Page 68

The bass is rattling my ribcage, and I'm beginning to suspect the DJ has a personal vendetta against my internal organs.

Trey slides a glass in front of me, looking entirely too pleased with himself for a man who has spent the evening encouraging my downfall.

“Bitch, drink.”

I squint at the glass before sniffing it. “That is not tequila.”

“Congratulations, detective.”

“Did you just demote me to water?”

“You've been promoted to hydration. Big night for you.”

I take a small, offended sip, glaring at him over the rim. My phone lights up on the bar before I can finish, and I see NATHANIEL BLACKWELL displayed across the screen.

Water shoots down the wrong pipe, and I cough so hard my eyes start watering. Trey peers over my shoulder. “Oooo, you think he mad?”

“Nathaniel Blackwell has no other emotion besides mad." I make a face, imitating Nate, and Trey cackles as I snatch my phone off the bar. By the time I get my fingers around it, the ringing has stopped.

Wonderful. The crisis has been averted.

Except the persistent little corporate demon calls again three seconds later.

I answer, drawing myself upright and attempting to sound like a respectable woman who pays her taxes on time.

“Good eveninnn', Mister Blackwell. Thank you for calling Sola... Sol... shit. That's the company. How may I direct your call?”

Silence.

Then Jace absolutely loses his mind in the background.

“Sloane,” Nate says carefully.

“Yessir. This is she. Her. Me.” I clear my throat and adjust my posture on the barstool. “Speaking.”

Something thuds in the background, followed by the distant chirp of a car unlocking.

“Where are you?” Nate asks again.

I frown at my phone. “Why does it sound like you're outside? Don't you people have a building to run?”

“Sloane.”

“Don't Sloane me. I'm currently unavailable for business inquiries. Please leave a message after the...” I pause to consider the logistics. “Wait. Do we have a beep?”

Trey puts his head down on the bar, shaking with laughter.

“Sola.”

“Oh, don't you Sola me, Mister Blackwell. That's how you get me. With the nicknames and the glasses and the voice. It's work... workplace harrassssment.”

“I'm harassing you?”

“Sexually. In my imagination. Without a permit.”

Jace's laughter erupts through the speaker, loud enough that I pull the phone away from my ear.

“You tell that giggling little menace to mind his business,” I demand.