Her jaw drops like she can’t even believe what an asshole I am, but a firm hand on my shoulder stops me from having to respond to this little pain in the ass.
A tall, dark-haired man I’ve seen a few times stands behind me. He’s probably never saved anyone from anything before, since his job is to do exactly the opposite, but I’m sure happy to see him.
“Donovan’s ready to see you.”
“Fucking finally,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing my drink and spinning around on my bar stool. I hop off without sparing another glance at the hungry hooker.
“She’s a pain in the ass, isn’t she?” the man asks, mildly amused.
“Jesus Christ, yes. Like a dog with a fucking bone.”
“Yeah, she’s been around. Probably got excited thinking there was new meat on the table,” he says, chuckling deeply.
I don’t remark further as he leads me through the throng of people. I can see Donovan and his entourage tucked in a long black leather booth. Donovan sits in the middle, his right arm draped across the narrow shoulders of some traditionally attractive redhead. I don’t trouble myself to try to remember her name. Even if I could remember the name of the last girl he brought up, it would almost certainly not be this one. He changes women like he changes suits, and as a pair of women in short skirts pass by his line of sight, I can already see this one doesn’t have much time left.
So does his flavor of the week. Appearing stressed, she turns suddenly and starts kissing his neck.
He pushes her away like an inanimate object and offers an amiable smile at me as I approach.
“Sebastian St. Clair—to what do I owe this great honor?”
He can’t help mocking people, I swear to god. Ordinarily I’m not a man who appreciates someone talking like that straight to my face, but ordinarily I’m not a man who pays an “operating tax” to a rising kingpin, either; I adjust where I have to.
“Donovan,” I offer, bowing my head once in acknowledgement.
Gesturing with his hand to the edge of the curved booth to his left, he tells me, “Have a seat.”
I look at the spot, but it’s not empty.
Or, it wasn’t. As soon as the man seated there realizes where his boss is pointing, he swiftly gets up and finds somewhere else to sit.
Fuck, I like that.
I resist the pull, shake it off, and take a seat. I have plenty. I have safety and stability—I’m not going to envy the power of a man like this.
“I must say, I was surprised to hear from you,” Donovan tells me.
The first time this asshole sent his men in to shake me down, it pissed me off. You hear of shit like that, but you never expect to experience it first-hand. Griff was mad as hell. Couldn’t believe the gall of these guys, told me no way in hell were we going to pay it. My pride agreed with him at first, but then I thought on it a little more. It was one of those situations where I could not control the circumstances people were putting me in, I could only control my response to it. An old Irishman who owned a pub down the block had already told Donovan’s men they could go fuck themselves before they ever saw a dime from him, and when he turned up with a busted up face, a shattered ankle, and a broken arm, everyone understood why. It sent a message to everyone else that no was not an acceptable response.
That wasn’t why I decided to pay him, though.
I didn’t make his men come back. I brought my tax right into the club myself—the last time I stepped foot in this fucking place—because I was going to control the situation. I didn’t give the money to the punk-ass kids who thought they were something, or even to his enforcer. No. I brought my envelope of money and hand-delivered it to the boss, because I wanted him to remember me. I wanted him to know my name and my face. I wanted him to know I was handing over my “protection” money because I wanted to open up a distant but amiable relationship with him, not because I’m cowering and bullied in my office, too afraid of a broken arm to tell him no, but reluctant to pay up, nonetheless.
You can’t always control your circumstances, but you can always control the narrative. You just have to be able to control yourself, and I’m damn good at that.
Griff would never be sitting here in this club with this man. He would have been stubborn and resisted. If he did give in—not because Donovan hurt him, but because he went after his loved ones (the step after broken limbs, as the Irish barkeep’s college-aged granddaughter found out soon after)—he would still be salty about it. He would still think of Donovan as scum, of himself as better, and instead of using a dark connection to his advantage, he would continue to fucking struggle.
Not me.
I’ll lie down with dogs if I need to; I’m not afraid of a few fleas.
Now Donovan sits here and smiles at me like we’re old pals. “What can I do for you, Sebastian?”
I flick a glance around the crowded club. The music is blaring, and even though we’re close enough to talk, this is a matter of some delicacy and I don’t really want to shout it from the rooftops.
Clearing my throat, I hunch forward and tell him, “I was hoping we could discuss this a little more privately.”
He watches me for a moment, expression blank, eyes sharp. I understand his selectiveness in who he takes a private audience with—he’s a man that a lot of other men would like to see dead, after all—but after a moment, he finally nods and sits forward.