He always gave me shit about how afraid of me everyone is. He never was, though. Even when he knew I was a hothead that would tear anyone a new asshole if they fucked with me, Hendrix never let that bother him.
I walk across the casino floor faster, irritated that no matter where I go, my best friend is never far from my thoughts.
I don’t want this. I don’t want to have him on my mind when I just want a moment of fucking peace. Too much pain. I have to push it down; I have to keep moving forward. Emotions are a weakness and I’mnotweak.
My hand drifts over to my ribs on my right side, rubbing along the scar there through my shirt. It’s numb—it’s always been numb—but it grounds me. If I can get through that, I can get through anything.
After I make a second track around the casino, more slowly this time, I head back to the elevator.
I step off on my floor and my men stay there, keeping any unwanted guests away while I work. Draya’s desk is empty, so she must still be on lunch. It’s just as well. I want to be in my office for a little while without worrying about her bringing fucking invoices and shit I need to sign.
When I step into my office, I’m shocked to see a bouquet of flowers on my desk. After Hendrix was killed, fucking Nico of all people got me flowers to pay his respects and for me to put them on my friend’s grave.
Thinking about Nico and how he was the only one that extended his condolences both irritates and confuses me. Other than picking stupid fights with me, Nico and I haven’t exchanged many words. He smirks when he sees me and talks around me when I’m nearby like I’m not fucking there.
But he brought me flowers to put on Hendrix’s grave.Hedid. Even Carter didn’t do more than say he was sorry for my loss. And he only said that once. That’s it.
Nico brought me flowers and told me he was sorry about Hendrix and I had his condolences.
He’s so fucking confusing.
That probably has more to do with him being fine as fuck. Everything about him just draws me in, like a fucking moth to a flame. His warm dark brown skin, deep brown eyes, plump, kissable lips and low cut hair that always looks as if he’s fresh from the barber. Not to mention his fucking body. Christ, he’s so fucking ripped, his body putting mine to shame.
I have to use my snark to keep him away because if I don’t, I’d probably fucking lose myself in him and I can’t afford that. Not right now, not when my head is all fucked up. He’d probably make it worse with his effortless nonchalance that drives me crazy.
Are these flowers from him? It’s been six months and outwardly, I’m doing okay. He can’t possibly know how fucked up my head is whenever I think about Hendrix. What is he on?
I pick up the bouquet and see there is a card inside. I remove it and stamped on the envelope is, “Deepest condolences.”
That weird lump in my throat is back again. I fall into my chair, staring down at the card in my hand. I fucking miss my best friend. After what happened…he’s all I had. He was the only person who was mine and mine alone.
“Get it together,” I mutter to myself, tossing the flowers back on the desk. “Get it fucking together. You’re not weak. You’renotweak.”
I crush the envelope in my hand, belatedly realizing it has a card inside. The edges poke against my palm, making me wince.
Straightening the wrinkles, I reach inside and pull out the card, hoping Nico didn’t write some mushy shit that will have tears clouding my vision.
Instead of a quick note from Nico, though, I find a message that’s starting to become really fucking familiar.
YOU’LL PAY FOR WHAT YOU DID.
FIVE MILLION DOLLARS AND I’LL LET YOU LIVE.
Irritation lances through me.I scoff at the lack of originality and stuff the card in my inside breast pocket. If there was something someone wanted me to pay for, they damn well better say that shit to my face.
I should probably give more of a fuck than I do about someone threatening me, but I’ve never been the type to back down. Whoever is behind this bullshit is a coward and I don’t fucking address cowards. If they knew to deliver a letter to my office, they know where the fuck I am. They could have waltzed their dumb ass in here and said what they needed to say. Then I would have put a fucking bullet in their skulls for thinking they could play with me.
For the past month, I’ve been getting threatening letters, demanding money by a certain date. Saying I need to pay for the wrong I’ve done.
The bitch of it is , I don’t even know what this mysteryperson is talking about. There are several things I’ve done that would warrant blackmailing. Plenty of people I’ve run out of business, plenty of people I’ve run out of town, and plenty of people I’ve put in the ground. If they want me to feel bad—which I never will—they need to be more fucking specific.
If Hendrix were still alive, he would have found the person who sent this bullshit before I had time to tuck the card into my pocket. But with him gone, I don’t trust anyone else to handle it. I’ll have to use my rudimentary computer skills to figure shit out, but I have no idea where to start.
Fucking Hendrix always knew what to look for and how to figure shit out. Fuck him for leaving me.
Swallowing past the lump trying to form in my throat, I toss the flowers in the trash, then pick up my office phone and call Draya. She answers with a sweet, “Yes, Mr. Whitlock?”
“What time did you go to lunch and what time did you come back?”
