Another point in the plus column of this company: The whole time Lucky had been coming here, he’d always been greeted by the guard and escorted by plant personnel. Couldn’t be too careful these days, even with his SNB badge. Not good to let strangers roam around unsupervised in a plant where most of the products brought a high price on the streets, and death in the wrong hands.
Today’s closeout meeting meant not coming back here for the foreseeable future.
A young man squeaked down the hallway in high-topped black tennis shoes, appearing younger than Todd, wearing red skinny jeans and a white button-down shirt. Sheesh. Some people went too far with business casual.
“Could you come with me, please?” The guy swung a curtain of brown hair from his eyes with a flip of his head.
Were companies recruiting from high schools now? At least the kid was a whole lot politer than Ty, though he appeared nearly the same age.
Lucky trailed behind Bo and Johnson, following their guide down a windowless hallway and into an elevator. They exited on the fourth floor and trailed Mr. Red Jeans into a conference room.
Lucky and Johnson wasted no time getting to the coffee pot, her giving him a playful shoulder shove to get there first. They’d even brewed a pot of decaf for Lucky. Bo snagged a bottle of water from the coffee counter.
Another company. Another suit and tie meeting. He’d lost track of how many. Chastain Pharmaceuticals. One of the few family-owned pharma companies that hadn’t been swallowed up by huge, multinational corporations.
Though, judging by what Lucky found through researching, the place remaining independent wasn’t due to lack of the bigger companies trying.
Give ‘em hell, folks. Give ‘em hell. Score one for the little guys.
The polished, granite-topped table must’ve weighed a ton, and the light blue chair nearly ate him as he sank into plushness. Floor to ceiling windows gave a stunning view of Atlanta and, in the distance, Stone Mountain. The SNB offices offered similar views, and higher off the ground.
Artwork hung from the walls opposite the windows, in a style Bo called Modern Art. Damned ugly dark splotches on canvas if you asked Lucky. He’d seen more fascinating ketchup smears on napkins.
Johnson cleared her throat, pulling Lucky’s attention back to his job. He’d dressed up for this, so they could wait until he was good and ready to get this show on the road.
Two men and three women crowded around one side of the table, big fish in a small pond, warily eying the three barracudas in business suits. Oh, how he’d once gotten off on making people sweat. All he’d have to do was peek at Bo’s iPad, scowl, rake a glare over the company personnel, and they’d likely hyperventilate.
Bo sat beside Lucky. Now there was a guy who looked good in a suit, and not the least bit uncomfortable. He made a damned good sight out of the suit too.
Lucky scratched his leg under the table. Stiff-assed pants. The polished loafers squeezed his feet. Those suckers were due to sail out the car window on his way home.
Hmmm… Wait a minute. The first time Lucky met Bo they’d been on their way to a consultation with a pharmaceutical company. Only, Walter led the meeting that time. More and more Boss shoved Lucky into the limelight.
Walter had to go and mention the one word capable of striking fear into Lucky’s heart: retirement. How was Lucky ever going to manage not to piss off the top brass without Walter around to act as a buffer?
This time, unlike with Regency Pharma all those years ago, Lucky got to deliver good news, not set wheels into motion that wound up throwing folks in prison. Try as he might—and he tried like hell—he’d not found anything noteworthy in his investigation. An employee forgot to sign an invoice, but the misplaced file hadn’t remained missing long.
These folks knew how to run a business, as witnessed by the few individuals in the conference room—the rest were out running the factory, like they should have been.
He used to judge the success of a company by how well the cars parked near the factory entrance matched those near the offices. Here, the workers weren’t driving home in beaters.
Lucky approved. Not that he’d say so.
While they waited for a last-minute straggler, he watched his partner.
Partner. His partner. Bo. Tapping away on an iPad, professional as hell. Maybe they should add to their role playing. If and when their house cleared out enough for a rousing game of Businessman and Delivery Guy.
Johnson stood off to the side, chatting with the CEO, cup of coffee in hand. The man grinned and let out a laugh. Oh, damn. Johnson being flirted with? He’d better intervene before she punched the man’s teeth down his throat.
But wait! Johnson laughed too, throwing back her head. She’d donned a form-fitting suit for this meeting, so different from her SNB uniform or the clubwear she wore undercover. She fit right in with these executives.
So did Bo. Funny, when he’d first met Bo, he’d imagined a spoilt brat who’d grown up with wealthy parents. Nothing could’ve been farther from the truth. As during the long-ago meeting, not a single wrinkle dared muss Bo’s clothes. The fingernails he used to have professionally manicured were by no means jagged, but they’d not been buffed in a salon in a while. Bo also no longer glued his hair in place, letting the soft waves fall naturally. Dark brown hair, without the highlights he used to wear.
He looked so much better like this.
Approachable.
Fuckable.
