Chapter 11
VINCENT
It’s my turn to stop by the Portland office the next morning. My head’s not in it, though. Deanna’s jabs, and now this Jeremy prick coming around has done a number on Raina, and she doesn’t deserve any of it.
She was always a good girl, and I’ve loved every second of ruining her, of owning her, of claiming her—but only because, at the end of the day, every second has been a privilege, a chance to worship her, to possess her, to keep her close and safe. Tonight, it all ends.
I walk past our secretary with grunt of acknowledgment.
“Mr. Manning, excuse me,” Sarah says, stopping me in my tracks just as I’m about to go into our joint office. “There’s someone in there.”
Slowly, with one hand on the doorknob, I turn my head to look at her. “Go on.”
“He said you had an appointment this morning,” she replies. “A lawyer from Bancroft his blue eyes are sharp. “Thank you for meeting me.”
“I didn’t seem to have a choice in the matter,” I reply. “What do you want?”
“We got off on the wrong foot last night. I had to come up here this morning and make things right. Please accept my apologies. I was out of line and inexcusably rude.”
“What am I supposed to do with that, exactly?”
Jeremy offers me his business card. I take it and carefully analyze it.
It says, “Jeremy Copeland. Senior Associate with Bancroft his face is suddenly blank.
I know why he’s here. I imagine he’d rather slash my tires, but he’s in deep and can smell his own end coming fast, because a man like William Bancroft has a low tolerance for sharp talkers who succumb to white powders. Judging by Jeremy’s subtle twitches, Bancroft has every reason to be concerned.
“I can see right through you, kid,” I say after a long and heavy silence. “Get your scrawny ass out of my office and be thankful I’m not on the phone with Keller right now to tell him what kind of stunt you just tried to pull.”
“Mr. Manning, I believe your interests would be better served with us.”
“And I think you should leave. This is the second time in under twenty-four hours that I or one of my partner has asked you to leave. Do not make a habit of it, because none of us are below tossing you out the fucking window.”
“So, that’s how you want to play this?” he mutters.
“I can only suggest that you be more careful about how you address me, Mr. Copeland. Chances are, I know more about you than you know about me, and what I know about you could bury you. Be very careful.”
Jeremy may be a desperate idiot, a narcissist with a superiority complex, a frustrated piece of garbage with a pretty face and decent taste in men’s fashion, but he’s not suicidal. He takes the loss with a slight bow, then exits my office with his chin up.
“Have a good day, Mr. Manning,” he says.
“Oh, it’s already stellar, now that you’re leaving, thank you.”