Chapter 8 #2
Ricardo ate some green beans. “And make sure you don’t drink from the wrong glass. If you start showing those symptoms, you’re the hospital’s problem.”
August scoffed. “You’d just dump me off at the hospital? You wouldn’t even stay with me? What happened to ‘in sickness and in health’?”
“I said I’d take you to the hospital.”
“Rude.”
“I’m serious, though.” Ricardo’s demeanor shifted so fast, it was impossible to question that he was being serious now. “There is no treatment for ricin poisoning. Be. Careful.”
“Aww, Ricky.” August nudged him with his foot. “You know I will be.”
Ricardo glared at him.
August huffed. “Do you want to deliver the poison, then? Since you’re so worried about me?
” But as soon as he said it, he wanted to haul the question back, because absolutely the fuck not.
No way was he letting Ricardo go wandering in there to dump a neurotoxin into someone’s drink and hope he didn’t accidentally drink it.
Before Ricardo could answer, August waved his hand.
“Never mind. Never mind. I’ve got this.”
His husband’s eyebrow flicked up. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“Not really, no.”
Ricardo blinked.
August guffawed. “Darling, please. Between the two of us, who can really sell ‘I’ve got the magic elixir of eternal youth and health’?”
“Are you saying I look old?”
“I mean, you do, but I meant you’re more ‘grunt with a gun’ than ‘manic snake oil salesman.’”
Ricardo pursed his lips. “Given the alternative, I think I’d rather be the grunt with the gun.”
“Of course you would.”
“Still—be careful. Please?”
“I will. I promise.”
They ate in silence, with August pausing his planning just long enough to respond to Karmena’s text to let her through the security on the east side and onto the grounds so she could check on their heritage carob tree—it was five hundred years old, they had to let her check it weekly or lose their lease on the land—before going through his gameplan for the fiftieth time since they sat down.
He’d swan into the room as himself—as Augustus Mason, invited guest and billionaire philanthropist extraordinaire—and rub elbows with all the pretty people.
He’d tell anyone who’d listen—which would likely be most of them—about this miracle supplement he’d found that was keeping him so young, he was still getting carded for alcohol despite being north of thirty.
It was risky and brazen, making him visible to people and cameras alike, but that was exactly what would keep the suspicion off him.
Who would make such a show of himself in a place he’d come to commit murder?
It was the assassin’s version of a magician’s misdirection—pull all the attention onto himself, make himself very seen and very noticed, and subtly deploy the death blow that would kick in long after he’d gone.
And anyway, who would ever suspect such a generous, wealthy pillar of the community to commit murder?
Still… risky and brazen, and he was still edgy after their last job had gone so wrong.
He couldn’t help poking holes in their plan, seeing fatal flaws at every turn, when his old self would’ve been confident beyond hubris that it would go down without a hitch.
And that if there was a hitch, he and Ricardo would adapt effortlessly like they always had.
Like they always had up until the last time. Fuck.
Shame they couldn’t have just fucked with the mark’s insulin or something.
Rachel had disclosed that her husband was insulin dependent diabetic, but of course he had a subcutaneous pump, which made things inconvenient.
And even if he’d gone the old-fashioned injection route, getting access to those injections wouldn’t be easy; less because he was paranoid about someone tampering with them and more because he didn’t want anyone to know about them.
He was an outspoken proponent of “clean living through clean foods” and didn’t believe in little things like, oh, bacteria.
If it came out that he’d developed diabetes last year, his ultra-rich crunchy-living clique would socially castrate him.
“There’s another issue tomorrow,” Ricardo said, pulling August out of his internal turmoil.
“Oh, goodie. Just what I need.” Huffing out an annoyed breath, August reached for his wine. “Do tell.”
“His secretary.”
“Executive assistant,” August corrected automatically even as his mind raced to figure out how the assistant could possibly fuck things up.
“Executive pain in the ass.” His husband looked grumpy about it.
“I went by the gala venue to check out exits and install surveillance equipment. Little fucker was everywhere.” He rolled his eyes again.
“I ended up having to hide in a broom closet for fifteen minutes while that awful little man shouted the rest of the staff down about preparations for the gala.”
August racked his brain for a moment. “Hmm… Ezekiel Martins?” The man’s name had come up a few times in the documentation Heidi sent over, but he’d seemed like just one more cog in the machine.
“That’s the guy.” Ricardo rolled his eyes. “If he clung any harder to his boss’s ass, he’d be classified as an invasive species.”
“You turn a phrase so colorfully, sweetheart.” August leaned back on his hands. “And you think he’ll be a problem?”
The fact that Ricardo didn’t answer immediately was concerning. When he did speak, his words were measured in a way that told August his husband had already considered the question. “Under normal circumstances, no. But with the way the last job went…” He shook his head.
August both liked and hated that they were on the same page about that. “So he could potentially get in the way. Or pull Redham away when I need him.”
“Or see you putting something in Redham’s drink.”
Scowling, August nodded. Fabulous. Fucking fabulous.
“Just be careful,” Ricardo said again. “We have to get it done, and the longer this gets drawn out, the more potential for disruption there is. Hopefully Redham will just drink it and fucking die.”
August snorted. And he concurred. “Well, I just hope Rachel enjoys herself.”
“You like her, hm?”
He shrugged. “I appreciate that she’s put up with a bad situation for a long time and is happy for it to end.
Death is rarely the right answer for marital problems, but she’s not just being vindictive with this.
Harrison is a shitty human being, and no one except perhaps his executive assistant will cry when he goes.
” He smiled. “And my meeting with her earlier guaranteed us a great rating once we’re done. ” Take that, NightPigeon.
Ricardo grabbed up the picked-over tray and carried it to the cart by the door. “I appreciate your sense of perspective.”
“You’ll appreciate my perspective a lot more when I’m on my knees for you.”
Ricardo didn’t trip, that would be too much, but he did pause before setting the tray down. “I’d like to see that,” he said as he turned back toward August. His pupils were already wider than a second ago, lust sharpening his gaze.
August had always had a weakness for sharp men, especially this one. He slid off the edge of the bed and grinned. “I’d like to show you.”
The gala was, objectively, quite lovely.
It was an indoor lunch event, so black tie wasn’t required.
That meant the men were free to don salmon-colored shirts and seersucker shorts while women matched tasteful jewelry to their tea-length dresses instead of going all-out with the bling.
Food and drinks were quietly circulated, and while the speeches about the cause were being saved for the end, there were pamphlets about the charity itself and how the money would be used on every table and posted on free-standing banners. Subtle, for a billionaire.
No, the gala presentation was lovely. The emotional undercurrent, percolating through the party like a stream of piss in a swimming pool, was downright acrid, and the man responsible for it was making his rounds like only a dutiful little peon could.
“—so grateful you could come,” the animated dildo known as “Zeke, Mr. Redham’s executive assistant, yes he’ll be here soon, but welcome, welcome!
” was saying to a couple by a massive hydrangea display near the front door.
“You know, Mr. Redham needs the support of his closest friends during this trying time. Oh, you didn’t hear?
” He lowered his voice. “Rachel has finally pushed him too far. He’s getting ready to file for…
” He looked around theatrically. “Divorce.”
August ground his teeth as he listened to this conversation play out for the tenth time since he’d arrived.
The impending separation of the Redhams was all anyone was talking about now, and most of the conversation was about what Rachel had done wrong.
Sticks and stones, and all that, but August knew it bothered Rachel.
She was here, being a gracious hostess and doing her best to ignore the whispers, but August was an expert at seeing through a smiling facade.
She was mortified and clearly unprepared for her husband’s stealth attack on her credibility.
The little shit’s smear campaign was also cramping August’s style. He was trying to get people talking about his magic age-defying elixir, but they all smelled blood in the water. Juicy gossip was far more intriguing to idiot oligarchs than yet another means of thwarting Father Time.
As for Rachel’s soon-to-be-dead husband, he wasn’t here yet. Weird.
August took out his phone.
Any sign of the man of the hour?
Ricardo