Page 94 of Imperfect Player

“Likewise.”

“Mr. Ambrose is quite fond of you.”

“I’m quite fond of him as well. Except when he isn’t answering my calls. Any idea where he might be?”

“He’s home. Come with me, I’ll let you up.”

I eye him curiously, certain that there should be some protocol in place, that he wouldn’t let just anyone up to Ethan’s place. Has Ethan given permission for me to be let up whenever I like? Or is there something that Thurston isn’t telling me?

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask him as he enters the code for the elevator.

Thurston looks thoughtful for a moment before he speaks. “I’m not sure about much when it comes to Mr. Ambrose, but I do know that he needs you. And for that, I’m willing to take the risk. Are you?”

I want to ask what risk he’s referring to. What is it that Ethan needs me for? What’s hurting him?

Does it even matter?

The question is, is Ethan worth putting everything on the line for? The answer is simple: yes.

Ethan Ambrose is more than he realizes and everything to me.

“I am,” I tell him.

He nods with a pleased smile on his face and allows me access to the elevator.

“Thank you.”

He gives another slight nod before the elevator door closes.

When I reach Ethan’s floor, I notice that the door to his condo is open. Thurston must have made him aware that I was here, and he left the door open for me to just come in.

I step inside the condo, looking a far cry from the last time I was here. In the middle of it all—Ethan.

“Ethan? What happened?”

His eyes glance in my direction before closing again. He groans.

“Goddamn Thurston.”

“I’m guessing he let me in because he was worried about you. With reason, it seems.”

“I don’t need his worry. Or yours. Now go away.”

Instead of listening to him, I move closer, though I do tread lightly. He’s drunk. The empty bottle of whiskey next to him is a clear indicator.

My eyes scan the room, looking for a clue as to what might be bothering him. The first thing I noticed is a whole bunch of papers scattered around him. Documents, photos. A picture of a little boy.

“Who’s this?” I ask, picking up the photo as I do.

He opens his eyes, snatches the photo from me, and tosses it back onto the floor.

“None of your business.”

“Ethan . . . ”

“Unless you’re here to suck my cock, then leave.”

“That’s not going to make it better. Neither is this,” I say picking up the empty bottle.

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