I press my hand against my pocket and remind myself that guns are terrible things. I’m not a gun guy, right? I’m all about the party.
I should throw the gun out.
Where? A trash receptacle? No way. The cameras pick that shit up. I rub my slacks again, but my mind is f**king hazy. I don’t know what to do with the damn thing.
The room we’re in is big, with high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and lots of black, fringed chandeliers that look, to me, like video-game monsters. Tonight the lights inside of them are glowing red. I guess in honor of the whole hearts thing.
Kids with heart defects. Now that shit is sad. Really goddamned sad. When I think about the kids, I need a f**king drink.
This dude comes up, and I swear I’ve got some magic f**king powers, because he’s got a tray loaded with alcohol. I grab what looks like Long Island iced tea and down it before he can make it to the next person.
“Let me grab another one, dude.” I shove a hundred into his palm and grab two more drinks.
“One for my friend,” I mutter as I step away.
Take that, Hawkins. I’ve got enough money to come through this shit. I’m solvent. I finish the second drink and sit the empty glass by a potted palm tree. My eyes are burning like a motherfucker. My hands itch. Fuck. I’m jumpy as shit. Maybe I should go. I could probably make it over to Tao’s in less than half an hour if I could get a police escort.
I rub my eyes again. Okay, the cops probably wouldn’t do that for me. Not unless I get in trouble. Maybe I should go find Hawkins and shove my fist into his tenth-grade-looking face again. Baby-faced motherfucker.
I cast my bleary gaze around the room. Crowded. Lots of important types here. The mayor and shit. Wonder where the hell Hunter is. I can’t remember who’s on our team. It’s f**king hot in here. I’d love another blunt. Maybe I should go.
I fiddle with the gun and think about going to the bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. I don’t need a gun. I’ve got my fists. Guns kill people—right? I don’t want to do that. I’m a nice guy.
Can guns fit down toilets?
Right out in front of me, in between me and the tables they’ve got set up, this woman walks by, and she’s a f**king fox. Short, blonde-brown hair. Angel face. Ass-hugging jeans. Maybe that’s what I need to shake this weird-ass mood: a good f**k. I push myself up and start to follow her. If I ask, she might be game. I can donate some money to this charity bullshit. Stay in bed with her instead of playing.
I’m on her tail, my eyes glued to her pert little ass in those amazing blue jeans. Fucking hell. The way she moves…
There’s Hunter! I see him in a crowd of well-dressed pricks, crossing through the room behind this one, angled toward me. I need to dodge him, follow the girl, but he holds his hand up. He raises his eyebrows—West’s idea of a friendly greeting—then pulls his phone out of his tux pocket. He’s getting a call, and whatever he hears makes his eyes go wide.
I turn back, and the girl is gone.
Goddamned Hunter. He’s such a c**k block.
I turn back toward the lobby, because I’m getting out of here. I don’t have the right head for this hearts bullshit.
I turn, and there’s Hawkins.
“I don’t know what the f**k you want from me, but I told your asshat errand boy that I wouldn’t have the money until Monday.”
Hawkins, standing in front of me in a small, round sitting area off the rented casino room, smirks. “You didn’t tell anyone shit.”
“Monday,” I growl.
Again, that smirk. “So make it Sunday, papa pimp.” He grins and takes a step toward me.
I take a step forward, too, crowding him against the rounded wall. Wormy little bastard. I can take him with my eyes closed. “You gonna threaten me here, when you’re all alone?” I sneer.
“I’ve got friends everywhere, Radcliffe.”
“Good for you, you f**king prick. You’ll get your money Monday. Now, you might want to consider getting the f**k away from me, before I get pissed off.”
His face twists. “Sunday, or I’m coming for it.”
“Why don’t you try?” My self-control snaps and I shove him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of my hands digging into his shoulders. “I might owe you money, but you’re a f**king bully and a cheat. And getting the cops involved at Tao was— hey!”
I was going to say “a bitch move,” but strong arms grab my shoulders from behind.
“Let’s take this outside,” Hawkins says, his beady eyes directing whoever is behind me. One of his thugs, obviously. I force my body to go limp as the man behind me pushes something hard and cool into my lower back, and I’m shoved out a nearby door, into one of the casino’s discreet atriums, with lush green grass, potted trees, and a bunch of cheesy lanterns.
Hawkins’ thug digs his gun into my back, but I don’t give a f**k. I whirl on him, kneeing him in the balls, sending him down to the plastic grass in half a second, before Hawkins’ other goon throws a punch at my jaw.
I dodge it easily. My eyes are fast. One swift kick to the wrist, and his gun is on the ground. One more and that big, fat bastard is bleeding from his ugly f**king head.
I go for my own gun, rounding on Hawkins as I do—but my fingers aren’t working right. I’m having trouble tracking. My mind is racing too damn fast now.
Goon No. 1 is back up, so I backhand the bastard and he flies across the grass. Another big bastard with that distinctive Hawkins Security swagger comes barreling out the door, and I kick him in the balls. Now they’re all down.
But Hawkins has the gun, and he’s circling me. “You high on something, Radcliffe?”
“Life.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he should have looked at me like I’m the f**king Flash, because I grab the gun from him and get him on the ground in half a second. I start wailing on his face, and it feels so good. Just what I need.
From somewhere far away, conscience tells me to lighten up—I’m gonna really hurt him—but I don’t listen. I need this too badly.
I’m feeling better than I have in weeks when I hear a shriek, then feel small hands tugging at my shoulders. I aim a punch behind me and, a millisecond later, hear a woman’s scream.
Holy f**k! I turn around, adrenaline pumping so hard I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes.
It’s her. The blonde in the ass-hugging jeans.
I push Hawkins harder against the ground and search her face. Her cheek is red, like there’s a bruise forming. “Jesus, baby. I’m sorry.”