Not Just Friends (Hot in the City #3) - T. Gephart Page 0,18
us coffee, moron.” I lifted myself out of the La-Z-Boy, needing a shower before heading to work. “And make it extra strong.”
“Don’t use all the hot water,” he yelled, hopefully heading to the kitchen as I disappeared into the bathroom.
Yeah, because me using all the hot water was the biggest problem we had.
I was going to have to talk to Presley.
Shit.
Presley
CLUB HOURS WEREN’T conducive to regular sleep patterns.
I went to bed between four and five, and slept till about noon. Which meant mornings were not my friend.
So when my phone went off sometime before lunchtime—me, the idiot, believing turning it to silent was for suckers—I knew it couldn’t mean anything good. Groaning, my hand reached out blindly, grabbing it off my nightstand and bringing it to my ear. I couldn’t face opening my eyes, keeping them scrunched tight as I coughed out, “Presley Tibbs, this better be an emergency.”
“Presley, it’s Scott Collins. How are you doing?”
Oh Lord, give me strength.
I peeled one eye open, checking my phone display for the time and saw it was only eleven. Cursing him and his movie star dad—and anyone else who had anything to do with him—I shuffled up the bed.
I’d assumed I’d be hearing from him today, Hank giving him my card before he left. But he couldn’t have waited an extra hour? The missed sleep mourned as I tried to be pleasant.
“Scott, hi. I assumed you’d have an assistant call me.”
“Yeah, and miss out on a chance to talk to you? No way. So tell me, Presley, you been thinking about me as much as I’ve been thinking about you?”
Apparently, I hadn’t made myself clear last night, the inference that I wasn’t interested in flirting or whatever the hell he was attempting to do, I thought pretty fucking obvious. But it seemed Scott needed a refresher, and since I hadn’t had my required eight hours sleep, I was positive it wasn’t going to be pretty.
“Scott, Scott, Scott,” you poor beautiful, boring, and soon-to-be dead man, “I know you probably don’t hear this a lot, but I’m really not interested. I assumed when you said you wanted to discuss business with me, you meant actual business. Not sure what kind of business that would be, but I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I do that, Scott, not because I have a kind heart, but because that’s what businesspeople do. We listen to people who talk shit because there might be something in it for us. But trust me when I say that you aren’t the first—and will not be the last—guy I blackball from the club for wasting my time and misappropriating my phone number. And, it won’t just be my club. You’ll suddenly find yourself persona non grata to a long list.”
At Diablo I made an effort to be diplomatic. I wanted return patronage and to keep my ledger healthy. But in my own time—not so much.
“Wait. I promise I’m legit. Just hear me out.”
It gave me a warped sense of pleasure to hear a man beg. I liked it, especially when I knew the man would rather swallow glass than submit. Which was the only reason why I hadn’t hung up.
“Tick, tock, Scott. What have you got for me?”
“It’s about a club. Here in L.A. I mean, there in L.A. I want to talk to you about a partnership.” He stammered through most of it, the cool Hollywood heartthrob he was in interviews, sidelined with the flirting.
“Elaborate,” I breathed into the phone, not convinced I still wanted to listen.
“Can we do this in person? Set up a meeting?”
“Not until I know this is going to be worth my time. What club in L.A. and what does it have to do with me?”
It had been a while since I’d visited the west coast, and I was okay with that. I wasn’t fond of palm trees, and all that sunshine wasn’t good for my skin. So how I fit into the equation was still a mystery.
“I want to buy a club, okay, and I need someone to run it. I want it to be you.”
And silence.
On both sides of the phone. Because I still wasn’t sure he wasn’t deploying a new tactic. “Hey baby, come run my club,” meaning something entirely different. And he probably was preparing for me to tell him to go fuck himself.
Which I would.
Once I worked out what he was saying.
The measured breath slipped silently from my lips as I kept my tone unemotional.