At least the public setting of the coffee shop would force a certain sense of decorum. Adrian might still turn up the heat, and I might still find myself playing a game that I shouldn’t have, but there was a ceiling on how hot it could get. And if Adrian persuaded me to go elsewhere? I had time transporting myself to back out if necessary.
These were all likely lies I reassured myself with as I showed up at Bean Exchange, a coffee shop I had never been to, about ten minutes before nine. I hadn’t intended to get here early, but with Vegas traffic becoming more of a problem with each passing year and having never been here before, I gave myself ample opportunity. Plus, if it allowed me to settle in, all the better.
The first thing I noticed when I parked was a motorcycle right near the entrance. Slowly, memories of a warehouse out here that belonged to the crime lord King came back to mind; that syndicate had been eradicated, but individuals would still remain.
Then a man with shoulder-length brown hair, tattoos all over his body, and a “Black Reapers” club jacket walked out. He gave me a short nod, one that indicated he was not there to cause trouble but had no interest in engaging further, and hopped on his bike. I tried to steal a glimpse of his jacket; I thought I saw the name “Connor” but I couldn’t say for sure.Wonder what’s going on there?
I knew that there were other chapters in New Mexico and California that occasionally came by to visit and vice versa. I hadn’t gotten the sense that any further street crime or petty warfare was nearby, but I suppose one never really knew. Still,the man looked relaxed enough for a biker, and I thought nothing more of it as I walked inside.
“I see you are also a woman of prompt arrival.”
I jumped very visibly at the sound of Adrian’s voice. He was seated at a small round table, tucked just behind the entrance, such that he would have easily seen me, but I only could have seen him if I awkwardly turned as I entered. That fucker had picked that seat on purpose.
He’s still a journalist subject. Not “that fucker.”
Such thoughts, though, were rapidly fading as I began to accept that this was no ordinary journalist-subject relationship.
“It’s my job to show up beforehand,” I said. I opened my mouth to explain further but caught myself. “Let me order, will you?”
“By all means.”
Adrian leaned back. I took in his dress quickly; a white button-down with gray pants. A bit more refined than yesterday evening, but not as ostentatious as his usual King of Diamonds persona. Maybe he felt he’d delivered the message about his body with yesterday’s shorter sleeves.
Or maybe he’d just picked out whatever seemed right and quick.
I hurried to order a blonde espresso, and I stood by the counter the entire time that I had the drink ready. I thought about what I wanted to ask him; somehow, in all the craziness of the last thirteen hours or so, I hadn’t even considered what question I might ask him.
Then it hit me.
There was an incredibly obvious question, one raised from conversations from other sources, that I had not posed to Adrian yet. It might piss him off, but that was part of my job, was it not? And hadn’t I requested to be in public to ask questions?
The espresso came out, and I took a sip as I sat across from Adrian. He quietly watched—I swore he blinked maybe once—as I laid out my recorder, notebook, and pen.
“I—”
“Are you all set?” Adrian interrupted. When I nodded, he smirked. “Then you can answer my question from last night first.”
First?
“Why do you keep giving me chances?”
Oh, right.
That.
“And remember,” he said, “no bullshit. Don’t give me some glib answer about how it’s your journalistic duty. That may be true if we only spoke once every two or three weeks. But we both know that such an answer, at best, is partial bullshit.”
Right again. I swallowed, drew in a breath, and turned off my recorder.
“I cannot pretend I am not attracted to you, Adrian,” I began. “I am sure that has something to do with that. But to be frank, you are not the first attractive man of power I have interviewed. Yet something about you keeps drawing me in, so much so that, well, I almost kissed you at your penthouse.”
“What do you think that something is?”
I didn’t like this. So much for the public setting giving us some leeway. It might have physically, but Adrian apparently couldn’t care less about verbally.
And why should he? A billionaire sleeping with a journalist was just a charming man. A journalist sleeping with a billionaire was a mercenary without ethics.
“I think you’re intellectually clever and push me in ways others don’t,” I said. “You apply pressure and heat in an intelligent way. Most people put pressure on in such an obvious way, it’s remarkable that they haven’t been exposed publicly. I’mnot stupid. I know that everyone applies pressure. But you do it in a fascinating way.”
