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“Gentlemen. I figured we were due for a visit.”

“We aren’t in Santa Barbara, sir,” Alastair says respectfully.

No one knows we know Noor is alive. Nox swears our searches can’t be traced, and I hope to god he’s right or we’re all fucked.

“No, but it’s been awhile,” he shrugs. “Let’s go get a drink.” The old man hands Alastair a card, and there’s every certainty that he’s not going to take ‘no’ for an answer. “I’ll see you there. I know exactly how long it takes to drive there.”

Alastair doesn’t even glance down before he nods. “Of course, sir.”

There’s not a hint of nerves, and I take short breaths to remind myself that we’ve done nothing wrong.

“Your give a shit meter has dwindled,” Emil observes.

“It’s harder to make us disappear now is all. See you soon.”

I fall into step with Alastair and Ciaran, grateful my nerves are doing well today. I played a really good game, left it all out on the ice, I’m good. Alastair is also right.

“He could still make us hurt,” Ciaran breathes as we get a cab outside of the hockey stadium. There’s no goddamned way we’re getting into the same car as Noor’s grandfather.

“Maybe, but he’s also a man of his word,” I add. “Now, why is he here of all places after seven years?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

I snatch the card from Alastair’s hand. He rattled off the address to the driver earlier, but didn’t give the name of the establishment.

The Rocks. A place to get your rocks off in peace.

“This place can’t be serious.”

“I was trying not to freak you out,” Alastair says. “We’re going to talk, not fuck.”

“I certainly hope not,” Ciaran says, his lip curling. We’d fuck in public if it was necessary, but I don’t think this is the kind of place we’d want to.

We meet Emil at the door, and I stoically say nothing as he walks inside and asks for a quiet table in a corner. It’s much cleaner than I would have thought, and it doesn’t appear as if anyone is naked. There are a few women dancing in lingerie, but that’s about it.

“What are we talking about?” I ask. A bottle of Scotch is dropped off at the table with four glasses, and Ciaran raises his brow at Emil.

He won't touch a drop of it. Our boundaries are clearer than they have ever been before, and I doubt if Emil gives a fuck if Ci drinks or not.

“Moving on. Why don’t I see you with any girls?” he asks.

“Are we…serious?” Alastair asks, confused.

“Yes. From what I understand, you used to fuck everything in sight in high school.”

“That’s highly exaggerated,” I mutter.

Emil pours a drink into a tumbler, ignoring us as he preps it with an ice cube that a waitress also sets down.

“Roya. Take your panties off for me.”

I watch as the waitress does what Emil says without complaint. She’s not wearing anything other than a bra to hold her tits up at this point. Her blonde hair is held up in some type of clip, and she looks…fake.

Everything about her reminds me of someone trying too hard to be someone else’s fantasy. She’s definitely not mine. My girl has a tapered waist, small hips that swish with purpose when she walks, and tits I could suck and cut for days. Whoever Roya is, she’s not for me.

Ciaran watches dispassionately as Emil helps her up onto the bench and she sits down in front of him with her legs wide open.

“Lose the bra, Roya and lay down, please.”