Either I have the strong makings of becoming a drunk, or a thing for bartenders because I like them. I like talking to them, watching them pour a drink, wondering who they are outside of work. It's weird I know. The bartender I'm stalking tonight is nothing like the guy from The Lotus (Marco). This guy is extra tall and somewhat hard looking with beautiful cocoa brown skin and bloodshot eyes.
"Would you like to order?" He asks with what I assume is a heavy Bahamian accent.
"What's better?" I smile. "The white or red sangria?"
"The red." He replies without a smile in return.
"I'll have an extra big glass of that." I say in an effort to exaggerate just how much I need it right now. And that gets me a small lift at the corner of his lips.
"Coming up."
After gulping down an entire glass of the best sangria I've ever had in my life, I'm still in replay mode. Maybe I should have stressed the low overhead. How could I have forgotten to include potential other apps in the presentation? Perhaps I should have worn the power suit.
Hell, I could second guess this all night. I need to face the facts that there isn't much I can do about it now. The meeting is over. The best I can do is follow up with a thank you letter reiterating my greatness blah, blah, blah.
The bartender with little words walks back over to check on me.
"Another?" He asks.
I need to remember my budget.
"How much are they?" I ask a little embarrassed.
And then I hear a voice from the end of the bar that I haven't heard in what seems like a lifetime.
"I've got her next drink."
Oh my frackin' God.
"Ethan?"
CHAPTER THREE
ROMAN
I've been sitting in my father's home office for at least twenty-five minutes and my brain is like a ticking time bomb, about to explode, but of course I would never reveal that to Joseph. I never have and I never will reveal all my crazy to him. Unfortunately he caught me on my way to the airport, so I had to swing by and at least show my face for a few minutes.
"We need to talk about Mendez." My father growls while angrily typing an email at his desk. "Dammit, I can't find any of my emails in this new layout. Why do they keep changing everything? By the time you learn it, they go and change it."
I could care less about the old man's inability to stay current with technology, and I don't care about Mendez either. In fact, I don't want to talk about any business shit with Joseph period. All I want to do is get to the mother-fucking airport.
I take a few deep internal breaths. I can't lose it in front of the old man. I just need to handle this calmly. Rationally. Quickly. I can't set off any alarms.
Control your shit Masterson.
"What about Mendez?" I ask casually while I grab a few M&Ms out of the small bag in my pocket and toss them in my mouth.
Joseph looks up from his computer and watches me closely for a moment.
"What's wrong with you?" He asks after a long pause.
"Nothing."
I'm caught off guard by the question, because frankly I thought that I had been keeping my need for the M&M ritual on the low all my life. In fact most people think it is a sign of my calm confidence in a stressful situation when I eat them, when actually it is the complete opposite.
But I suppose that just because Joseph isn't a warm and fuzzy father, doesn't mean that he doesn't know me. He definitely knows something is up, but I'm just going to have to ignore his observations and move this shit along.
"What do you need me to do about Mendez?" I ask.
Joseph squints his eyes suspiciously at me while tapping a ridiculously expensive silver Montblanc pen that Juliette bought him for his birthday a few years back on his desk.
"I paid off the three trainers, the massage therapist, and the steroids dealer, but that Doctor Edelstein is giving me problems.”
"So what do you want me to do?"
"Do what you normally do. Everyone has a price so find his."
Joseph rarely asks for me to step in on jobs he’s working. He's always handled his own jobs personally and only given me and the Kings the ones he didn't want to bother with. I’m not sure what his angle is today, but I don’t like it. I can't take on one more thing, not until I get my head screwed on straight.
"I'm just figuring out the clubs, Joseph, and I've got that DUI to handle–"
He cuts me off. "The Kings can handle the DUI and the clubs are just side money, Roman. Jobs like Mendez are how we all eat. You know this. That's why this needs to get done.”
"How much?" I never ask Joseph details like this, but if he wants to give me more responsibility in preparation for taking over the business, it's time he stops treating me like the help. "How much is Mendez paying you for this to get done?"
"Four million up front." He says without even flinching. "And a piece of his commercial endorsements for the next three years on the backend. He just signed a five year, seventy-five million dollar contract."
"Damn."
"If even a whiff of this steroids thing gets out, he's going to lose all his endorsements, and then the government is going to start sniffing around his private life. His parents aren't documented, lived here for years, and they have no desire to start over in the Dominican Republic if they were deported. Mendez just wants to lay low and play baseball, and he's willing to pay big if we can make that happen for him. I assured him we could."
"What's the deal with the doctor?"
"I offered him half a million. He didn't budge."
"Okay … give me a week."
"A week? You can't handle it sooner?"
"No." I check the time on my cell phone.
He doesn't like my answer, but I pray that he isn't in the mood to have a full on debate about it, because I have to go right the fuck now if I'm going to make this flight.
"All right, a week."
I get up abruptly. Too abruptly.
"Got somewhere to be?"
"Just business." I say flatly.
"Business?"
"Yep." I fiddle inside my bag for another M&M and pop it in my mouth. "Need to be on time. I'll check in with you later."
"I think Juliette is cooking." He calls out as I stride down the hall. He knows Juliette's cooking is my Achilles heel. It's a test, but I'm going to have to fail this time.
"I'll grab some next time." I holler back.
He doesn't say anything else in response. He knows I'm hiding something, but he's falling back. His retreat is progress for us.
I think.
***
I have no idea how long Elizabeth plans on staying in the Bahamas. All I know is that she is here for a pitch meeting that the glamazon arranged, and that she is staying at The Atlantis Hotel.
It's unusual for me to fly blind like this. Usually I have Camden run a detailed search on anyone I'm trying to handle, but of course this time I'm trying to be a little more stealth-like about this shit and not tell Cam anything. Luckily Jade was able to find out the tower Elizabeth is staying in and the floor too, which is no easy task in today's world of confidentiality and privacy rights. So I guess I'm good.
I decide to handle some business during the plane ride over to keep my mind off of all the many possibilities rolling around my head about what's going on with Elizabeth and the dickweed a.k.a. Ethan.
My worst fear is that she is listening to whatever bullshit he's spouting, because I'm sure once that asshole sobered the fuck up, he realized just how much of a wreck he left in his wake, and what a good thing he fucked up. A girl like Elizabeth is definitely a good thing. The kind you wife up. Not dick around.
I decide to start my list of business phone calls to the club with the most problems. The newest one–The Lotus. Of course the manager Leroy, Larry, or whatever his name is isn't there, so I end up having to speak to the bar manager. The Rico Suave motherfucker I should have fired when I took over ownership of the club. He was sniffing all up in Elizabeth’s ass the ni
ght I first saw her.
"Does Larry talk numbers with you?" I ask with little emotion.
"Yep." He responds in the same short, flat tone that I'm using.
Asshole.
"So how's the bar doing?"
"Good so far. We'll probably have a seven thousand dollar night tonight."
"We need to do more bottle service. I want a ten thousand dollar night."
"We're still–"
"I don't give a shit what we're still doing Mario."
I'm trying to keep my voice down since there's a suit sitting right next to me, but since I paid a lot of money for this first class seat just like he did, fuck it.
"The name's Marco."
"Whatever. Listen you're the bar manager and if you want it to stay that way, I expect you to figure out ways to raise the revenue of the bar or else what purpose do you serve? Capiche?"
"Capiche? You do know that I'm a Cuban-American right? Not an Italian mobster."
I can't believe this little shit has the nerve to be a smart-ass when he barely has a job.
"I don't fucking care." I say still trying to keep my voice low and my temper even.
"You know I saw you and her the other night right?"
"What are you talking about, Matteo?" I say in a bored to death tone, except I know exactly who and what night he's referring to.
This kid really needs to mind his fucking business and worry more about getting ballers to pop some more bottles.
"You watching her half the night, then you just happen to be there to help her out of the club when all hell breaks loose. You really should leave her alone if you haven't already messed with her head. She's a nice girl."
He picked the wrong day for this shit.
"You must not need your job do you tough guy? You are aware that I sign your checks aren't you?"
"I've been through the last two owners, and I'll be here long after you sell the club just like they did Pendejo."
I admittedly was too busy cutting class, doing dumb shit, to actually attend Senora Garcia's class in high school; but I am pretty sure Rico Suave just called me an asshole or an idiot in Spanish. Either way I am sick of his shit. I'm sick of any and every man that feels the need to protect Elizabeth, stalk Elizabeth, hell … look at Elizabeth. If I didn’t need him to run the bar this week, I would seriously consider sending Cutter over there to break a few of his fingers just for shits and giggles.
"Just clear ten grand tough guy. I'll deal with your ass next time I see you."
"Roger that."
A text comes in before I can further cuss his smart ass out, so I hang up on him. At least I think I'm the one who hung up first.
Jade: He's definitely there.
Me: With who?
Jade: Alone.
Me: Details
Jade: Same tower as her. He was comped a suite.
Me: WTF?
Jade: I know. I'll send more details when I know.
If asshole was comped a suite, that means he's got to be gambling. He's just rolling in all sorts of addictions isn't he? I don't understand how Elizabeth hooked up with this colossal sized loser.
Now that I know he was comped a suite, I'm hoping that it is just a huge coincidence that he's there at the same time that she is. How could he know that Elizabeth was going to be there? The trip was too last minute.
But really none of that matters. Elizabeth is a sheltered suburban girl. For all I know this guy was her first love or some shit. And to make it worse, I'm worried that she may actually consider going back to him, because I scared the hell out of her when I fucked her brains out in my living room.
He better not touch her.
I swear to God he better not touch her.
I have to find her.
Then I have to fix this.
CHAPTER FOUR
ELIZABETH
"Hey Bitsy."
I'm sitting on an elegant leather backed stool; at the nicest hotel bar that I've probably ever been in with my eyes dramatically wide open. They are huge and unblinking. Much like the ones you see on the face of a Japanese Manga character. Ethan is the last person I expected to see in the Bahamas. No, scratch that. He's the last person I expected to see again ever.
He looks different. His clothes are well put together as usual, and he looks fit and healthy, but his eyes and the creases around his mouth tell me something different. Like he's been through something and that he's trying very hard to put up a front for me right now. A pretense that would have probably worked a couple of months ago, but one that I won't easily fall for ever again.
"You look amazing." He says way too casually to me. Like we're simply old friends catching up. As if he doesn't owe me a very detailed apology at the very least.
I stare at him dumbfounded. Struggling for the words that would be appropriate right now. I kind of just want to slap him.
"Say something Elizabeth."
"What do you want me to say?" I ask. Now that the initial shock is wearing off, my latent anger is beginning to step forward.
"I know you're probably pissed at me, but all I'm asking is that you hear me out."
Really?!
"You really want to do this now Ethan? Here?"
"Actually no. I’d rather do this in my room where we can have some privacy. I have a lot to say. A lot to explain."
"Your room? Absolutely frackin' not." My voice rising higher.
He smiles uneasily.
"Ok so then where? Your room?"
The bartender places a fresh glass of sangria in front of me, quickly glances between the two of us, then walks away to take an order from another patron. Ethan places a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and takes a sip of the beer he is already holding in his hand.
"What about my drink?" I ask.
"Bring it with you to the room."
I forgot that I can easily bring my drink or anything else I decide to buy inside the hotel to my room, but that isn't really the point. I need to think straight if I am going to have a conversation with this big fat liar. I also need to ask myself why I am even entertaining the possibility of having a conversation with a guy that left me dead (for all he knew) on the floor of my apartment. What kind of man does that? Definitely not one that I ever want anything to do with again.
"I'm not sure that there is anything you can say that will change my opinion of what an ass you are Ethan."
"I'm not trying to convince you that I'm not an ass, Bitsy. I am one. I just want to plead my case."
"Plead it for what then?"
"Your forgiveness."
I stare Ethan square in the eyes after he says the word forgiveness. I'm not an expert on human psychology or body language, so I can't say for sure whether or not he is lying to me; although my gut is telling me that he's trying too hard. I don't know if I read sincerity in his facial expressions or desperation.
I take a long swallow of my sangria, so that I can think carefully about what I'm going to say next. I'm not sure why, but suddenly Roman's face pops inside my head, and I take another sip of my drink to shake it loose.
His opinion doesn't matter Elizabeth. This is your fight.
"I will give you ten minutes, Ethan. That's it."
I rise from my stool, smooth my skirt, and start walking. I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I make sure to walk very slowly and carefully in my heels to the elevator, one foot in front of the other, so that Ethan has a very clear view of everything he's cast aside.
When I was with Ethan, I did everything I could to camouflage the size of my hips and butt with baggy sweats or loose flowing dresses. I'd always known that while he found me attractive, he never especially cared for my figure. I didn't always feel sexy around him. But since I've been sleeping with Roman, I have to admit, that I've discovered a new found confidence and self appreciation for my shape that I've never had before.
I completely forgot that I left my room in a pretty chaotic mess while getting ready for my meeting earlier, so when we enter, I quickly st
art picking up clothes from the floor and begin folding them into a pile at the edge of my bed.
"Have a seat," I tell him.
"Where?" He asks sarcastically.
"Don't be a smart-ass Ethan." I say sounding very much like a certain person I know. "Sit in the chair by the desk and start talking. Your ten minutes just started."
"Wow, you're a lot different, Bitsy."
"Getting knocked out cold by a drug dealer will do that to a girl."
I notice Ethan's slight flinch at my comment. Good, at least he is showing some sign of remorse or at least guilt because for the last few weeks, I've seriously considered that Ethan must be some sort of sociopath in order to not give a shit about the havoc he's brought into my life.
I stop gathering and folding clothes when Ethan grabs me gently by the wrist.
"I have a drug problem, Elizabeth," he says with earnest. "I hid it from you, from my teammates, from everyone."
If he's looking for sympathy, I'm not ready to give it to him.
"Who were those men that broke into my apartment, and hurt me, and stole my money Ethan?"
"What money?" He asks incredulously.
I can't tell if he's lying, and it's annoying that I have to second-guess everything he says.
"Why are you acting clueless all of a sudden Ethan? All the money I saved working at The Tavern. The money I told you I was going to live on for the next year. It was hidden in some empty tampon boxes in my bathroom."
"I knew you were saving, Bitsy, but you never said that it was in the house. I didn't know they took your money. I didn't know that there was any money to take."
Not likely. I'm sure I'd mentioned at least once that I had money stashed in my apartment.
"So what do you know about that night exactly?" I ask.
"They were men that I bought drugs from and as I got further up shit's creek, they turned into men I sold drugs for. I owed them a shitload of money, and I couldn't ask my parents for it. They'd obviously know something was up. So I thought I'd sell temporarily to make the money back. Kids were buying drugs anyway on campus, so I figured why not from me?
Cousins (Cousins #2) Page 3
