Page 28 of Himbo Hitman
I don’t bother pointing outagainthat we won’t be going to them with anything.
Lars watches for a bit longer. “Shit. There you are.”
“Right.”
“Damn it. The video ends before I can see whether he follows you out.”
Lars stands up and stretches his arms over his head. “I’m going to head down there and ask for more.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“Nah.” He flashes his smug look. “The manager took a liking to me.”
“Of course she did.”
As fast as his teasing appeared, it vanishes, and he pins me with his serious face. “Stay here. I mean it. No coffee, no need for fresh air. Nothing. I’ll be back soon.”
Like I’m going to argue with him. I’m more than happy to hole up in my office or my apartment if it means not risking my life again. As much as it would be easier for me to have the guy findus,there’s no guarantee he would let me talk before firing, and there’s no point ignoring his warning if it’s not going to lead me to Colin.
“I’m as protected here as anywhere,” I remind him.
“I’ll be fast.”
Lars leaves, and I take it as a sign for a break. Numbers are hurting my head, and my posture isn’t winning any awards either. I stand, stretching my arms over my head like he did and daydreaming about how Saint Clare’s wassupposedto go.
Me and Colin, stressing over entry numbers and staffing and keeping enough stock on hand. Bickering over who to invite to our VIP areas and how much to pay ourselves out of the takings.
I was never, ever supposed to be dealing with a missing brother and a fucking murder plot.
Screw it. The bookkeeper I hired will have to swamp through the numbers and talk to me about it later since she understands this shit better than I do.
All the coffee I’ve drunk today is making me need to piss, so Iduck into my private bathroom across from my office, empty my bladder of what’s probably ninety percent coffee, and then avoid my reflection as I wash my hands.
I don’t need the reminder that I look tired as shit and have a mangled ear.
Maybe while Lars is gone, I can let myself nap. Just a teeny bit. This week has thrown enough shit at me to fill a year, and I didn’t sign on for any of it.
I like anonymity, and I may have some regrets about my name being in neon letters above the door.
And the feature article.
Andall the social media posts I’ve been tagged in.
The thing is, our nightclub needed a face, and Colin flat out refused to do it, so it’s not like I had a lot of choice. It was supposed to be temporary. Something we did early to get people engaged—the person-to-person attachment always works better with selling a brand—and then the focus on me was supposed to stop as soon as we were doing well.
If only I’d known someone was seeing my face out there and plotting out the best way to destroy it.
I return to my office, locking it behind me so that Lars doesn’t have a fucking meltdown, and decide I might as well try to fill in this spreadsheet one more time.
The prospect of more hours in front of the screen makes me want to rip my eyes out though, so when a throat clears behind me, I’m almost relieved.
Until my brain catches up with me.
“Your ear doesn’t look too bad.”
My back locks up, and I hate that I’ve relived that night so many times that my brain recognizes his voice as familiar. “Why don’t I cut off half of your ear and see how you like it?”
When he doesn’t reply, I get the courage to slowly turn and face him.
