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She’ll get over it.
Of course, if there’s a whole lot of dirt, then she might get shunned, but she’s a rich little girl, and that means she’ll survive. Scarred and bitter in the aftermath, but I won’t be around to see it.
I take a big gulp of my booze.
On the feed, the dock looks busy. There must be a big shipment tonight because it looks busier than usual.
When I finish making notes and trying to make connections between the small pieces we have, I stretch my arms overhead. It’s heading toward five a.m. and I’m still not ready to sleep.
So I leave the feeds running, pull open a drawer in the desk, and take out a black velvet pouch and leather case of tools. I swing the light around to the top of my desk and spread open the velvet.
In it is a vintage Rolex. I’m not a Rolex guy, but the ones from the sixties are sexy things, and this one, I think is from 1962. A 6238 chronograph that isn’t working, and it’s scratched as fuck. I’ve replaced the band, and I can replace the glass, but I’m having trouble getting it working.
When I was fifteen, I started fixing them, an old watch guy I did odd jobs for showed me how, and he introduced me to the world of scamming a watch, of building a fake so well, I could make a shit ton selling the fakes. I did Piguets to Breguets and everything in between.
When I have time, I find old ones, vintage watches being sold for cheap because they’re no longer worth anything, and I fix them up.
It’s a weird hobby for someone like me, but it soothes my soul, and I like the craft of it, the time taken to get things working perfectly.
Shit, it’s probably why I like ropework so much. And the grift. It’s the chaos and pinpoint precision coming together in a glorious moment.
I get lost in my work, and it takes me a second to process what the noise is.
My phone’s buzzing, screen lighting up.
Orion.
I pick it up. “Something up?”
He doesn’t usually grace me with good morning calls.
“Yeah, man,” he says, voice grim. “You’re needed. Now.”
I stand up from the chair. “Where?”
“Grant Hanlon’s apartment. See you in twenty.”
I grab my phone and call for my car.
Then I get my Kimber and an extra round because I have no fucking idea what the hell I’m about to walk into.
TWENTY-SIX
scarlett
Malone isn’t there when I wake up in the morning.
I don’t expect to find him sleeping next to me, and when he isn’t, I tell myself I’m glad. But the lie bites at me. I ignore it, though. After a quick shower, I think about the day ahead.
It’s my day off from the Wellness Gardens. I’d usually spend it baking or hanging out with Lacey when she’s done with work. Or if I’m really bored, I’d find some work to do at Dad’s place.
When I go to make some coffee, it’s clear Malone’s not here at all.
The apartment feels empty.
I turn on the espresso machine, and then I look at the glass-covered plate in the center of the kitchen island. A smile tugs at my lips. He’s been at the cupcakes, which lifts my heart for reasons I don’t want to examine.
I drift through the apartment, wanting to be in his room, to breathe him in, but while his scent lingers in the air, the bed doesn’t look slept in.
