing rage as he looks straight at me.