“Fuck me,” I breathe, looking at the rearview mirror to everyone in the back. “I’ll call you back,” I say, hearing Rose tell me I won’t as I hang up.
Goldie, Fury, and Ringo wait patiently for me to unravel the words and speak them, and Otto gets back into the car, placing a laptop box on his thighs. He slaps it and turns a smile my way. It falls when he finds my blank face. Then he turns in his seat and looks at the others in the back. “What?” he asks. “I’ve only been in there for five fucking minutes. What’s happened now?”
“Good question,” Ringo grunts.
“We’re waiting for Miss Marple here to enlighten us on her enlightenment.” Goldie nods toward me.
“Protection,” I say. “She’s scared. Amber was looking for protection, and not from her ex-lover’s disgruntled daughter when she found out her inheritance went to Amber.”
“If not for that, why would Amber want protection?” Otto asks, starting to spin the ring in his lip. “And why was she at the funeral if she’s scared?”
“Me. She was hoping to see me. And she did, but I was surrounded by cops so she couldn’t approach me. Plus Beau went after her.” Why didn’t I consider this before? “She knows something.” I go to my phone but smack the steering wheel when I remember Amber’s calls to me recently have been from a withheld number. Another red flag. Shit, I don’t have a number for her. Keeping the contact details of an in-house whore was something I would never do. “Fuck it.”
“What could she know?” Goldie asks. “And about who? From my understanding, she got about a bit.” She raises her brows. “I’m thinking there were a few men in between your fine self and Mr. Hayley all, I’m sure, with gleaming personalities or even shinier criminal records.”
My lip curls naturally. “If you weren’t a woman, I’d punch you daily,” I grate, knowing the simple fact that I’m being a sexist pig will hurt our fair lady as much as actually punching her in the face.
She mirrors my lip and I’m pretty sure she growls too, but my phone saves me from a face-off with Goldie. No number. Amber. I answer quickly, but I don’t get her annoyingly purring voice. No. Instead, I get a rough, Russian, grainy voice.
“Black,” he grunts.
“What do you want, Volodya?” I haven’t got time for this ridiculous game ofWho Knows the Bear.
“Guns.”
I burst out laughing, hanging up and dropping my mobile into my lap, holding onto the steering wheel, arms braced, my body convulsing.What the ever-lovin’ fuck?Anyone else want our guns? “Jesus.” I chuckle, my eyes leaking as I roughly wipe at them, then at my coarse cheeks, then run a hand through my overgrown hair, my body making random jumps as I try to recover from my laughing fit. I find all eyes on me when I’m done. “Volodya,” I say, digging between my thighs to find my mobile. “He wants some guns.”
“Tell him to join the fucking queue,” Ringo mutters, uninterested, going back to his phone as mine rings once again. “It’s busy today,” he adds, his voice flat.
“Tell me about it.” I raise it to my ear. “Yes?”
“Mr. Black, I don’t know if you’ll remember me—”
“Try me,” I say over a laugh. “You’d be surprised. I’ve got ghosts cropping up left and right at the moment.”
“Jeeves?” he says, and I frown.
“Who?”
“Jeeves, sir. The concierge from The Four Seasons.”
Jeeves? Well, shit. I never showed it, of course, but I really liked this guy. He can find you anything, anytime, for a fee, of course. He’s never failed. “What can I do for you, Jeeves?”
“I hope you don’t mind me calling. You see, I held your number from when you used to stay here regularly a few years ago.” Over three years ago. Before I met Rose. “We have a situation.”
“What’s that?”
Jeeves launches into a detailed report of the situation, and I listen, not quite believing what I’m hearing. “Mr. Black, you’re the only man who can help me.”
He’s right. and I can’t refuse him the help he’s pretty much begging me for. He’s a good guy, and I owe him. Plus, I really need an outlet right now. “I’m on my way, Jeeves.” I hang up and send a quick text. Fuck me, I’m going to enjoy ripping thesituationlimb from limb.
I stroll into The Four Seasons with the other’s forming a wall behind me, and the bustling lobby falls utterly silent as we walk across the perfectly polished cream marble tiles, the only sound a mix of our collective footsteps and the staff behind the reception desk tapping away at their keyboards.
Until they look up.
I can’t tell if their looks are that of dread or relief. Maybe a bit of both. “Mr. Black.” Jeeves rushes out from behind the concierge desk, coming at me with his hand held out, his face one of gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you for coming.”
“Anything for an old friend,” I say, discreetly placing a bundle of hundred-dollar bills into his hand. It’s not often there are rooms available at The Four Seasons, and Jeeves always found one for me when I was single and looking for somewhere other than our busy house, somewhere private, to fuck. I’m married now sure, but I can guarantee that one day, my wonderful, glorious wife will boot me out. I need to keep Jeeves sweet in case I need a bed for the night, since all the spare rooms at my house are fucking full.