She meets my gaze head-on. “My grandma used to always say, when you stop looking for what you want, you find what you need.”
Wonderful. Thanks, Grandma. So, I suppose if I back out now, I’ll find a million dollars and a get out of jail free card under my pillow in the morning.
I open my mouth to tell her where she can shove her unwanted advice when the purple-haired bartender sets another glass in front of me. Picking it up, I down half of it in one gulp, the burn significantly less jarring this time. “I didn’t get to be the best in the business by leaving things to chance,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “I dig where others won’t, so I know things others don’t. So, when I say I know she’s not our Alexandra Romanov, there’s a reason.”
She cocks an eyebrow. “Which is?”
Some people never learn the meaning of “quit while you’re ahead.”
“Know why I’m the best?” When she shakes her head, I lean forward, my jaw clenching so hard the muscles in my neck strain. “Because I know when to keep my fucking mouth shut.”
I must have won the argument because she reaches into her purse and tosses a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar. “Well, when you decide to confide in the only person left who has your back, give me a call. Until then, you can Uber your ass back to the motel.”
Grabbing a handful of cocktail peanuts, I toss one in the air, missing my mouth by a good six inches. “Drive safe.”
Blowing out a frustrated sigh, she slides off her stool. “Are you sure you’re going to be all right?”
Nope. “Don’t worry about me.” I snort, raising my glass of Jack. “I can take care of myself. Been doing it all my life.”
Her hand lingers on my shoulder before she disappears out the front door, leaving me in silence.
I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt at warding off the headache brewing behind my eyes. I’m drowning in lawyer fees, court costs, and settlement decrees, all because the king of Hollywood tried to silence me and save his own ass.
Then again, when you bait a shark, you shouldn’t be shocked when he bites, and one of the biggest ones in the ocean tried to take a chunk out of my leg. Now that he’s gained a taste for my blood, he’ll keep coming back for more. I didn’t start this war, but now that I’m out of resources, I’m the only one who can end it.
Unfortunately, I can’t do it without her.
Alexandra Romanov.
I’d rather chase down anyone else. Contrary to what people think, I’m not heartless. But that’s not the way sensationalism works. The only thing the world loves more than an icon is a fallen icon, and with the fifteenth anniversary of LA’s most infamous massacre approaching, the media is jerking off to this story. Now, every crazy dickbag with an empty wallet and a set of balls is coming forward, and the race is on to find the supposed sole Romanov survivor. An eight-year-old child who disappeared from a home invasion that claimed the lives of her entire family and silenced the world.
Until the lure of a payout caused a ripple effect that flashed dollar signs in even the most pious of eyes. Suddenly everyone traded their morality in favor of cold hard cash. Forget death; money is the great equalizer.
And here I am, lighting a torch and joining the witch hunt. Not in the name of honor, but in the shadow of greed. Because in sifting through a hundred lies, there could be one truth.
And that truth is a debt I owe the devil.
Cursing, I fish my phone from my pocket. Pulling up the ride share app, I schedule a car to pick my ass up now while I can still see. I scroll down, filling in all pertinent information, cringing as I type in the location.
The G-Spot.
Yes, that’s actually the name of this place. I wish I were kidding. Supposedly, it’s named because gin is the house special. I don’t buy it, either. The place is a dank hole in the wall. No, hole in the wall is too generous. It’s a barely lit crack that smells like stale beer and faded dreams.