“I said you’re done. We’re done,” the man spat into the receiver. “You’re not going to get another cent out of me. And if I were you, I’d suggest you start running, because for as long as you live, you’re going to have someone after you. Hope you enjoy the next few weeks looking over your shoulder, because as soon as I hang up here, I’m calling someone else in to take care of your fucking mess—”
Parker cut the man off before he could continue, taking great delight in punching the END button on his phone. Nearly crushing the plastic bottle in his hand, he forced himself to take a few deep breaths, his skin bunching and pulling at his makeshift stitches. Nodding, Parker caught sight of himself in the bathroom’s mirrored wall and was startled by the man staring back at him.
Bruised nearly beyond recognition, he no longer looked like the urban sophisticate he’d groomed himself to be. Battered around the eyes and marked with purple splotches beneath his skin, the long sleepless nights had taken a toll on him, carving deep lines into his cheeks and around his mouth. It was a shock to see his own father shaking with fury where he should have seen himself, and Parker turned away, slamming the water bottle against the bathroom wall.
“Fuck him,” Parker muttered. He wasn’t sure who he was swearing at—the revival of a man he’d left choking on his own blood or the man who’d just threatened his life. Laughing, he startled the businessman walking into the space, baring his teeth in a mockery of a smile. The man backed up and scurried out the door as quickly as he’d come in, Parker’s dark chuckle nipping at his heels.
“You think you can fire me, asshole?” he sneered at the phone. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with. Want to send someone after me? Don’t worry. I’ll take care of your piece of shit Mitchell. Just as soon as I’m done taking care of you.”
Chapter 17
Sucking on a razor’s edge
The blood in my mouth isn’t mine
Why does my heartache taste of you?
When you walked away just fine.
—Dislocated
PARKER drove the Jag carefully, keeping the powerful car at a decent pace but mindful of any black-and-white sedans he passed. The car swayed when he took a curve too quickly. The shimmy was due to the weight in the trunk rather than the Jaguar’s finely tuned suspension. Although, if he remembered right, the asshole who’d hired him let the Jag’s tires run nearly bald, and the winding road toward Muir Woods needed some sort of traction. The recent storms had washed away any residual oil slick from the asphalt. Hydroplaning in the wet after a long dry spell was always a danger on car-crazy California’s roads, especially with the Jag’s nearly treadless tires, and ending up dead in a ditch wasn’t the way Parker intended to go out.
By the time he’d fought the traffic out of the city, his hands were tight on the steering wheel. Already revved up with anticipation, the shadowy cool of the forest line soothed Parker’s prickled, raw nerves, and he exhaled hard, ghosting the mirror with his misty breath. He’d chosen to divert, taking a drive through the woods themselves before heading to the house. It would be empty now, not like when he’d first been brought up to the multilevel chateau. Built into the side of a hill, the river-stone and wood house was surrounded by tall evergreens and a high privacy fence, the perfect spot for Parker to spend the next few days.
And considering what he had planned, he intended to take as much time as humanly possible.
The seasonal storms were still moving over the county, drenching the car in shadows, although they’d relented in their downpours for the time being. A sparkle of raindrops caught his attention when Parker turned down the driveway, a lace of water diamonds draped over the lavender blooming against the property’s metal-slat fence.
An access card on the Jaguar’s key chain opened the gate, its flat matte panels folding back wide enough to let him through, then closing behind the vehicle once he was halfway to the house. He got out to open the garage door, then backed the Jaguar in. A black Porsche roadster took up half of the cement slab, its once pristine paint speckled with a fine layer of dust. After shutting the garage, Parker turned the dead bolt switch, preventing its opening from the outside.
He’d left the door to the garage unlocked when he’d been there last. The knob turned in his hand, and the heavy frosted glass inset door swung open easily. Behind him, the Jaguar rocked on its tires as the passenger in its trunk fought to get loose. Parker wasn’t worried. He’d disabled the Jaguar’s internal trunk release with a quick shot to the spring mechanism, and if the man could work himself free of the layers of duct tape and zip ties, he’d be unable to undo the Kryptonite lock and chain connecting him to the car’s metal frame.