Page 111 of For The Weekend
I arch my brows. I doubt it. “You want his signature?”
Shawn grins. “He might be a dick, but he’s still Camden fucking Long, you know?”
“Take lunch,” I say with a roll of my eyes before heading out to meet Camden fucking Long.
He’s in the lobby, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt,aviators over his eyes. I reach out my hand to introduce myself. “Hey, I’m Roman Stone.”
Camden dips his chin, clearly taking me in over the rim of his sunglasses. “Didn’t expect you to be such a big motherfucker.”
I shrug. We’re about the same height, though he’s leaner than I am. He’s in peak physical condition, at the top of his game. Too bad he’s a dick, like Shawn said. “Didn’t expect you to lose the Bowl for us.”
At that, his arrogant mask slips, his jaw tight as the man next to him coughs into his fist. When I turn to him, he offers me a smile. “I’m Malcolm.”
“My babysitter,” Long grits out.
“Assistant,” Malcolm corrects.
Long whips his head to the side. “You’re fired.”
“You don’t sign my paychecks. You can’t fire me.”
“Oh my fucking god,” Long grumbles then blows out a breath before gesturing to the garage. “Can I see my car now?”
I wave for him to follow me to the back, where I tug off the sheet I had covering it to reveal the bright-blue 1978 Camaro LZ1. He finally removes his sunglasses, whistling through his teeth as he bends to glide his fingers along the hood. I explain how I modified the engine, converted the fuel injection, and put in the new seats to accommodate his size, as he requested, and Camden Long actually smiles at me. “Beautiful work, Stone. You take checks, right?”
At my nod, he slides a checkbook out of his back pocket and steals a pen from his assistant’s hand.
“This is a terrible idea,” the assistant-babysitter says, but Long shakes his head.
“Don’t go running your mouth about it back to Rosenstein.”
“That’s literally my job,” Malcolm mumbles so only I can hear as Long finishes signing the check with aflourish.
He hands it over to me with a pat to my shoulder. “For keeping it on the down-low for me. Thanks.”
The paper in my hand has an extra zero on the end of the number we agreed upon, and he might be an arrogant prick, but at least he’s a generous one.
I shake his hand with a warning. “I used to play ball. I was at Penn State and threw it all away. Don’t be like me.”
He slides his shades back on, but not before I catch the slight tension around his eyes. He catches the keys I toss to him and hops behind the wheel as I open the garage door for him to drive out. Malcolm stands next to me as we watch him take off down the street, engine firing loud enough to hear from a few blocks away.
“Work in public relations, you’ll be great at it, they said.” He snorts and tips his head up to meet my gaze. “Professional sports, it’ll be fun, they said.” Then he sighs and turns away from me with a quiet, “Nice meeting you.”
I walk out with him in time to see Eloise sashaying toward me, pink box in hand. She waves to Malcolm, asking, “Hey, how are ya?” as if she knows him. Then she throws herself at me, smelling of sugar and spice and everything nice. “Thought you might want to try my new cherry tarts.”
I grab her ass, lifting her slightly. “After.”
“After?”
Shawn will be back from his lunch break in twenty minutes, so I need as much sunshine as I can get before he returns. I tilt my head, silently directing her to the office. “After.”
“Yes, after,” she agrees with a smile, one hand on her stomach, over our Blob, the other reaching for me, tugging me forward. Where she leads, I follow.
