Grumpy Boss by Hamel, B. (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📗

know a damn thing,” I said, and stopped, looking around at the marble floor and absurd opulence. Hollywood was as rich as it was tacky. Men lunged nearby in deep chairs wearing tuxedos that cost as much as a car and women lingered in groups talking quietly amongst themselves as light glittered off their jewels. All fake, all smoke and mirrors. That was Hollywood. I didn’t know why Fluke was here, but I couldn’t wait to leave.

Millie stood next to me, close enough to touch shoulders. “How many rooms did you get?” she asked almost casually.

I glanced at her and tried to hide my smile. “One,” I said.

“Of course.” She looked down at the ground and sighed. “You’re on the couch.”

“We’ll see about that.” I strode off toward the front desk, and I heard Millie grumbling behind me.

* * *

The line outside Club Questions stretched around the block. Millie gaped at all the people, girls in their tight, short dresses, men in their best jeans and button downs, and hurried to keep up with me as I walked past them all. We got more than a few dirty looks, but fuck them. I was in my best suit, black Armani, fit me like a dream, and Millie wore a simple cocktail dress, a little too formal for a normal club, but would work in this town.

“What are you doing?” she asked, grabbing at my elbow.

“We’re skipping the line,” I said. “I know the owner.”

“I thought we were having dinner,” she said, sounding annoyed. Earlier, I’d convinced her to come out with me by dangling a good meal in front of her. I neglected to tell her that our table was in a very loud, and very packed club, and there was actually no food, only bottle service.

“We’re working,” I said as we approached the door man. He was a big guy with a shaved head and a glare that would melt ice. “My name’s Rees. I’m on the list.”

He grunted and swiped at a tablet—then seemed surprised. “Okay, Mr. Court, right this way.” He opened the rope for us and a few people up front groaned.

I ignored them as we headed inside. Millie hurried after me, and we went from the relative calm of the sidewalk, to the pulse-pounding noise of a very crowded and very loud club.

“What the hell are we doing here?” Millie yelled into my ear. “Shouldn’t we be preparing for Lady Fluke?”

“There’s someone I want to meet with,” I said, leaning back to press my lips practically against her neck. She shivered under my touch, and I wanted to move up toward her chin and her mouth. “He’s an investor. Owns this place. Old friend.”

“Is that how you’re on the list?” she asked, frowning.

“I called ahead,” I said, then took her hand. “Come on, stay close.”

We waded through the crowd. Fluke was going to try and push me off, which was fine for one night at least. She wasn’t the only person with money in this town, and I wasn’t going to waste this trip if she decided not to meet with us.

Loud, drunk girls traveled in packs, and louder, drunker men hit on them with the tact of a starving tiger. It wasn’t my kind of place: the bar was packed three-deep and there were few open tables. Everything was tacky, bright, glowing, and loud, but the drinks were flowing, and I could practically see how much money passed through this place on a good night. The lights pulsed with the music, a strange blinking harmony and Millie looked like she’d rather be anywhere but this club, and I couldn’t blame her.

I took her past the bar and up a set of back stairs. Another bouncer stood at the top, took my name, and let us through a large black door into a quieter section. There was another bar and more tables and chairs, these occupied by groups of men and women, different from those below: cleaner, less drunk, less intense. They spoke with concentration to each other, and while the music from downstairs bled through the floor, the vibe wasn’t a party.

“Better,” I said, sitting at the bar. “Now, what will you drink?”

“Nothing,” Millie said. “I still don’t know why we’re here.”

I sighed, ordered a gin and tonic for her and a whisky for myself, then looked over my shoulder at the booth in the back corner. A man sat with a newspaper in front of him, reading glasses perched on his nose. He had bleached blond hair, a skinny, pock-marked face, and a loud, garish shirt.

“That man there with the paper, that’s Kevin Gala,” I said as the bartender placed our drinks down in front of us. I picked mine up and took a sip, and Millie ignored hers. “He owns this place, and ten other places like it. He’s the kind of man with money to spare, but never seems to invest it anywhere.”

“And you think he’ll give you money for your SPAC?” she asked, leaning close to me. I glanced over at her chest, then up at her eyes. She noticed me looking—but didn’t seem to mind. That was good to know.

“He might,” I said. “I think I’ll plant the seed.”

“And if things don’t work out with Lady Fluke, we’ll have him to fall back on,” she said, letting out a breath. “Okay, I guess I understand why we’re here. But I’m still hungry.”

“We’ll eat later,” I said. “Let’s go talk to him first.”

“You know, the last time we were in a club like this, you punched a guy in the face for me.” She leaned against my shoulder, grinning up at me through her eyelashes. “You’re not going to get in a fight again, are you?”

“I promise, so long as nobody disrespects you, I’ll keep my fists to myself.”

She laughed, light and gentle. “What a man, protecting my honor.”

I took a long drink of whisky then stood up. “Come on, let’s get this over with then get you