Page 87 of Break the Ice
More questions remain.
I press harder on the gas and shoot forward. No other car in the vicinity even comes close to keeping up. They slip to the background as I dart far ahead of the pack. The last bits of sunset fade out. An inky plum shade migrates in.
By the time I make it to Prime Cut, the steakhouse where Mr. Blackman and a few other members of management are having dinner, I’m feeling reckless. I’m swerving my Corvette into the designated parking hard enough my tires screech.
“Sir, the lot is full. You can’t park?—”
“So find me another spot.” I shove a wad of cash into the valet’s chest and toss my ring of keys at him. He fumbles to keep hold of the cash while catching the keys.
Since the sun set, it’s begun drizzling. Tiny cool droplets mist my skin as I head toward the restaurant. I didn’t bring a jacket or umbrella or anything else to cover myself. I’m still in my joggers and t-shirt I threw on after practice.
A string of limos idle at the front of Prime Cut. One of those probably belongs to Blackman.
I slide fingers through my messy damp hair and approach the hostess at the entrance to the restaurant.
“I’m sorry, but we have no open tab—Rafe Golding,” she gasps. Her eyes bulge, a surprised hand rising to her chest. It’s like flicking on a switch. She goes from professional to dreamy fan girl in a single second. “We don’t show you on the reservation list, but… I can find you something. A few members of the team management are here. Would you like to join them?”
I pop on a grin. The same dimpled one women love. “That would be excellent. Thanks for hooking me up.”
She develops that proud, bubbly look young women take on when they’re dying to giggle and squeal in excitement. Except she has the sense to contain herself in her work setting.
I follow her into the rest of the swanky, low-lit restaurant.
Prime Cut’s all about blending the ruggedness of cowboys and ranchers with the upscale tastes of the rich and famous. The restaurant resembles a barn, if barns were remodeled into Michelin-starred restaurants in one of the nicest neighborhoods of a big city like Seattle.
Everything around me is a mosaic of different woods—wood panels on the walls that are artfully mismatched, oak and black walnut among others. Thick wooden beams overhead that contrast the delicate glass light fixtures. A sea of sturdy wooden tables and chairs decorated by tasteful white tablecloths and candles flickering.
Wood-burning fireplaces are in every corner of the restaurant.
The table where Blackman and the others sit is next to one. The hostess delivers me to their table, still acting off fan girlish glee.
I thank her for the help and then make my obnoxious introduction.
Not that one’s needed—the men at the table have all looked up in surprise.
Some are thrilled, like Michael Gimble, whose eyes light up as he offers me a cigar from his cigar case. I shake my head to decline.
Blackman’s on the other side of the spectrum. His bushy brows connect into a line, and he eyes me with open scrutiny. “This is a closed dinner, Golding. Better luck next time.”
“He can sit with us, Quig,” laughs Michael Gimble. “He’s our big moneymaker anyway, right, boys?”
A few of the other guys murmur their agreement.
Blackman refuses to budge. “No point to our management dinners if players can join too.”
“Don’t be a sourpuss, Quig.”
“I agree with Mike,” jumps in another exec by the name of Simon Chen. “Alpha’s Alpha. He can stay.”
“I’m surprised you’ve got a problem with me being here, Quig,” I say, grinning. “You’ve been finding it hard to stay away any other time. You know, like the goons you sent to Axis to attac?—”
“A private word.” He’s risen from his seat. He looms in the way a tree does, tall and solid in build. He fits in perfectly with Prime Cut’s wooden theme.
“I thought you’d never ask. Lead the way.”
I let him choose where we’re going. You can learn more about a person walking behind them. I survey the rest of the restaurant, ignoring the curious stares from other patrons who recognize me or Blackman. I’m really checking for his security. Any other curve balls he could potentially throw my way.
We exit Prime Cut into the cool drizzly night outside.
