Page 42 of The Drummer

I return a grave nod, because that makes so much sense. “Okay, sure. Let me finish up here and I’ll meet you out front.”

She pauses for a moment, waiting for me to move out of her way.

I could.

But I don’t.

Her tiny dress means it’s easy for me to see her chest move in a sharp inhale when she has to squeeze past me.

Also, she one hundred percent just sniffed me with that quick inhale.

I’m still grinning as I turn back to the dresser to find a shirt.

Bright light streamsinto the hall from the main living space when I head back to check on things. The murmur of indistinct whining and muttered curses drifts through the air, making it pretty obvious what’s happening.

My grin becomes a straight up chuckle when I reach the end of the hall to see the blaring recessed lights igniting the room, and our girl manhandling a gathering of entitled A-Listers.

“Does anyone need a cab?” she calls in the perfect mix of sardonic sincerity.

No one bites, but she earns plenty of scowls as the irritated guests file past. For the record, from the look of it, she gives zero fucks. If writing doesn’t work out for her, she’d be great at concert security.

I could watch this all day.

“Thanks, everyone,” she hums. She even does the genteel courtesy wave she’s probably seen on TV. I hold back a snort. “Thanks for coming. Actually, if you ask for Mara Jacobson in the lobby, I’m sure she’ll be happy to book a room for you. Thank you.”

Her suggestion is even funnier considering almost all of these people are here because they already have rooms.

“Oops, your purse…” the ever-alert hostess points out when a guest drops something. “Yes, there… Thank you… Thank you… Thanks…”

She snaps a look in my direction and goes still when she sees me. Her expression is somewhere between relieved and annoyed, and I love that I have no idea if it’s because of me or her thankless task of crowd control.

I perform a slight bow, urging her to continue.

Her eye-roll is priceless, but she must want to clear this room more than banter with me, because she quickly regroups.

Thing is, she already kicked ass at kicking ass, and the place is empty.

Almost.

“You missed one,” I joke as I come up beside her.

We stare down at the passed-out media mogul on the couch. The last time I saw this man, I was a starving artist and he was an opportunistic asshole shaking my hand with a toothy grin. It was a disturbing look for a man who’d just demanded a shady photoshoot at his personal residence in exchange for a feature in something. I don’t even remember what.

I passed on the shoot.

“What do we do?” Callie asks, tilting her head like he’s a problem she can’t solve.

“That’s Orin Cantea.”

“Who?”

“Orin Cantea? Rhinehearst Media?”

Her irritated look stays glued to the snoring CEO. “Does that mean he freeloads on other people’s couches?”

“Freeloads?” I laugh. “The guy is a gazillionaire.”

She shrugs and turns back to him. “Good. So he has people that can come get him.”

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