Chapter 2
DECLAN
Spreadsheets, schedules, fucking order forms. All of it makes my head spin. Over the past six months, I’ve had to do it on my own. No help, no assistance. Not like I asked. The one person that usually helps me isn’t here. My right hand…he’s not…
I shake that depressing thought from my head and focus on the order forms, checking over the inventory for Azure Rose. There’s so much that needs doing, but I can’t escape my ghosts. Hendrix hangs around, his soul permeating the very walls.
Eyes on your paperwork, boss he’d say in a cheeky tone that irritated the fuck out of me. I know I’m pretty but stop staring.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stop his voice from pulling me back to those first few weeks after he was killed.
No one knew it, but I was a fucking mess. I covered it well, making everyone believe I was a robot, that me avenging Hendrix was all I needed to move on. But it wasn’t. Hell, six months later, I don’t know if I’m pieced back together.
Hendrix was…mine. Just like I was his. Being without him hurts more than words can express.
Not in a relationship way. He and I never crossed that line, mainly because Hendrix was straight and he was more my brother than a love interest. But for years, he was all I had to lean on, all I had in my corner when times got rough, or I needed someone to have my back.
With a snarl, I push my chair back and leave my office, needing to be away from those four walls. I’m already surrounded by memories of Hendrix when I’m at home—I don’t need that shit at work too. Not right now.
I walk to my receptionist’s desk and say, “I’m going down to the floor. Hold all my calls. If it’s my dad or Carter, forward them to my cell.” Not like Dad or Carter ever call my office. They usually hit my cell if it’s something important.
“Yes, sir,” Draya says. “I’ll be taking my lunch in thirty minutes. Will you be back by then?”
“Nah. Just route the calls to your cell if I ain’t back in time.”
“Yes, sir.”
I breeze toward the elevator, the men that guard it stepping inside with me. By order of Carter, I’m not allowed to be on my own until I hire a full-time bodyguard to take Hendrix’s place. I’m in no hurry. I’ll swap out Whitlock men until someone sticks.
I’m not sure anyone will.
When the elevator door opens, the men hang back a few paces as I stride across the floor. I do a slow circuit of the casino, checking to make sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be and no one is fucking with my shit.
When I get to the money cages, I catch the eye of a few of the cashiers that are lounging around, talking and laughing.
They immediately straighten up and pretend they were hard at work.
One of the few men, a fucker named Jadon, meets my gaze, his eyes widening a fraction before he faces the cage windows, helping someone that had just walked up with a handful of chips.
His reaction makes me more alert, like he’s up to something. I make a mental note of that.
Fear clouds the faces of the dealers and servers that see me, most of them averting their gazes as I pass by.
Hendrix’s deep laugh sounds in my head.
He always gave me shit about how afraid of me everyone is. He never was, though. Even when he knew I was a hothead that would tear anyone a new asshole if they fucked with me, Hendrix never let that bother him.
I walk across the casino floor faster, irritated that no matter where I go, my best friend is never far from my thoughts.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to have him on my mind when I just want a moment of fucking peace. Too much pain. I have to push it down; I have to keep moving forward. Emotions are a weakness and I’m not weak.
My hand drifts over to my ribs on my right side, rubbing along the scar there through my shirt. It’s numb—it’s always been numb—but it grounds me. If I can get through that, I can get through anything.
After I make a second track around the casino, more slowly this time, I head back to the elevator.
I step off on my floor and my men stay there, keeping any unwanted guests away while I work. Draya’s desk is empty, so she must still be on lunch. It’s just as well. I want to be in my office for a little while without worrying about her bringing fucking invoices and shit I need to sign.
When I step into my office, I’m shocked to see a bouquet of flowers on my desk. After Hendrix was killed, fucking Nico of all people got me flowers to pay his respects and for me to put them on my friend’s grave.
Thinking about Nico and how he was the only one that extended his condolences both irritates and confuses me. Other than picking stupid fights with me, Nico and I haven’t exchanged many words. He smirks when he sees me and talks around me when I’m nearby like I’m not fucking there.
But he brought me flowers to put on Hendrix’s grave. He did. Even Carter didn’t do more than say he was sorry for my loss. And he only said that once. That’s it.
Nico brought me flowers and told me he was sorry about Hendrix and I had his condolences.
He’s so fucking confusing.
That probably has more to do with him being fine as fuck.
Everything about him just draws me in, like a fucking moth to a flame.
His warm dark brown skin, deep brown eyes, plump, kissable lips and low cut hair that always looks as if he’s fresh from the barber.
Not to mention his fucking body. Christ, he’s so fucking ripped, his body putting mine to shame.
I have to use my snark to keep him away because if I don’t, I’d probably fucking lose myself in him and I can’t afford that. Not right now, not when my head is all fucked up. He’d probably make it worse with his effortless nonchalance that drives me crazy.
Are these flowers from him? It’s been six months and outwardly, I’m doing okay. He can’t possibly know how fucked up my head is whenever I think about Hendrix. What is he on?
I pick up the bouquet and see there is a card inside. I remove it and stamped on the envelope is, “Deepest condolences.”
That weird lump in my throat is back again. I fall into my chair, staring down at the card in my hand. I fucking miss my best friend. After what happened…he’s all I had. He was the only person who was mine and mine alone.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself, tossing the flowers back on the desk. “Get it fucking together. You’re not weak. You’re not weak.”
I crush the envelope in my hand, belatedly realizing it has a card inside. The edges poke against my palm, making me wince.
Straightening the wrinkles, I reach inside and pull out the card, hoping Nico didn’t write some mushy shit that will have tears clouding my vision.
Instead of a quick note from Nico, though, I find a message that’s starting to become really fucking familiar.
YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID.
FIVE MILLION DOLLARS AND I’LL LET YOU LIVE.
Irritation lances through me. I scoff at the lack of originality and stuff the card in my inside breast pocket. If there was something someone wanted me to pay for, they damn well better say that shit to my face.
I should probably give more of a fuck than I do about someone threatening me, but I’ve never been the type to back down.
Whoever is behind this bullshit is a coward and I don’t fucking address cowards.
If they knew to deliver a letter to my office, they know where the fuck I am.
They could have waltzed their dumb ass in here and said what they needed to say.
Then I would have put a fucking bullet in their skulls for thinking they could play with me.
For the past month, I’ve been getting threatening letters, demanding money by a certain date. Saying I need to pay for the wrong I’ve done.
The bitch of it is , I don’t even know what this mystery person is talking about.
There are several things I’ve done that would warrant blackmailing.
Plenty of people I’ve run out of business, plenty of people I’ve run out of town, and plenty of people I’ve put in the ground.
If they want me to feel bad—which I never will—they need to be more fucking specific.
If Hendrix were still alive, he would have found the person who sent this bullshit before I had time to tuck the card into my pocket. But with him gone, I don’t trust anyone else to handle it. I’ll have to use my rudimentary computer skills to figure shit out, but I have no idea where to start.
Fucking Hendrix always knew what to look for and how to figure shit out. Fuck him for leaving me.
Swallowing past the lump trying to form in my throat, I toss the flowers in the trash, then pick up my office phone and call Draya. She answers with a sweet, “Yes, Mr. Whitlock?”
“What time did you go to lunch and what time did you come back?”
She stutters for a moment, probably wondering what I’m on about, but she says, “Um, I left at one fifteen and got back at one forty-five. I took my usual thirty. Is something wrong?”
I answer her question with one of my own. “Was there a flower delivery before you left?”
“No, sir. No one was here but me.”
I left to go downstairs at around one ten, so that means the person had to have come up between the times Draya went to lunch.
I’ll pull the footage and see what I find.
A few cameras are hidden from most people, so if the person that left these bitch-ass flowers was here, I’ll get a glimpse of their faces, even if they think they were hidden from me.
I’ll figure out who the fuck is blackmailing me, and I’ll make them regret they were ever fucking born.