A Book of Spirits and Thieves - Morgan Rhodes Page 0,5

“I aim to please.”

“Aim a little lower, would you?”

“Anything you want.”

He did another shot and glanced at the time on his phone. Midnight. He’d successfully made it through the third of April.

Suddenly, the sickly sweet scent of the girl’s floral perfume had begun to chase his buzz away. Girls, thinking it made them smell like money, piled that garbage on way too thick for his taste.

“Enough,” Farrell said as he pushed her off his lap.

“Oh, come on. We’ve barely gotten started.” She stroked his chest and unbuttoned the top of his white Prada shirt. “Here we are, all alone, just the two of us. It’s destiny, baby.”

He tried not to laugh. “I don’t believe in destiny.”

The private lounge he’d reserved offered a sliver of privacy, but Farrell would hardly call them alone. Only twenty feet away, through a shimmering curtain, was the rest of the club. The sound of throbbing music had begun to make his head ache.

He’d kill for a cigarette, but he was trying to quit.

The brunette had caught his eye when he’d gone to fetch a bottle of Grey Goose from the bar. He had no idea how old she was under all that makeup. Maybe twenty. Maybe thirty. He didn’t really care.

“The night’s still young,” he told her. “We have time, Suzie.”

“It’s Stephanie.”

He gave her one of his best smiles, which never failed to work wonders with difficult females. Right on schedule, her serious expression faded and her eyes sparkled with interest. He didn’t have many talents, but effortless charm and a way with women were two of them.

Also, the public knowledge of Farrell Grayson’s upcoming inheritance helped get him all the female attention he’d ever want.

One hundred million dollars of his grandmother’s vast estate, left to him in her will—with a stipulation: He didn’t get his hands on it until he turned twenty-one.

Only 576 days till he finally had the freedom to do as he pleased without being caught under his parents’ thumbs, totally dependent on his monthly allowance.

“Suzie . . . Stephanie . . . Sexy . . . come back over here, whoever you are,” he said, patting his knee. She did as requested, smiling now.

Her tongue tasted like rum, he thought absently. And Diet Coke.

His phone vibrated and he glanced down at it. It was a message from his kid brother, Adam.

im in big trouble can you come get me

It included an address to one of the seedier neighborhoods downtown.

Another text message swiftly followed: never mind im fine

Yeah, right. Farrell slipped the phone into the inner pocket of his jacket. He grabbed the bottle of vodka and took a swig from it, feeling the pleasant burn all the way down his throat.

Fun was over. Duty called.

“Got to go,” he said.

Stephanie’s eyes widened with surprise. “What? Where?”

“I need to deal with a family thing.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No thanks,” Farrell said without hesitation.

“Oh, come on.” She traced her long fingernails up his arm. “We’re having such a good time. You really want it to end so soon?”

“I really couldn’t care less.” He kept his smile fixed as her expression fell. “What? You thought this was an open casting call for the role of Farrell Grayson’s girlfriend? Sorry to disappoint you.”

Her surprise faded and her eyes flashed with anger. “Asshole. Everything they say about you is true.”

She got up from his side and stormed out of the lounge, shoving the curtains out of her way, but her arms and hair still got caught in them in her furious need to make a dramatic exit.

Fine with him. He’d never liked the taste of rum anyway.

Since having his license suspended four months ago, Farrell had had to get used to having a chauffeur. It was either that or take public transit—and both of his parents were appalled by the thought of a Grayson riding the subway.

Not that any of this was their fault; it was entirely his. Wrapping his Porsche around a tree had totaled the car, landed him with a DUI the family lawyers were still sorting out, and sent him into the hospital with a serious concussion.

You’re damn lucky you didn’t hurt anybody else, the voice of his conscience snarled. It sounded exactly like his older brother, Connor. All their lives, he’d been the one offering up such pearls of wisdom, whether Farrell wanted them or not.

When the limo reached its destination, Farrell, unsteady on his feet from the amount of liquor he’d consumed, approached a low-rent apartment building.

Out front, several of the streetlamps were