Page 2 of Catfish

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, I show up at your safe haven unannounced with one hell of an attitude problem.

My Louis Vuitton shoes clack along the cheap tiled floors of Holden’s lobby, passing the inexpensive pleather seats and microfiber couches. Giving the illusion of a humble man who uses all of his funding and time to help the well-being of Bridgeport.

A man who doesn’t blow his paychecks and the state’s treasury on casinos, first-class vacations, and expensive women he likes to fuck on Tuesdays and Fridays.

A man I’ve saved on several occasions.

But we’ve reached the end of my rope for the final time. My train waits for no one. My time has already been wasted enough with Montgomery, and his excuses. It’s time to lay down my retribution and exhibit that I’m not fucking around.

Inside the elevator, I key in his code to take me to his penthouse office that’s made to look like it’s for maintenance to the basement. Obviously, people don’t know about it because it’s completely furnished to the nines—overpriced furniture, artwork picked out by a pricey interior designer, and a big-ticket view of Bridgeport.

A man that needs to make up for his age and that fact that he’s not as “handsome” as he used to be and losing the popular vote of the people daily with his lack of governing.

When the elevator door opens, I’m greeted by a large seating area of brown leather couches, dark hardwood floors that glint off the sunlight penetrating through the windows, and Holden pounding a busty blonde against a wall.

The soft ding of the elevator doors doesn’t bring him back to reality, something he should be cautious of. Anyone who could pry their way into his penthouse like I just did with the tongue-tied receptionist downstairs could use one of his side hobbies as leverage against him.

He doesn’t need that type of coverage.

Especially when he’s up to run for mayor again next year and the Bridgeport Bulletin has been lacking a victim for their front page.

Even more importantly, or at least you’d think, Holden can’t afford any more health problems. He’s already at high risk for heart disease and just dug himself out of a potential suicide only last year. One of his old side pieces tried to blackmail him by speaking to a local blogger about their Tuesday sessions. I can only imagine the amount of money he had to fork out to keep it out of the media and away from his wife and two kids.

No folks, Holden Montgomery is a fucking idiot.

The man is so self-centered that not even sound could summon him to the dangers of being found fucking someone who wasn’t his doting wife. He’s presumptuous and vain as all hell.

Did I mention he was a dumbass?

I look away, loudly clear my throat, and pray to God that the stupid son of a bitch hears me. The last thing I signed up for today was seeing his dick.

A small shriek from a woman’s mouth reverberates through the air, along with Holden’s “shit,” as the rustling of clothes starts to commence.

“What the fuck, Lockwood,” Holden chides, followed by the clanking of a belt.

I stay grounded to my spot, eyeing the liquor cabinet to see if there’s anything drinkable other than the cheap vodka that he tends to stock his bar with.

“You’re not returning my calls,” I convey, walking towards his mini-bar to get me through this conversation. “I was getting worried.”

He scoffs. “Don’t bullshit me, it doesn’t fit you.”

“On the contrary.” I grab a glass and hear Holden mumble a few words to his latest interest before stepping in my direction. I don’t turn around to face him until I hear the elevators close safely behind me. “If something happens to you, then I don’t get my money back.”

Holden appears at my side, the heavy smell of aftershave assaulting my nose as he eyes me like a father about to lecture his son.

“I told you I’d have it for you at the end of the month,” he bites out, buttoning the top of his shirt.

Holden continues to stare, so I give in, peering over at him to be matched with brown eyes under bushy, dyed brows that scream I’m a greedy, persistent bastard.

Should’ve thought about that when you called me, prick.

“That was last month,” I deadpan. Returning my attention to my previous goal—whiskey.

“Three weeks ago,” he remarks. “Learn how to count.” My hand snatches his throat, putting enough pressure on it to make my first point.

I’m not going to stand here and be scolded by a motherfucker whose indebted to me. He might have a few decades on me, but I don’t plan on taking a once good political career and shitting on it because I preferred young blondes to my wife and a fantasy of being one of the assholes in Ocean’s Eight by stiffing me.

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