“Shit,” Davis mutters, pulling his hood up to cover his face.
When I step out of the car, I wave and smile at the cameras as they scream my name.
“Prince Louis, are you here to find Addison Cross?”
I give him a grin and a peace sign. “You know it. Now, make sure these photos are everywhere. Charge a lot for these. It’s front-page material,” I tell them.
The flashes go off as we push through the lobby doors and head for the private elevator. I’ve visited enough over the past decade that security doesn’t ask questions any longer. Moments later, we’re rising toward the penthouse.
“I cannot believe we’re in New York,” Davis says.
The doors open directly in front of Dyson’s penthouse. I let out a relieved breath, happy as fuck to see his ugly door. I knock, and it swings open. He’s standing there in jeans and a T-shirt with a mug in his hand, looking like he took the day off from work.
“Wow. I’ll be damned. You’re actually here,” he says.
“In the flesh.” I pull him into a hug, and he claps me on the back. “Dyson, this is Davis. He’s the reason I’m standing here right now.”
Dyson extends his hand, and Davis shakes it, looking slightly overwhelmed by the penthouse view that overlooks Central Park.
“Thanks for getting him out,” Dyson says. “He owes you.”
“Yeah, he owes me several at this point,” Davis replies.
Dyson laughs. “Come in, please. If you need the bathroom, there’s one on the other side of the kitchen.”
Davis gives him a thank-you and moves across the room.
I set my duffel down and follow Dyson to the kitchen.
“You look like shit.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve been through hell and back,” I explain.
“Coffee? Tequila? Tea?” Dyson asks.
“Nah.”
Dyson drinks from his cup and studies me. “Are the rumors true?”
“Which one?” I ask.
“That you’re fucking Patterson Cross’s little sister.”
I don’t flinch. “Ahh. That one. Yeah, it’s true.”
Dyson lets out a low whistle. “Patterson is pissed, Louis.Livid.He’s been blowing up my phone since Addison landed.” He shakes his head. “He might actually kill you.”
“Let him try.”
“I’m serious.” Dyson sets down his coffee mug. “You might’ve been safer back in Montclaire.”
“Great. Don’t give a fuck. Do you know where Addison lives?”
“Unfortunately, no.” A chuckle releases from him. “You’ll have to ask Patterson.”
33
ADDISON
