Page 100 of Sloth
Sobering fresh night air blasted him in the face and he inhaled deeply. Purely. Heavenly. It was night. Sirens blared from somewhere. The city was coming alive. This was what he’d waited for. He paused and took a minute to appreciate the atmosphere. It was his city. He knew every dark street, every alley corner, and every filthy secret the underground had to offer. Some time later tonight, after his alcohol had burned off—mostly—Future-Tony would be trailing the shadows, wearing his Deadly battle gear, looking to pick a fight. And he’d get it. And he’d win.
And nobody knew he was Tony-fucking-Lazarus.
That’s what he called heaven.
Cars whizzed by on the street, pulling his mind from the clouds.
People lined up to get entrance into Hell.
Customers walked in and out of the restaurant Heaven. A couple in love caught his eye. A short man and a tall woman. Strange combination, but they made it work. They held hands as they crossed the street to the taxi stalling for them on the other side. They smiled at each other and something in Tony’s chest tweaked.
This amount of activity, it must be the weekend. He must have leaned on the woman too hard because she giggled flirtatiously and buried into him. He tensed. A bright flash popped—stupefying him—and then his brain caught up to why she’d suddenly become extra noisy and cuddly. The paparazzi.
Slowly, more sobering awareness crept in. Four men with cameras were camped on the sidewalk between a city trash can and a tree. From the looks of them all rugged up for the night, they’d been camped for a while and were prepared to wait longer for their payday. They knew he’d been in Hell. And now he was here, caught with this no-name woman, canoodling. Bitterness rolled in his gut, and he wanted to be annoyed, but this was his public persona. This was who the world thought he was.
“Tony!” one of them shouted. “Give us a grin. Show us The Smile.”
Goddamn it.He winced, cursing under his breath. The Smile. That’s how he’d been known in the media. Elle Macpherson was The Body… he was The Smile. If you asked him, his body was better, but whatevs. He was lucky he hadn’t been duped The Diva, like a certain co-star he currently worked with. That would be rough.
He should have taken the secret backdoor from Hell to the neighboring Lazarus Apartments. Should have forgotten about the blond model and just gone home. It’s what he usually did anyway, but for some reason, tonight he didn’t want to be alone.
He winked brazenly at the paparazzi—decidedlydidn’tsmile—and dragged the woman toward the Lazarus House lobby between the two establishments. The place was secure, had a doorman and you could only access it from the inside, or with facial recognition. Lazarus Industries also had the security firm situated across the street on retainer. Their apartment complex was a safe haven.
Camera flashes reflected on the glass sliding doors before him as he walked up to the lobby entrance. For a split second, he was blinded. Then his eyes adjusted and saw someone waiting in the Lazarus House lobby. Someonenotthe sixty-year-old doorman. She wore a black pant-suit that failed to hide her luscious curves, although, from the masculine cut of it, she’d hoped to go for that look. Brown skin. Brown hair. Plump lips. Sexy, burning hot eyes narrowed on him.
Yes, please.
His pulse hammered. He couldn’t look away.
The woman at his side made a movement, reminding him she was there.
“Um. Babe?” He untangled himself from the model. “Maybe we do this another night.”
She pouted and ran a grabby palm across his chest. “Aww, honey, you don’t mean that.”
Now that pissed him off. “Yeah. I do. Forgot I had a thing.”
Then he stepped away from her, waved at the doorman inside the lobby—Gus Magnus, a balding black man dressed in a bellhop uniform—and walked inside the air-conditioned lobby once the doors whooshed open.
Tony nodded at Gus, then made his way toward the elevator where the woman stood. Clearly, she wanted to talk to him.
He shot her a megawatt grin, eyes dancing over her face. Plump lips pursed. Her nose crinkled. She took a deep breath, then spoke. “Where have your people taken Max?”
Every cell inside him froze. “I’m sorry?”
“Max. Maximillian Johnson. Tell me now, or I swear to God I’m calling the police.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She paused and narrowed her eyes again. God, he liked that. Was that bad of him? Was he mad to be thinking about her lips and eyes when she was clearly upset?
“Do you even know who I am?” she asked, hands on hips.
His grin widened. “That’s my line.”
“Ugh!” She threw her hands in the air and opened her mouth to say something else, but he cut her off.
“Of course I know who you are,” he said, voice smooth, eyes darting down to the Nightingale logo on her suit breast pocket. He nodded there. “Nightingale Securities. You work with Max. You’re female, and there’s only one female in his employ, so you must be Bailey.”
