The downer part.
I’ve met every type of drunk known to man during my tenure behind the bar. They are like the Seven Dwarfs—sleepy, bashful, dopey, grumpy—there are so many kinds. Sorry to say, though, I’ve met my spirit sister when it comes to drinking. We are some crybaby ass drunks.
Out of the blue, she speaks. “For the last two years, I’d get this big weight on the top of my chest,” she confesses, resting her hand there. “Thinking about what happened to Lance.”
I stare at her, overcome by my sorrow for a young man I never knew. How could Lance take his own life? How could my father? I had never meant to tell Justice what happened to my mother or the twisted, dark fate that ended my father as well. But now, we share this pain. We share our grief.
Chapter 23
Leith
At least an hourhas passed since I leaned against a streetlamp with the hoodie over my head. A pizza delivery guy quickens his pace, eyeing me warily. His uneasiness probably has everything to do with my wearing sunglasses at night. I’m definitely not feeling particularly like the good lad I promised my wife I’d be.
Disguising my voice, I ask, “Where are you taking that?”
The guy rolls his eyes. “So, you can hack up the customers, and I get the blame?”
Being that was the last thought in my mind, I ram him against the fence. My fist bashes into his stomach. He crumples, and then I take on an English accent. If this goes south, it might as well be blamed on those Brits. Kneeling, I grip his throat with one hand, long enough to leave him passed out like a sloshed bum. “Thank you, mate.”
I snatch the pizza box and the cap from his head.Ambling to the front door, I let the cap hang low over my head. With one hand in my hoodie, I lift the pizza to the doorman.
“Which apartment?”
Jiang is 4F, so I spout off, 3C, which has to be on a different floor. At the elevator, I pick the appropriate levelC. Once off the lift on the correct floor, I shove the pizza into the trash can and hustle up the steps to levelF.
Now comes the easy part—getting inside of Jiang’s place. The lock on the door is standard. After picking the deadbolt, I let myself inside. My eyes scan the entryway of Jiang’s apartment for an alarm. There isn’t one, which makes me think my luck has turned too much.
A half an hour later, I’ve combed through the single bedroom, even checked the bathroom. The living room is virtually untouched. I’m rifling through the kitchen drawers, finding nothing but discount coupons for takeout.
“Feck,” I grumble, shoveling through vouchers that lapsed years ago.
I catch the sight of the digital display on the stainless-steel refrigerator. The panel switches from grocery store items needed to a screen saver.
The image is three guys at the bow of a yacht. The angle of the camera adds an aura of invincibility around thebampots. Two of thefecksare deid, and the third one is a millionaire techie just like me. Phelps is the older gentleman who probably invested into Jiang and this herefecktwatfresh out of college. Thefecktwathas a smug, all-knowing grin on his face. I’d bet every single dollar in the Grand Cayman account that I’m staring my enemy in his smarmy face.
“Bingo,” I murmur, using my iPhone to take a photo of the image. I’ll search his face later. I’m softly opening the front door when the door across from me crashes into the wall.
“Take that! And don’t you ever come back!” a woman shouts. It sounds like a bloody song.
“Okay, take yershiteand go,” I mutter, pulling the door closed. I let my ear rest against the wood. The guy begins an elaborate sob story.
I settle onto the ground. Leaning against the door, I tap the back of my head against the wood soundlessly while gritting my teeth. “Why can’t I catch afeckin’break?”
What seems like ages later, and many attempts for the guy to reenter the house, I pull my cell phone from my pocket. My eyes bug at the sight of Camdyn’s message. “Chevelle’s out.”
I call him, and he answers on the second ring. I whisper, “Thefeckye mean my wife isout? Speak before I snatch off yerbawsand shove them down yer throat!”
“Calm down, bro,” he responds tensely. “I never lie to women. Women love me. I felt bad.”
“Feckyer feelings, Cam. Where and—”
“First of all, everyone callsmethe American but not living with your wife is?”
“I willfeckin’kill ye!” I huff. He’s mybrathair, and that’s a bald-faced lie. I live with my wife. “Where is she?”
“You calm?”
“Aye,” I snarl.