“What difference would it make?” Most of the fight had already left Raoul’s voice and posture. “Everybody here knows. Everybody.”
Frank’s heart dropped. “They . . . they do?”
Raoul rolled his eyes. “Yes, idiot. Okay, maybe the johns don’t know, but every man who works for you has either put two and two together by now or is too stupid to find his own arse with two hands and an anatomy chart. And nobody would give a damn if it didn’t mean you were indisposed when someone—one of your guys who really believes you care about their safety—needed you.”
Frank’s blood turned cold. The espresso became a moot point; he was wide-awake now without any chemical assistance. He faced Raoul again. “Point taken.”
Raoul relaxed a bit. “And when I came by earlier, it turned out it was a little dispute over some money. Jared called. One of the johns tried to stiff him and Tristan, but Tristan took care of it.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Define ‘took care of it’ in this context, please.”
Raoul laughed. “Told the guy he’d picked up one of his business cards off the hotel room floor. If he didn’t pay up, the card was getting scanned and posted on the internet.” Shaking his head, Raoul laughed again. “I think he was a little disappointed the guy paid up right then and there. He had a whole list of things he was going to include when he posted it on the internet, and he didn’t get a chance to terrify the guy properly.”
Frank managed a quiet laugh. “That does sound like our Tristan. Listen, I’m headed out for the evening. Having some friends over for dinner. You’ll call me if there’s any more issues?”
“I will.”
As if on cue, Brandon appeared beside Frank.
“Ready?”
Brandon nodded. “Whenever you are.”
They started to go, and Frank glanced at Raoul one last time. The bartender wasn’t so irritated now, but his brow was knitted just right to ask, “Mate, you sure you know what you’re doing?”
And the truth was, no.
No, he had no idea what he was doing.
Frank used a minute at a red light to text Emily: Running late, couldn’t get out of the club on time.
Then he prayed to the gods of traffic (likely half siblings to the hellhounds and revenge goddesses of Greek mythology) for a smooth flow.
He didn’t get it, but the way out of London was a hell of a lot better outside the rush hour. How that didn’t spark at least one killing rampage a day on his route alone, he couldn’t comprehend.
“Trouble?” Brandon asked.
“Running late. I think I might have thrown the whole thing out of whack. I’m not keen on letting people wait.”
“Sorry.” Brandon’s grin said he wasn’t really, but Frank appreciated the sentiment.
“I’m not.” Frank glanced to the side. “It happens. Emily knows how it is. We’re all busy with stuff. My stuff is just maybe a little different from their stuff.”
“Who’s Emily?”
“Andrew’s sister. We’re still in contact. She was one of our main supports through that time. And we’ve been good friends ever since.”
“I’ve lost my big brother, Frank. I’m hoping I found another one. Please?”
Brandon nodded. “Is it going to be . . . fraught?”
“No. No, this is just us getting together for a meal. Geoff and Mike are coming, too.”
“Hope she’s planned for five, then.”
“There’s always enough left over to feed a little army, don’t worry about it.” Frank squeezed Brandon’s thigh. “We get together for a meal every two or three months. Mike and Emily have something of a competition going who can stuff the most food into guests. Mike’s a foodie, but Emily’s a pro.”
He pulled into his driveway and swerved around the Mini already parked there.
Emily was sitting in the tiny black car with the white rally stripe and—fake, obviously—race number in black and white. Frank faintly remembered her current boyfriend was a grease monkey who loved customising cars. That Mini was tricked out and a lot fiercer than such a dinky car had any right to be.
Frank killed the engine and stepped out. Brandon flanked him.
Emily slipped her phone into her pocket as she stepped out of the car. “Hey, Frank. How are you doing?”
“Doing good. You?”
“I’m ravenous.” She spoke without a hint of British reserve.
“As am I.” Frank smiled at her. “And I brought another mouth for you to feed. This is Brandon, my American friend. I thought maybe another built male worshipping at your feet after the meal might go down well.”
She laughed and offered her hand. “Hi, I’m Emily. I sometimes feed Frank and his friends.”
Brandon shook her hand. “I was a soldier long enough to know better than to turn away free food. Especially if it’s not mess hall food.”
“Well, I can’t promise you—”
“Oh, stop being so modest, you twit.” Frank nudged her shoulder and looked at Brandon. “Don’t listen to her. This woman’s cooking would make Gordon Ramsay weep.”
“So would my foot in his bollocks,” she muttered.
Brandon laughed. “I would pay good money to see that.”