Today,I am done playing by the rules. Well, what little rules I had, anyway.
Daylight. Public café. Windows on two sides. Line at the counter. Forks on plates. People with laptops who won’t look up unless someone screams.
My lawyer sits two booths over with a seltzer and a legal pad. He signed off on this. He also told me it won’t hold up in court. You can’t legally use a recording in court if all parties don’t know they’re being recorded and agree to it.
I don’t care. I want the words. If he’s tried only in the court of public opinion, so be it.
The wire is flat under my tee. Battery checked twice. Paired to my phone, which is in airplane mode with one app that talks to one watcher two booths away. The lawyer’s assistant. This way, we get two recordings, in case he gets clever and snatches my shit.
We’re not stupid. We’re also not saints.
I take the corner bench for the sight lines and order a coffee I won’t drink. I didn’t bring the bike. I Ubered here. Less traceable. I text Knox one line—seated—and put the phone screen down.
Houston wanted to come. I told him no. I love Houston, but he has a soft spot for everyone, even Troy. He might have figured out a way to smooth things over. But every time he’s done that, Troy bit him in the ass. Not again.
Lou offered to sit nearby. I told her absolutely not. I can do a quiet, daytime meet. Not everything has to break out into violence. I repeat that in my head until my hands stop wanting to drum or punch.
Troy walks in late enough to signal he’s still the headliner of his own movie. Hoodie up, cap low, sunglasses like a parody. Fake incognito that stands out. He clocks the room and smirks when he sees me.
I keep my face flat. I don’t stand.
He takes the chair opposite and sprawls like this is a greenroom couch. “Hey, brother,” he says, sweet as poison.
Never been more glad that we are only half brothers. “Hey.” I keep my voice low so he’ll lean in. Wires like leaning.
He looks over his shoulder, clocking exits. He never used to do that. Maybe the world finally taught him he isn’t bulletproof. Good. He drags his cap higher. His eyes are red at the edges. He hasn’t slept well in a long time.
He snaps at the server, gets a quad espresso, and leans back again. “How’s my ex? Still doing community service with the band?”
I let it pass. “How are you, Troy?”
He watches my mouth for a second. “You here to apologize for choking me? That photo’s doing numbers. An apology might go a long way to fixing that little problem for you.”
“No.”
He grins. “You here to beg me to stop making you look bad? Too late.”
I fold my hands on the table so the wire doesn’t print on my shirt when my shoulders move. “You broke into Sagebrush. You took drives and cash. You scratched the board.”
He laughs loud enough to turn a head at the next table, then lowers it to a normal level. “Allegedly,” he says, singsong.
“You walked in at three fourteen. Back door. Hood up. That little limp of yours is a dead giveaway.”
His face hardens. “I don’t have a limp anymore. That’s why I trained so hard with the dance coaches. I got rid of that years go. You’ve got nothing.”
“The limp comes back when you’re drinking too much, and the stench from here says that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
He drums his fingers. Same rhythm as when he used to wait for applause. “A shame your cameras couldn’t get any real evidence for that shitty studio.”
“Talk to me,” I say, low. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
“Doing what? Living my life?” He leans forward and drops his voice, playing at intimacy. “I’m going to blow your little project up. You think you can take what I built and run it without me? You think you can take my girl and not pay? I’ll make the hotelpull the plug. I’ll sue. I’ll own the name you think you get to put on glass.”
I let him wind up. “You broke a window. That why your hand is bruised up?”
He flashes teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see you cry over spilt glass.”
“That’s not the saying?—”
