“I told you, drinking.”
“That stupid cinnamon crap you like, no doubt.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I had some.”
“Go bother someone else, Kane.”
“Dude. I’ve been a royal ass.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I sent her flowers. She sent them back.” His voice is bitterness and despair, an even worse combination than Fire Jack and coke. But what the hell can I do? I have the same problem.
I raked the top of my head with my hands. I don’t need this. It’s hard enough for me sitting here, knowing she’s in the same city and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. The day in the hospital on that conference room table uncorked the genie. I tasted her and couldn’t get that sweet taste out of my mouth.
There wasn’t enough whiskey in the world to do that.
“Jeezus, you must be desperate to use me as your priest.”
“I am. I love her. I can’t think of anything but her.”
I’d listen to enough of Kane’s on-the-road confessions of how he loved this one or that, but he’d never fixated on a single woman this long.
This was serious shit.
My phone rang again, and it was Holmes.
“Hang on, its Holmes.”
I put Kane on hold, and let him cool his jets while I talked to Rory. At least he wasn’t going to do the pining away nonsense.
“My chi is in serious trouble.”
I groaned.
“Not you, too.”
“What?”
“I got Kane on hold whining about how he misses Jacine. Marshall is here drinking my whiskey singing the same song.”
“Am not.”
“Dude, I can hear your thoughts.”
Marshall scoffed and tossed down the whiskey from his glass in one shot. He reached for the bottle of Jack, and I passed it to him.
“Misery likes company,” said Rory.
“That’s rather unoriginal for a man who writes lyrics that makes women’s panties melt.”
“Merge the calls. I want to talk to all of you anyway.”
I do and put the call on speaker. I set the phone in the fancy docking port that doubles as a speaker unit.
“So talk,” I said.
