Chapter 6
SIX
Davis
The car is silent, but I can still feel Rowan’s eyes burning a hole into mine through the rearview mirror. After a few moments too many, I finally lift my gaze to meet hers and arch an eyebrow. “Can I help you?” I ask.
“You’re not gonna try to find her? Seriously?”
“No, darlin’, I’m not gonna try to find her,” I tell her. “It was a fling. It’s over.”
“Now that’s bullshit and you know it,” Colt scoffs from the seat next to me. “You have told me about ‘meeting someone’ maybe twice in all of the years that I’ve known you. This included. So fling, my ass.”
It is bullshit, and I do know it, but there’s nothing more for me to do.
I already tried looking her up; a beautiful woman like that has to have a following of some sort somewhere.
I even gave one of the clerks in the office her name and a description with the sole task of fucking finding her for me, but out of all of the Noelles she came up with, none of them were mine.
Not even fucking close. My own perpetual scrolling turned up jack shit.
I should have left it well enough alone when she didn’t show, but whatever happened between us was so goddamn hypnotic, for both of us I thought, I at least wanted to know why the cold feet. I don’t get stood up; I do the standing up, so what the fuck gives?
“Whatever it was,” I grumble, “it’s done.”
“See, baby?” Colt says, turning back to face his wife, resting a hand on her knee. “I told you it was his turn to be the cranky one.”
“I’m not fucking cranky,” I snap, earning laughter from the pair of them.
I need to get out of this truck, and I need to get some pussy.
At least I can look forward to this meeting.
Normally, I’m not the guy who gets stoked on the structural side of things; just put up some walls, slap some paint on ‘em and call it a day. But this little club is my pet project, and I’m actually really looking forward to giving my input.
I’ve been thinking about it since I planted the seed months ago, before we even bought the previous building. This is my baby.
The ground is nothing but foundation and some basic framing, now that the original structure has been demoed, but I can see the idea taking final shape in my mind the second we walk onto the plot.
I quickly ditch my companions and look around for Logan and his team so I can run some ideas by them about the exterior and overall build of the place.
“I want to see twenty-five, thirty foot ceilings, a three-sixty bar at the center. Big enough for six or seven people to have plenty of room to tend the bar.” I walk around the plot with my hands locked behind my back, thinking.
“You know what, draw up a lounge area separate from the VIP. Lounge on the west, VIP to the south, behind the bar. That’s where we’ll have the employee lounge, behind the VIP.
Make it easy for the bottle service to freshen up and get out on the floor. ”
“Sweet deal,” Logan comments, using a pencil to make a rough sketch onto a large roll of paper. “I’ll draw up a couple designs and bring ‘em to you by Friday. We thinking something upper crust, more modern, or speakeasy vibes?”
“Modern,” I answer quickly. “Definitely modern. We want everyone to want in here bad enough we gotta kick ‘em out for using fakes. Throw in top-of-the-line security tech, too, while you’re at it. Another info leak like we had with the collective, and we’re toast.”
Two years ago, the entire client list for our art collective was leaked, their personal details along with it.
We’ve never fired so many people in one day – hell, not even in a full year.
We don’t fire our employees unless they break policy, and failing to protect our clients’ private information definitely falls under that umbrella.
Shooting me a grin, Logan says, “Make that Wednesday,” and he rolls the paper back up to tuck it under his arm.
As he heads off to speak with his team, I call Rowan over and ask her to take down some notes while we walk over the plot.
She jots down some detailed notes on her little tablet while I spout off ideas on flooring, color schemes, furniture – anything that comes to mind as I walk through the space I’ve planned out in my head.
I don’t want to speak too soon and say that I’m really enjoying this, but if it comes to life the way I imagine it, well, that will be pretty fucking cool.
Rowan impressively makes it about a half an hour before tucking a lock of hair behind her ear and clutching her tablet to her chest, skipping ahead to match my pace.
“You know, maybe this whole Cancun thing was just a sign,” she says.
“Maybe you’re ready to settle down. I could set you up.
My friend Mariah is single, she’s cute and she’s looking. ”
“I know Mariah.”
“Yeah! She works with us,” she continues. “She’s really sweet, and super outgoing. I think you’d like her!”
“I know Mariah, darlin’,” I repeat. I raise my brows to emphasize my point, and a look of sudden horrified realization crosses her face.
“Oh. You’ve—”
I nod, a smirk playing at the corner of my mouth. “A few times.”
“Frog,” she mutters under her breath.
·
I rap my knuckles against the door frame of Colt’s office before letting myself in. The place is a mess; papers are spread across the desk, the drawers of the file cabinet against the wall are visibly disorganized, and there are three cups of coffee sitting on the desk.
“God damn,” I laugh, “you leave this mess for your wife?”
“No.” He reaches for one of the coffee cups and I drop myself into a chair in front of his desk. “I’m actually hoping that she won’t see it before I get it cleaned up.”
“Your shit is falling apart, old man.” I grab one of the framed photos on his desk, turning it over in my hand to see his smiling family all grouped together like a fucking Hallmark card, and set it back in its place on the desk.
“Perfect excuse for a night out. Boys and I got a table, you’re comin’. ”
“I’m assuming that I can’t say no to this invitation.”
“Not a chance in hell, ya old bastard,” I tell him with a grin, standing to smack him on the arm. “Don’t wear a fuckin’ suit, either.”
The man probably has four t-shirts in his closet and a hundred different fucking custom-tailored suits, and I’m the polar opposite. I think I own ten suits, total, that I cycle through as needed because I fucking hate wearing them.
Colt’s up to six cars that he treats like they’re as meaningful to him as the art that he keeps around his house, and I have an Aston Martin convertible and a goddamn Chevy Silverado that I take offroad every now and again.
And I prefer the Chevy.
I’m not always sure why our friendship works as well as it does, because we’re so damn opposite each other, but he’s my brother.
Blood doesn’t mean shit when it comes to family, it’s the people you can call to bail you out of jail or to help you get rid of a body in the middle of broad fucking daylight, and Colt has quite literally bailed me out of jail before.
A handful of times, actually.
Even through his own shit, he’s been there for everything, and I’d do the same for him. This shit is for life; he’s stuck with me.