For years, I’d been telling my dad that he should get out of the grift. That he was getting too old and that there was no point in taking the risk when he should have more than enough cash stockpiled from his various successes over the years to allow him to live comfortably in Palm Beach or someplace equally retirement friendly.
So it was particularly ironic that I became the one to get out of the business first—more or less, anyway. But the “less” side of that equation was growing more every day, and once I closed on the house I was going to have to schedule a serious talk with myself about my life, my future, and everything.
Because once I had roots, I couldn’t continue to run cons—even loose, easy ones that I set up primarily for my own amusement and to keep myself on my game.
Like my dad always said, only fish poop where they live. Maybe not the most classy of statements, but he was right. And that was the reason we never stayed in one place when I was a kid.
“Where did you go?” Sloane asked, and I turned my attention toward her, only to find her peering intently into my face. “I asked about the coffee shop and you took off for someplace a million miles away.”
“Sorry. I’ve just been less than satisfied with my job lately.”
“I could talk to Tyler. We might be able to use you.”
The bartender brought our drinks, and I took a long sip of mine before answering. “I think what you do is exceptionally cool,” I said. “But it’s not me. And I’d end up resenting you because I’d be doing filing and correspondence and you’d be out taking surveillance photos while hanging upside down from lampposts.”
As a former cop, Sloane was well qualified to work in the knights’ high-end investigation and security company. Me, not so much. Not unless I wanted to be a consultant on the fine art of fraud. Which, of course, I didn’t.
“I rarely hang upside down,” Sloane said. “But I get what you’re saying. Got anything in mind?”
“Maybe,” I said. The truth was I’d been toying with a possible new career option, pulling the idea out from time to time and taking it on a mental spin around the block. So far, I was still intrigued. But not enough to talk about it. Not yet. I was still in that magical honeymoon phase. I’d talk about it once the sheen had worn off and I was ready to knuckle down and think about whether or not I could really make it work.
And speaking of honeymoons . . .
“It’s not me we need to be discussing,” I said. “We have a party to plan. And we ought to do it while we’ve still got a buzz,” I added, with a nod to our glasses.
The trouble with having a bridegroom who owned a strip club was that it took the wow-factor out of taking the bride to a strip club, even one of the male variety. But with the Manhattans flowing through our veins, Sloane and I decided that a hot-guy version of Destiny could be just the ticket. And, because we were totally juiced, we also decided that bringing Angie to Destiny afterward and having her put on her own little show for Evan would be even more amusing.
Only time would tell if it was a good plan, or just one of those schemes that sounds fabulous when you’re plastered.
“And speaking of the knights and sexy encounters,” Sloane said, propping her chin on her fist and studying me through narrowed eyes. “Where did you disappear to last night?”
“Home,” I said firmly.
“By way of . . . ?” she prompted. “Come on, Kat, give. There’s no way that amazing dress failed to make an impact.”
I thought of the dress, now crunched up in my trashcan, and smiled. “It made an impact, all right.”
“Ha!” she said, her tone triumphant. “I knew it. Tell.”
Sloane, apparently, was pretty damn perceptive.
“It didn’t go exactly the way I planned,” I admitted, which was about as close to a moment of deep, girly sharing as I intended to get.
“All right,” she said slowly. “Bad end of the spectrum or good end of the spectrum?”
“Both.”
Her brows lifted. “Oh, really? Care to elaborate?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“But it was good?”
I had to laugh. “For a former cop, you don’t listen very well. Yes, it was good. I had a moment of jealousy before it was good—some woman named Michelle who says she’s seen me at Destiny wrapped herself around Cole. And then I realized that she and Cole and some guy were all caught up in the business side of things, so I pushed the jealousy down, for which I gave myself bonus points. Then Michelle left and I had some Cole time and it was . . . quite delicious,” I decided. “At least until it got strange.” I thought of the encounter earlier at the house. “And then it got delicious again.”
“Delicious is good,” Sloane said, then added, “I’ve met Michelle.”
“Yeah? So she works for them, right?”
“Sure,” she said, but she didn’t quite meet my eyes when she said it. Instead, she took a sip of her drink, then reached down the bar to snag a menu another customer had left behind. “We should order. I’m starving.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “I’ve met toddlers who are more subtle. What’s up?”
“Nothing is up. My blood sugar, however, is down. Must eat. Want to split french fries?”
“I want you to tell me whatever it is you’re not telling me.”
“Two orders of fries,” she said to the bartender. “And add in some of those stuffed mushrooms, too. Just for fun.”
“Sloane.”
“It’s no big, really.”
“People never say that when it’s true,” I pointed out. “It’s about Michelle, so just spill it. Did she and Cole used to date? Christ, are they dating now?”
“They’re definitely not dating.” Her voice was oddly firm.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, hell, Kat. I don’t know. I already told you that Cole doesn’t date. He fucks. And he’s fucking Michelle.”
“I see.” And I did see. I just wasn’t sure I liked what I saw.
“I don’t think it’s like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like anything other than two people who are convenient to each other. I just thought that I should tell you because despite your Fuck Buddy speech last night, I get the feeling you want more than that.”