Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72648 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 363(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 242(@300wpm)
Resolved, I decide to hit The Wicked Horse tonight. I’ll fuck until I can’t fuck anymore.
“Actually…” I say dismissively. “I’ll just email the spreadsheet to you. It’s self-explanatory. Try to change it to fit our department reports. If you need any help with the intricacies of the formulas, you can see Mr. Pierson’s secretary, Gayle. She’s a whiz at it.”
“Yes, Mr. Blackwood,” she murmurs. After a slight dip of her head, she starts to back out of my office.
I have to physically restrain myself from watching her go. I’d most likely have failed at such an endeavor since she has an amazing ass, but I’m saved by my phone ringing.
The ring tone is my buddy August Greenfield’s, whom I haven’t seen in a while. I nab my phone from the desk, then make sure Bailey is out of earshot when I answer with a hopeful invitation. “Wicked Horse Vegas tonight. Meet me at eleven. You, me, and a woman with loose morals. You in?”
“Actually, I’m way out,” August replies. Weirdly… I find myself a bit relieved. “In fact, I hoped I could see you for a drink. I’m actually close to your resort now. Got a few minutes to spare?”
Ordinarily, I’d say “no.” August is a friend, but no closer or distant than my other casual friends. We’ve shared some great times at The Wicked Horse, most recently with his girlfriend, who’d come back into his life. August was my go-to guy when I was in the mood for a threesome.
But no one gets an audience with me during my workday without pre-approval and planning. My time is precious, and I guard it fiercely. Admittedly, Bailey has become very adept at defending it for me. Had she answered this call, she would have flat-out refused him, then offered to book him next week.
Yet, I don’t say no. When I glance at my watch, I realize it’s almost five, which means someone is having a drink somewhere. August has a lot going on in his world—an old flame newly out of witness protection with potential bad guys after her and a kid sick with cancer. Only because of that, I decide to spare him a few moments.
“Yeah, man,” I reply. “Just head over to Farina’s bar. I’ll meet you there.”
When I hang up the phone, I glance out my door. Bailey is back at her desk, head bent over her work. If I don’t have any evening requirements for her, she usually stays until at least six. I have no clue where she goes or what she does after that. Hell, I don’t even know if she has a boyfriend. I never thought to ask.
But surely not.
Not after what we did together.
Mentally, I make myself shrug off my curiosity. I have to stop thinking about her outside of our working relationship.
For my own sanity, it’s imperative.
♦
August is already nursing a beer when I get there. When I sit, the bartender moves my way, clearly surprised the head boss is gracing the establishment. I rarely eat at my own restaurants. Not because they aren’t stellar, but because I don’t like making a spectacle of myself, which I tend to do in my own resort. I want my employees to give top-notch service to our customers without worrying about me watching over their shoulder.
I lift my chin to the bartender before nodding toward August. “I’ll have what he’s having.”
“Right away, sir,” He says, but my gaze is pinned on August. He looks fine.
Great, actually, as he holds out his right hand with a smile.
When we shake, he says, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“Was worried something was wrong,” I say. I put my forearms on the bar, but angle my chair slightly his way.
August shakes his head. “Everything is mostly great. Sam is fine. Leighton’s great. I mean… we’re great.”
“I sense a ‘but,’” I say with a laugh as the bartender sets my beer in front of me. I spare him a short glance. “Put both of these on my tab.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Blackwood.”
Turning my attention back to August, I wait for him to tell me why he’s here.
When he does, I’m not prepared for what he says.
“I’m leaving town,” he informs me in a matter-of-fact tone. “Tonight, actually.”
“Permanently?” I inquire, just to clarify.
He nods, picks up his beer, and takes a sip. “Yeah… Leighton’s father was made by some of the mob family he testified against. They have people pouring into Vegas to look for them. No clue if they’ll be successful or not, but I should get Leighton and Sam out of here.”
“Her father too?”
“Yeah,” he says. “All of us. We’re headed to Pittsburgh. I’ll transfer to that branch of the Jameson office, but I don’t think I’ll be back in Vegas anytime soon.”
I hate that. August isn’t my best friend because I don’t have one of those. The downside of being American royalty with a demanding job. But he is a friend, one I’ve shared numerous debaucheries with at The Wicked Horse. Plus, he’s confided in me about the pain of his past.