2. Drake
CHAPTER TWO
Sometimes all you wanted when you returned from a rough business trip was a good home-cooked meal.
When I returned to my penthouse, despite it being almost midnight, I turned directly into the kitchen and pulled out the ingredients for a hot dinner of steak, roasted potatoes, and a glass of whiskey.
The red on my knuckles stood out against the stark white of my shirt.
I ignored the ache in my ribs as I rolled up my sleeves and yanked my tie off.
Then I set to work, peeling potatoes, seasoning the meat, drinking an entire glass of burning amber liquid before savoring the second. Savoring meant downing the entire thing in seconds to slow the shaking in my hands before pouring a third, and hopefully final, glass.
Across the penthouse, the wall of windows provided a spectacular view of the world that I couldn’t care less about.
A pitch-black sky and glittering city lights blinked back at me while I worked.
The view and rising aroma of dinner weren’t potent enough to distract my racing mind from the grueling weekend I’d lived through.
The sizzling pan, the beep of the oven, the slosh of whisky in a glass didn’t detract from the noise in my head.
I flicked on the flatscreen over the black brick fireplace in the living room and turned the volume up high.
Loud, fast-paced rock music from my playlist blasted through the penthouse, finally drowning out the buzzing in my ears.
Returning to the delicate, precise work of preparing a meal anchored my drifting thoughts back to the present.
Hands finally steady, I removed a beautifully seared steak from the pan, resting it on a wooden cutting board. I set my favorite kitchen knife on the black granite counter as the last seconds of the timer ticked down for the potatoes.
The oven beeping nearly muted the click of my front door. Awareness tingled down my spine, and the hairs rose on the back of my neck. Only a handful of people knew I’d completed an assignment. Few knew I’d planned on returning home that night. Less knew where I lived.
Pivoting toward the short hallway from the front door to the kitchen, I slowed my breathing and nearly, but not quite, regretting that fourth glass of whiskey.
The booming music muffled but didn’t cancel a scraping noise at the door that kicked up my heart rate.
I approached the edge of the kitchen, listening closely and preparing to round the corner.
A blast shot the door off the hinges. It slammed into the wall before crashing to the floor. I rocked back seconds before three black-clad figures in masks poured down my entry hall into my home.
The first assailant twitched when he spotted me hovering within reach, as if they hadn’t expected me to be near the doorway.
Perhaps they planned to sneak up on me. But with an explosion at my front door, that wouldn’t have worked in their favor.
It was like they didn’t even know who they were attacking.
He recovered, quickly correcting into the offense. The masked man had a weapon in his hand. He swung. I jerked into action, knocking back the blow and blocking a punch from the second man in the same swing. Thinking I was distracted, the third man jabbed.
“That’s not very nice.” I wagged a finger at him. Then I pivoted around and knocked him back into the hallway wall.
I punched the second masked man in the stomach hard enough he curled up and fell to the ground. The third man moved behind me, and I kicked back, knocking one of his legs out from under him, and he went sprawling into my kitchen.
“Can’t a man have dinner in peace?” I blurted.
The first attacker dropped into a crouch, nearly avoiding my fist. The man on the kitchen floor propelled himself onto my back, and I spun around to grab him. With my fist on the back of his neck, I slammed his head into the corner of my counter. He slumped to the floor.
“Kill him!” one of the masked bastards shouted.
The two men in the hall rose into fighting stances and lunged.
I leapt and kicked one in the chest, using his body as leverage to spin into the second man.
As he fell, I punched him three times in quick succession.
But the weapon in his hand smacked into my already bruised ribs, sending me stumbling back toward my living room.
“That’s terribly naughty of you,” I chided, brushing invisible lint off my shoulder. The mask tipped to the side as he watched in a split second of disbelief or confusion—didn’t matter which. He’d be dead soon, anyway.
I surged forward, grabbing and twisting the weapon he held to sink it into his chest. A grunt knocked from him before I kicked him square in the chest, driving the pointed weapon deeper. He sailed away before slamming into the floor with a satisfying thud.
With that one out of commission and the other man gearing up to strike again, I rolled across the kitchen island and snatched my favorite knife off the counter. “Your turn,” I said.
Much to my chagrin, the man with the cracked mask in the kitchen staggered to his feet. When would the fuckers learn to stay down?
A burning, acrid smell drifted from the kitchen into the living room.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” My potatoes were burning.
The remaining two blundered their way toward me.
Cracked mask had a noticeable lurch in his steps, likely concussed from kissing the counter.
They shambled toward me, backing me into the spacious living room.
The blaring music and thumping bass mirrored the thwacks and jabs from fists and kicking feet.
I moved with the two assailants in a dangerous dance, boxing and slashing at one another around my stone coffee table, over my black leather couch, against the wall of windows facing the city.
Another hit to my already aching side slowed me a fraction. I grunted from a punch straight to the nose, and red filled my vision as the room spun. My heart thumped like a war drum, beating out an accelerated rhythm. Child’s play was over.
Blood splattered across the glass when I sliced one of them in the upper thigh. He tripped back, and I dipped and spun low, cutting him across the artery. One of my glass end tables shattered when I tackled the next assailant down, driving my knife between his ribs.
Everything remained still as the tension settled. Each breath sawed from my lungs as I steadied the thrill of adrenaline in my veins. I shoved myself away from the body leaking a pool of blood. I slipped on the slick, red ichor draining from the assailant.
Red dotted the windows, the charcoal gray walls, and nearly every surface. The blade in my hand dripped with the sticky substance.
“Fucking assholes, this was my favorite knife!” But they couldn’t answer for their odious crimes—as they were very dead.
A horrid chirping combated the music and the blasted ringing in my brain. My head snapped up, eyes cutting to the kitchen, where dark smoke streamed from my oven.
“My potatoes!”
Shooting toward the kitchen, I shoved my bloodied, bruised hands into my oven mitts before yanking open the oven. A tray of blackened chunks of potato greeted me with a face full of acrid smoke.
“Fucking hell.” I carelessly tossed the tray on the counter near the sink.
My eyes cut to the steak, untouched but likely cold now.
“At least I still have you.” Then I peered across the island at the chaos of my home.
I’d need to make a phone call I really didn’t want to make, but agitation at the prospect prickled at my nerves. It could wait until after food.
A knock on the front door frame alerted me to new guests a few moments after I finished chewing my last bite of steak. I washed it down with a last swig of liquor, not moving from my spot on the couch. It was the only spot that didn’t have blood. Where else would I sit?
A tall man in a navy Italian three-piece suite sauntered down the hallway. The rings on his fingers gleamed in the light as he removed the sunglasses from his face. His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as he took on the scene.
“Wearing sunglasses at night makes you look like a dick,” I told him.
“I think they make me look rather dashing.” He flashed a bright smile, winking roguishly at me. His hair appeared shorter, shaved almost to the scalp with line designs on one side of his head, and his reddish-brown skin seemed darker, kissed by the summer spent in the Italian sun.
“Did you just get back as well, Julian?” I asked my closest friend while he scanned the disorder of my penthouse.
“Yeah, though I didn’t have any guests to greet me when I got home.” He nudged one of the bodies with his Italian leather loafers before sniffing down his nose. “Bit jealous, actually. You get all the fun.”
“What’s this about fun?” Another voice added from the hallway. An untidy mop of short auburn hair popped into the space. The shorter man in a white oxford and khaki trousers wrinkled his nose at the bedlam and rising stink of death. “Oh, this isn’t fun.”
“You can’t handle this sort of fun, Dougie,” Julian teased. “Never really could.”
“I don’t enjoy getting sweaty.” Douglas glanced around at the three bodies in varying poses, with the corner of his lips turned down.
“You called the cleaners yet?” Julian asked.
“I called you two morons first. Though now I wonder why I did.”
“Well, I called your father,” Dougie stated.
Julian and I groaned simultaneously.
“Why did you do that?” I barked.
“When was the last time you even got into a fight?” Julian slapped Douglas on the back of the head. I watched my two friends bicker for a moment, wishing I could travel back in time an hour to when the masked attackers blasted my door open.
“Last week,” he retorted.
“Likely story.”
“Ladies please,” I groaned, swiping a hand through the short, black strands of hair falling over my forehead. “There’s no need to argue. You’re both pretty.”
“You think I’m pretty?” Julian ironically fluttered his lashes.
“You’re the loveliest girl at the ball.” I winked at him.