Page 33 of Butcher & Blackbird
My phone buzzes in my hand.
See you in a few weeks for the game. Friends or not, I’m still going to kick your ass. Just so you know…
I smile in the dim light.
I’m counting on it.
10
DIJON
SLOANE
There’s an art to cornering a man like Thorsten Harris.
The first trick is to approach him in a place where he feels confident, one where he thinks he’s the apex predator in his little pond because he’s successfully hunted there before. Like this place, Orion Bar, an upscale cocktail lounge within what I already know is Thorsten’s preferred range. It’s just far enough from his home that he feels like it’s an adventure, just close enough to his house to make luring his prey there viable.
The second step in the process is to learn what he likes. What excites him. What he loathes. In Thorsten’s case, he enjoys red wine, impeccable cooking, and expensive things. Not alwaysnicethings, in fact they’re often gaudy and pretentious, but expensive nonetheless. As for what he hates? Bad manners. And yams, apparently. Then take all that knowledge and start to build a rapport with him.
And the last step is the tricky part: you have to make him believe you’re smart enough to be an interesting conquest—you might be prey, but you’re worth the risk to take a trophy. But you also have to come off as just dumb enough that you would willingly accept his dinner invitation at his home tomorrow night, even though he’s essentially a stranger.
…Or, you can throw all that out the window and just be Rowan Kane.
A motorcycle helmet drops onto the empty space next to me on the white leather couch.
Instantly, my blood turns volcanic.
“Fancy seeing you around these parts,” Rowan says as he plops down next to it with a shit-eating grin.
I give him a dead-eyed glare in reply.
My ferocity only earns me a wink before he’s leaning forward with his arm extended over the coffee table toward the man sitting across from me.
“Hi, pleasure to meet you. I’m Rowan.”
“Thorsten Harris, pleasure is all mine,” my well-dressed, older companion says as he accepts the handshake. I’ve spent the past four days trying to avoid this exact scenario in my attempts to corner Thorsten, who Rowan now knows is our annual target, though he doesn’t seem to knowwhy.
I thought I finally escaped Rowan when I slipped out of the hotel and his rental car was still in the parking lot.
Clearly, I misjudged him.
And he is fuckingelatedabout that.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Rowan barrels on, ready to light the fuse for every cannon in his arsenal of charm. He aims his fucking flawless smile at my prey, his skin bright and flushed, probably from the excitement of successfully chasing me down. “I saw my friend’s car here as I was passing through and it’s just been so long, I thought I should stop in and say a quick hello to her.”
And then he turns the full force of his charm attack on me. “Hello, friend.”
“What a deep joy it is to see you here, Rowan. I’m so thrilled.” I take a long sip of my wine before I give him a tight smile. The silence between us stretches. Thorsten shifts in his seat and I suppress a groan, aware that I’m already pushing Thorsten’s boundaries for manners. “Would you care to join us?” I ask woodenly. My smile has a vicious edge that clearly says ‘fuck the hell right off’.
And Rowan says, “I would be delighted.”
Within one minute, Thorsten has poured him a generous glass of expensive Chianti.
Within five, Rowan has him whooping with laughter and clapping his hands.
Within ten, Thorsten is nearly tripping over himself to invite Rowan along to our dinner at his home tomorrow night, something I’ve spent all evening orchestrating as a solo venture.
Two hours later, we’re leaving the swanky bar side-by-side in Thorsten’s wake, tomorrow’s dinner plans etched in stone.
