But Z’s warning was ringing in my ears. Federal agents. Wire fraud. Prison.
"I would love to," I said, flashing the smile that had gotten me out of more speeding tickets than I could count. "But I have to go... check on the soufflés."
She blinked, confused. "We’re having soufflés?"
"Yes. It’s a surprise. Go wait by the champagne fountain. Don’t move."
I kissed her cheek and bolted toward the kitchen before she could grab my belt again.
The kitchen was a war zone. Someone had tried to make toast in the industrial oven and set off a smoke alarm that no one could hear over the music. A guy in neon suspenders was trying to pitch a business idea to a houseplant.
"Mr. Sterling!" Neon Suspenders lunged at me. "One minute! It’s calledSexyHandle™! It’s an algorithm that guarantees viral content! It’s going to be huge!"
"I love it," I lied, dodging a waiter. "Email my people."
"I have a contract right here! Just a napkin! Sign it and you get 10% equity for fifty grand!"
He shoved a cocktail napkin and a Sharpie in my face. I looked at the napkin. I looked at the service elevator. I looked at the kitchen doors swinging open behind me.
I scribbled my signature. "Done. Take it. Goodbye."
I hit the service elevator button just as the music outside cut out. A voice boomed over a megaphone:"THIS IS THE FBI. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE."
I dove into the elevator and hitB.
The doors slid shut just as the screams started.
***
The alley was dark, smelling of dumpsters and rain. Z’s black sedan was idling at the curb, looking like a getaway car in a noir film.
I stumbled out of the service entrance, gasping for air. I was missing a shoe. I didn't remember losing it, but my left foot was wet and cold on the pavement.
Z rolled down the window. He didn't look angry. He looked resigned. Like a man who had accepted his fate as the shepherd of an idiot.
"Get in," he said.
I climbed into the backseat. "So. That went well."
Z didn't answer. He just pulled into traffic, merging smoothly onto the highway.
"Where are we going?" I asked, picking a piece of confetti out of my hair. "My place is a crime scene."
"We’re going to your father’s."
My stomach dropped harder than the bass had. "Z. No. Please. Take me to a hotel. Take me to a motel. Take me to a dumpster behind a Denny’s. Do not take me to Richard Sterling."
"He knows, Beau. He knew before I did. Who do you think called me?"
Oh god.
We drove in silence. I watched the Dallas skyline blur past, the lights mocking me. I checked my pockets. No phone. I must have dropped it in the kitchen when I signed the napkin forSexyHandle™.
Great. I was shoeless, phoneless, and about to be murdered by my father.
We pulled up to the Sterling Estate gates. They opened automatically, revealing the long, winding driveway that led to the house I’d grown up in. Every light was on.
My father hated wasting electricity. If the lights were on at 3:00 AM, it wasn't because he was throwing a party. It was because he was conducting a tribunal.
