Exhibit A—the dickhead who has my gun pressed to his head because I killed his best friend.
I don’t have the goddamn time to deal with small fish when I have Great White’s floating around in my ocean. Too bad for them, I’m a fucking Megalodon.
“What did you do to him?!” Max shouts, jerking forward towards the guns. I grab his arm and haul him back against the booth, a breath of air puffing out of his chest from the force.
“He’s not dead, so settle down. No need to yell, my ears are sensitive.”
Colorful expletives spill from his mouth, but I ignore them and tap the silencer on the underside of his chin hard enough to make him bite his tongue.
“As long as you leave Addie and Daya alone for good, daddy dearest will continue to live a long, healthy life. I don’t want to see a goddamn hair out of place on either of their heads, you feel me? I know everything about you, Max, and your two helpers over there too. I know where you eat, sleep, and shit. And I will watch you until some other sorry asshole puts a bullet in your brain. You pickin’ up what I’m puttin' down?”
His blue eyes narrow into slits, glaring at me heatedly. It’s the equivalent to throwing a bunny at me, but whatever makes the asshole feel like Elmer Fudd.
I stop the video of Max's sniveling father and stand, keeping my gun trained on him. Specifically on his dick. Most men would rather die than live without a dick.
“We have a deal, Elmer?” His brows plunge at the name, but he doesn’t question it. Having a gun pointed at your family jewels changes your priorities sometimes.
“Yes. As long as you let him go.”
I flash a wide smile. “He’s already on his way home.”
I turn to leave, walking back over to the staircase before his voice stops me once more.
“Hey! You never said who you were,” Max calls from behind me, his voice still packed full of unbridled anger.
Turning to look over my shoulder, a feral grin curls my lips, and I say with a wink, “You can call me Z.”
And then I see myself out, laughing from the look on their paling faces.
“Mr. Forthright, welcome to Pearl,” the blonde woman says, ushering me into the dimly lit foyer. She’s dressed in a plain black blazer and skirt, with nondescript heels and her hair pulled back into a tight bun.
Shit looks painful.
A serene smile is on her face, but her bright blue eyes are missing their sparkle. The baby blue color is lifeless, and it’s my first clue that she’s seen too much in this place.
I enter into what looks like a foyer with gold tiled flooring, black walls, and an obscene chandelier. Gold framed pictures of the founding members of the gentlemen’s club line the walls.
Or, in other words, a bunch of fucking rapists line the walls.
Men in business suits, smiling at the camera and probably still riding the high from raping a little girl or boy. They all look the fucking same to me.
I walk down the hallway, the creepy men staring at me from either side the whole way down, while music with a heavy bass emanates from somewhere ahead of me.
I’m keeping the earpiece tucked safely away in my jacket until it’s needed.
It took five minutes to get in this godforsaken place because Detective Fingers from security wanted to thoroughly investigate my asscrack. I had to spend several minutes lecturing him about what would happen if his fingers brushed up against my asshole one more time.
After walking down Rapist Alley, I walk into a massive room filled with couches and poker tables. Men lounge on the couches with women draped over their laps and shaking their asses or tits in their faces.
At the back of the stage, a woman is currently humping a pole while men are throwing dollar bills at her. A full bar is off to the left of that, where several men in business suits sit, drinking glasses of alcohol. Probably fifty-thousand-dollar Scotch that tastes like ass.
Then again, they probably enjoy that taste since they think their own farts smell like flowers.
Women in scantily clad clothing roam the room, delivering drinks, and pretending to laugh at their lame jokes and—what the fuck?
Ten feet from me, a woman stands at a poker bar holding out her bare arm while an asshole stubs out his very lit cigar on her skin. My face drops when I see that asshole is Mark fucking Seinburg.
Goddamn it.
Smoke sizzles from her flesh, but she doesn’t move an inch. In fact, she doesn’t even flinch.
Anger punches through my chest. I force myself to stay calm as I walk over to the table, acting more interested in the game than I am in the girl.
As I get closer, I notice she has a blank look on her face, much like the hostess that greeted me.