“No, no, no. I wouldn’t backstab Grant and Aspen over mere carbs.” I stuff my mouth with a big chunk of bread laden with butter, which is fantastic—creamy with extra salt.
Huxley cocks an eyebrow. “Something more serious?” He frowns. “Are you having issues with women showing up everywhere and throwing themselves at you?”
“What? No,” I say with a small shudder. “Wait… Is Joey still sending you hookers?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously? I thought he gave up after that first try and Griffin almost murdered him.” Then again, Huxley isn’t the one Joey really fears. When Griffin kicks you, you wish you were dead. But Hux? It’s going to hurt, but you’ll live.
From the way Huxley’s face scrunches, the thought has occurred to him as well. “Motherfucker, I’m going to show him who he’s messing with.” His knuckles whiten.
“Actually, I don’t think he’s doing it out of disrespect. He isn’t scared of me, either.” Nobody’s scared of me. That’s the persona I picked for myself.
“Yeah, but you aren’t having hooker issues. Are you?” Huxley’s intense gaze says I better be honest. Man, he’d make a fantastic litigator. No wonder his family won’t leave him alone.
“Nope. Maybe Joey doesn’t think my DNA is worthy.” I grin smugly. He acted all happy at Gion Shiyaki, but he only introduced me to Bobbi because I was right there. He would’ve done the same if Huxley had crashed the “date.” A shitty thing for Joey to do, of course, but at least I stepped up and got her away from the human tangerine.
Huxley snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. If I'm getting them, you’re getting them.”
“But I’m not. Scout’s honor. So…” A light shrug. “Pretty sure dad doesn’t really want a grandkid from me. He needs a baby he can shove into Josh Singer’s face.” And I’ve done a great job of pretending to be not too bright, not too focused and not very talented in anything in particular except wildlife photography. Thankfully, Dad isn’t interested in having a grandchild who’s a photography prodigy. He wants a baby capable of singing like an angel or dancing like a prima ballerina—ideally both.
Huxley drinks more wine, then sniffs. Based on his expression, he’s plotting some sort of gruesome murder. Joey better watch it because Huxley knows all the legal angles. If anyone can get away with homicide… “If you say so. Anyway, if this dinner isn’t about the crazy women, whatisit about?”
“I’m thinking about a career change.” Not true, but I need a plausible reason for this meeting other than trying to save Hux’s ass.
“Cheetahs no longer excite you?” He reacts like I just told him I get off on sticking my dick into a live socket. Understandable since I’ve spent most of my adult life acting like wildlife photography is one of the greatest joys of my life, up there with carbs.
If only he knew that “cheetahs” is actually what I call my rifles and guns. They’re as sleek, fast and fatal as the gorgeous cats. The moniker fits.
“No, they’re still good. But I’m getting a little…restless.” I take a bite of the beef and sigh. Would’ve been better with some creamed spinach, but loyalty comes first.
“I thought you’d die shooting your precious beasts.”
The comment reminds me of what Bobbi said.Marry the one you love the most. The one you probably moan about in your sleep. Your precious cheetahs. Totally unfair, of course. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was never that weird about my love of cheetahs.”
He snorts. “Ridiculous?” His eyes defocus a bit as he looks up at the ceiling. “‘Cheetahs don’t have retractable claws. Unlike other big cats, cheetahs can’t roar. Cheetahs have those black tear-stripes on their faces to help prevent sun glare.’ You know how I know all that?You.”
“Well, yeah, okay. But—”
“Weird, fetishistic cheetah-love.”
“I don’t really—”
He waves a dismissive hand in my face. “Stow it. My only advice is, if you want to be successful in your next career, don’t be a novelist.”
“Hey. You can’t rush art.”
“You can if art puts food on your table. Did you know Bach composed a mass a week?”
“Should’ve invested his money in venture capital or private equity.”
“He lived three hundred years ago.” Huxley points it out in that half-condescending, half-superior way he has. He always prides himself on being intelligent and well-versed in culture and history. Unfortunately, he’s oblivious to the giant stick protruding from his ass.
“Well, I live in today’s world and am well invested, as you know. So food will be on my table whether my book gets written or not.” I pull out my phone and tap the screen to check up on Catalina and Andreas.Ten minutes away. “Actually, I’m thinking about going into advertising.”
Huxley’s fork stops in the air, butter dripping from the lobster tail. “What?”
“It’s a stable career. I’ll be great at it.”
