Page 51 of The Enforcer

I smile, thinking of how happy he’ll be for me. I can think of more than one way I’d like for us to celebrate, starting with his dick in my mouth while he wears his cut. One day, I’ll make it happen.

“However,” Mr. Clinton says when I let his hand go and take a seat back in the chair. “There’s a slight problem with your … friends.”

And here it is. I should have known. After the way he glared at Zeke like he loathed him—even though he doesn’t know him—I could tell there wouldn’t be good news. I should have listened to my gut and not shown how much I wanted this. He now knows he can dangle it in my face to get me to do what he wants.

I hate him for it.

No longer smiling, I raise an eyebrow. “What about them?”

“Well, the other partners and I feel they don’t present the best image. They’re … not the people we’d like others to associate with. Imagine if we have an office party. Would you deem to have your … friend on your arm? Think about your image.” As an afterthought, he adds. “Imagine the gossip.”

I scoff. “I don’t care about gossip. Who I’m with isn’t indicative of my work or how I defend my clients.”

“Be that as it may,” he says, his voice taking on a tone as if he’s talking to a child, “in order to take the position, certain people need to be cut from your life. If not … well, let’s just say your time at Bridge, Clinton, and Shuster may not pan out for long.”

My spine going ramrod straight, I ask, “Are you threatening to fire me because of my friends? Who I hang out with in my personal time?”

“They shouldn’t be your friends,” he practically seethes, finally losing his cool. “They are the dregs of society. Your friends are known to be drug dealers and they assault the citizens in this community. I shudder to think what else they may be capable of. I don’t like the look of any of them, especially your … friend.”

Tired of hearing him spew shit about my family and my man, I stand suddenly, knocking the chair back and making Mr. Clinton startle. “That’s enough. You won’t talk about them like that. Not in front of me. You don’t know Zeke, my boyfriend. He’s a better man than you’ll ever be.” My chest rises and falls rapidly as I’m unable to calm down. How fucking dare he?

“Mr. Astor?—”

“No,” I say, slashing a hand in the air. “You’ve said enough. What I don’t understand is how you can look down on anyone when you sleep next to a murderer every night.” Mr. Clinton’s red face pales and he sputters. “Yeah, you met your wife when you defended her after she ran over a little girl because she was driving under the influence, isn’t that correct? You defended a murderer, got her off with fucking probation, and you married her. And you have the nerve to look down on me?”

I’m fucking livid. How dare he pretend he’s holier than thou when his wife is a known murderer? It might not be much, but at least no one can say Zeke killed any women or children. Just people that fuck over the club and half the time, they deserve to die. The nerve of Mr. Clinton to pretend that he doesn’t have his own shit going on, like people didn’t treat him like shit when he showed up with his wife on his arm after her trial. There are still whispers about it, thirty years later, otherwise, I wouldn’t have known.

Mr. Clinton is stunned into silence, but I’m not done yet. “Maybe you should have a bit more understanding for someone that’s dating someone that you consider dregs of society when your wife was in that company.” Lowering my head, I chuckle as I button my jacket. When I look back up, Mr. Clinton can’t meet my eyes. Fucking coward. “Good luck finding someone to replace me. Not just as senior partner, but as an attorney at this law firm. I quit.”

His head snaps up and he stands. “There’s no need to be hasty. You have a big case. We need you.”

“You should have thought about that before you threatened my job and judged my friends. Take the case and shove it up your ass.”

With that, I walk out, feeling lighter than I have in years.

Chapter Twenty-One

Zeke

“No one knows where he is,” I tell Prez while we sip our beers. “Some of the employees that worked at his club said he came by a few weeks ago, asking to crash at their places, but they all turned him down. He’s in the wind.”

Prez clutches the beer cap hard in his hand, the tendons raising in sharp relief. That’s the only display of his displeasure. His face is always in this neutral scowl, so it’s hard to tell sometimes. “We’ll keep looking while you’re gone. If we find him, you might miss the fireworks.”

I bark a laugh just as my phone pings with a text message. “Yeah, well, you can tell me about it when I get back.” Rax told me they found a new warehouse for us to use, but he didn’t want to close on it before one of us had the chance to take a look at it. Prez just came back, so he asked if I wanted to go.

Fuck yes, I do. Who would turn down the opportunity to go to Cuba?

Sliding my phone from my pocket, I grin down at Shane’s name on the screen. I must have a sappy look on my face, because Prez pats me on the shoulder and heads to his office, saying, “Tell Shane I say hello.”

Chuckling, I open the text.

Shane: Can you come over when you’re free?

I furrow my brows and look at the time on my screen. It’s barely three in the afternoon. Does he mean come to his office? I’m sure he does, so I tailor my response to that being his location.

Me: I’ll come now. Traffic is a bitch going downtown, but I’ll be there in thirty minutes.

His next text message really confuses me.

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