Shit. Sabrina.
Her stance is bold. Her face—unapologetic.
She pushes me back into the men’s room the second she sees me, and she locks the door behind her before I can even figure out what’s happened.
I’m startled as hell.
And all I know is that I’m in deep shit.
“Sabrina…” I find myself saying. “What the fuck is this?”
Her smirk is sly, and it reaches her hazel eyes. Her skin is glowing and she’s positively brimming with sexual energy, a sensuality that emanates off of her reddened skin.
This woman is in-fucking-corrigible.
And I’ve got to get the hell out of here.
I make a play for the exit, but she blocks it, lifting her leg and sticking her high-heeled shoe on the closed, wooden door.
“Don’t play games, Griff,” she purrs, her British accent strong and soothing. “Your reputation precedes you, so I know you know what this is.”
“Really?”
My response is scathing. “Looks like a current colleague of mine is getting really goddamned inappropriate.”
She smiles.
“And you would be right.”
She reaches for my shoulders. “Why else do you think I pushed so hard to work with Tripping Out!”
I swat her hands away.
“Don’t do that… Feel free to enlighten me, Bri…”
She scowls at the nickname.
“Just why would a company such as yours opt to work with one of the hippest new travel pubs on the block?”
The sarcasm is dripping from my tongue, but that doesn’t stop Sabrina from flicking out hers.
She licks an already wet lip.
“Your company being one of the hottest new travel pubs was reason number one. Reason number two… is in your trousers.”
She reaches for my cock, traversing my fly with taloned-fingers.
I grab her clawed hand, nearly stabbing myself in the process.
“Mmmm,” Sabrina hums. “Rough. Just the way I like it.”
“Put a fucking lid on it, Sabrina. This is business. Strictly business.”
She glances at my fly.
“And so is this. Did you think we were going to choose to work with WanderLust or TravelTalk?”
My gaze tightens on her.
“Gee, why not?” I ask.
“Besides the fact that a bunch of old farts are running them?”
She titters. “Well, Rustin Dixon wouldn’t know what was hip if it bit him in the arse, and Martin Sears… well, Martin Sears barely has a magazine, anymore.
“That company’s going down faster than the Titanic.”
I freeze.
Martin Sears.
Martin fucking Sears.
As in Gregory’s Sears’s bush-whacking daddy… and boss.
“You mean Martin Sears’s company wanted this collabo?”
“That’s riiiiight,” Sabrina sings. “And we wanted you… I wanted you, Griff. From the moment I saw you in my office.”
My heart starts pounding, and I can’t think straight. The mention of Martin Sears’ name sends my sensibilities through the roof, and I struggle to find the strength to calm myself.
I take a look at Sabrina.
All soft and seemingly sexy. Any man would love to stick one to her.
At least, any man that isn’t me…
At this point in my twenty-eight fucked up years of living, she is the furthest thing from what I want.
I think about Elena, and finally, I find the calm I was looking for.
I release Sabrina’s hand slowly, sliding my fingers up the arm I just held. I take her elbow in my hand, pulling her closer so her body skims along my own.
She gasps… and I know I’ve got her right where I want her.
I lower my gaze, glaring openly at her rosy mouth.
I take both hands away from her arms so that I can slide them around her waist, letting my fingers tickle her midsection as I reach towards the small of her back.
Sabrina sighs, and she rests her chin at my chest. She inclines a head full of reddish auburn hair so that her face looks up at mine.
I hold her still.
“Any man would be a fool not to want you, Sabrina…” I mutter softly.
I keep reaching and reaching with my hands…
Finally, I find it.
My hand, at last, touches the wood, and I unlock the bathroom door.
“Luckily for me, I don’t mind being a fool,” I tell Sabrina.
I take a step back from Sabrina, stone-faced, as I open the door that was just shut.
“Class dismissed.” I hold the men’s room door open. “Now, get out of here and go home before you embarrass yourself any further.”
Sabrina scoffs with disgust, but, clearly too embarrassed to reply, she relents. She turns on her heel, her hazel eyes shooting barbs of indignation my way.
She readjusts her large breasts in her skin-revealing dress, and then she’s off, walking past my outreached arm, leaving a trail of Dior perfume and “Go Fuck Yourself” in her wake.
I wait two seconds and then I follow.
The moment I pass through the door, I find Elena outside in the hallway, staring me in my face, gazing back and forth between me and the door that Sabrina and I just exited.
***
The waiter comes with my check, and I can’t get Elena to even look at me.
From the look on her face outside the bathroom, it was clear that she had something to say, but when she sees me walk out of the restroom door behind Sabrina, all bets are off.
She freezes, walking back towards our table without a single word.
When I reach her side, I attempt to touch her, but she flinches, and whatever apology I was ready to give dies a quick death.
I’m screwed.
Sabrina just dropped the biggest bomb ever on me in the restroom—basically confirming that Sears is our fucking guy—and the one person I want to tell is probably the last person who wants to listen to me.
I accept the black folder containing my check from our shell-shocked server, and I thank him, nodding dutifully as he starts to walk away.
But when I open the folder to place my cash inside, something noticeable is missing…
There is no check.
A carefully handwritten note sits where the check would normally be placed, and instead of numbers and dollar signs, I find myself staring at ink-scripted text—glossy black letters that lie firmly in the middle of a plain white page, its font slanted, its cursive immaculate.
Without reading, I raise the folder in my hand towards the waiter.
“Uh, excuse me? Waiter…”
The black-vested man turns towards me.
“There is no check in here,” I tell him.
He takes a step forward, nervously rubbing the cuffs of his white shirt.
“You’re Mister Griffin, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
He waves it off, his sleeved arms flapping as he motions a hand in my direction.
“Then you’re covered, sir. I was instructed that someone else has picked up all of the orders for this table.”
“Someone else?”
I open the folder.
“Yes,” he begins, “they wanted to pay for any expenses incurred by Mister Griffin and his company, so I…”
My throat slams closed.
I can no longer hear what the waiter is saying.
In fact… I can no longer even fucking breathe.
The note that replaces the check is not just beautiful; it’s deadly… and what it has to say strikes more fear in my heart than anything I have ever experienced—any fate that I have ever faced.
It reads:
Now that I’m certain that I have everyone’s attention,
we can finish the game.
Instead of capturing the Queen…
maybe I’ll reign in her place.
Either way I win!
One final warning.
...
A chance to make your last desperate move
—all of you—
be present at 363 Weeks St.
Tonight!
9PM.
Elle should be familiar with the place.
Invite no one else or the game will end abruptly.
The clock is ticking…
Elena begins to turn away from the table when I grab her elbow.
“What do you want?” she asks angrily.
Her voice is laced with anger, but her eyes are wet with hurt.
I hand her the note.
She reads… silently, and when she’s finished, she looks as sick as I feel.
“That’s the address for the studio I’m purchasing,” she declares.
“I know.”
“So, what does this mean?”
I sigh, and the breath I take literally feels heavy.
I can’t swallow because dread seems to have solidified in my throat, and when I actually manage to take a gulp, it feels like sandpaper—scraping, cutting, biting sandpaper that scrubs me raw and leaves me exposed.
I can barely rasp the words.
“It means that someone wanted us all here together—someone tricked us into coming… I was told that Chris wanted me here for business…”
She gasps, following up.
“And Chris was told the same lie...”
I finish.
“And I’m willing to bet that the same bullshit was fed to Foxx and Kat to get them to come here.”
I pose a question to the entire table.
“Who texted you about coming here tonight?”
The table speaks… and it’s unanimous.
The same name comes off of everyone’s lips in a scarily unified chorus, and I realize that everyone at the table—everyone except the scandalous but unsuspecting Sabrina—was sent the same text message.
The same spiel about a business dinner that never existed—the Tripping Out! meeting that never was.
I crumple the note from the folder, squeezing hard.
“This little ‘family reunion’ wasn’t an accident,” I say, shaking my head at Elena’s terrified face.
“Someone set us up—the only person who didn’t show tonight…”
I slap the leather check holder back onto the table.
“Goddammit. Guess we’ve found Sears’s fucking accomplice.”
Piecing the Puzzle
Life is a succession of lessons, which must be lived to be understood.
All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle.
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
DAY 7—8:42PM
Tampa City Streets
LUKAS
“Ana?” Elena screeches.
“My Ana?”
“No… that’s not even poss… I can’t… I won’t.”
I speed through traffic, nearly barreling through several stoplights. The wheels of my Audi screech as I catch another yellow light, scarcely passing the overhead glow before it can turn red.
I’m on my way to Elena’s studio—with Elena in tow.
And this time… the only person I’m thinking about confronting is the last person that ever I thought I’d have to…
Ana—the conniving young woman who orchestrated tonight’s little get-up and implicated herself in the process.
The note was an obvious threat—a warning directed at the rest of us. I call her cell a million and one times, but nothing.
It goes straight to voicemail again.
And I push the Audi’s speed just a little bit faster.
“Come on, come on…”
I chant from the driver’s side… because I have no clue what else to do.
Elena is nearly having a panic attack in the passenger seat beside me, and, irrationally, I try to will the time that it takes to get to the studio space to go by faster.
Just a little faster.
God, work with me here.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Elena states softly.
“Oh, it is,” I comment. “Trust me.”
The snort Elena gives is both harsh and exaggerated, and it ticks me off.
“Trust you? Trust you?”
She turns to me, her blonde hair whipping across her collar.
“Tell me—how the hell am I supposed to do that after a decade of ‘irresponsibility, whoring and poor judgment’?”
She quotes Chris, and I place both hands at the helm of my car, glaring heatedly at her out of the side of my eye.
“I’m not that man, anymore, Elena; you know I’m not that man.”
“Do I?” she asks—her throaty voice rising even higher.
“Because the man I’d thought you’d become wouldn’t have been walking out of the men’s room at the same time as his slutty client. We both know how you feel about restrooms, don’t we?”
Elena twists back towards the window, and I don’t say anything.
It’s going to take more than just this drive to erase months of the bad taste that I’ve put in her hot-tempered mouth.
And right now—who I was and what I have become is a subject too big to take on.
The only thing we need to take on is Gregory fucking Sears—and Ana… if she’s done what we think she has.
Or rather… what I think she has.
Because Elena won’t believe it.
She’s spent half the ride trying to convince herself it isn’t so.
Even with the wealth of evidence piling up against her noticeably absent younger sister, Elena won’t buy into it, choosing instead to blame Sears alone… or Trina… or even Chris—insisting that we call the police despite what the note says.
All the while, I continue to speed towards Elena’s studio—afraid of what will happen if we don’t meet this nine o’clock deadline.
And also afraid of what will happen if we do.
I shift gears without another word.
It’s Saturday night, and the traffic is thick. I weave in and out of cars, inciting a barrage of honking horns.
With no more options, I call my PI, Henry. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on my phone, I squeeze Hank for every ounce of information he has on Sears, Trina… and Chris as well.
Luckily, he moves with haste.
“Gimme a sec. Lemme grab my notes on Trina…” he says over the phone.
He appears to flip a page on the other end of the line.
“Ok…” he starts quietly. “Here we go…”
“Katrina Stark. Aged twenty-six. Former assistant at Swing Low Dancery. Current cocktail waitress at the Boogalou restaurant.
He pauses.
“I’d been tracking Trina for a while, hoping something would come of it. She had been having a few lunchtime meetings with some mystery guy, but when I found out it was Chris, I delved a little deeper… Turns out he’d been spending his nights with some woman—as I suspected… but the woman wasn’t Trina.”
Henry continues to rattle off information.
The sound of flipping pages and furious scribbling can be heard as plain as day through his over-amped, office speakerphone.
The mention of Katrina’s full name ignites familiar sparks, but before I can delve any deeper into the spark, Hank bellows over the line, cutting my thoughts.
“Hold tight. I’ve got more on Sears,” he exclaims.
“I know you knew that Sears maintained a residence in Tampa until very recently… like, last month recently—hence, the stay at the Hilton.
“He lost his waterside Tampa apartment— failure to pay rent. He appears to still be working at his father Martin Sears’s magazine, TravelTalk, but from what I’ve gathered, TravelTalk is filing a Chapter 7 bankruptcy…”
Bankruptcy?
“And Martin Sears went on a recent hiatus…” Hank continues.
“Rumor is… he’s been committed—unwillingly checked into a mental asylum for a breakdown he suffered in the wake of widespread whispers that his company was going under.
/> “The Sears’ stand to lose everything.
“And Chris…”
Henry appears to rifle through more pages.
“Well, I did what you told me to, but there hasn’t been much to report on him these past few days. He seems to have just fallen off the map.”
I tighten a hand on the steering wheel.
“Thanks, but no further investigation is necessary at this point, Hank.
“I think I’ve got all the information I’m going to fucking need.”
***
ELENA
Nine o’clock PM.
And not a minute left to spare.
With the tension between Lukas and I thick enough to cut and the fear between us setting in even thicker, we reach my studio on Weeks Street with the smell of rain in the air and the stench of anxiety choking the life out of us.
With the humid sky dark and the studio doorway even darker, I retrieve the studio key from the lock box using my realtor Kathy’s code, and I place the key in the lock, turning it to step into a surprisingly blackened room.
Where’s the light? Where’s the light switch?
I reach for it, using my outstretched hands to guide me. I find the switch, swiping a hand upwards against the wall to turn the light on.
Nothing.
The overhead lights do not kick in, and Lukas and I wander around aimlessly, searching for another means to illuminate the place.
I hear a creak underfoot, and suddenly the tightened studio space around us lights up.
I look up and into a soft amber glow coming from the corner of the room.
Oh my God…
I see the gun before I see the person behind it.
The phone in my hand drops before I can scream, and the crash that it makes against the floor is loud enough to almost make me shit my pants.
Instead, I squeeze my eyes, preparing for the sound of the gunshot—the last sound I’ll probably ever hear…
One second…
One and a half…
Two.
The seconds stretch, the moments flex and time is bent into a circle—a fluid loop that spins round and round into infinity, making the marking of the minutes impossible.
I don’t know how long I stand there with my eyes tightly pressed into slits.
Minute by Minute (Games & Diversions #3) Page 17