“Maybe once we secure this contract, it will be.” She didn’t believe the words even as she gave them voice. Lydia was driven by things beyond understanding. Samara got it, at least in part. She’d been spurned by her father, too, albeit in a much different way. He hadn’t met Samara, hadn’t raised her from birth, only to tell her that she’d never be good enough. Her father had rejected her when she was barely the size of a lima bean. It was different.
She set her drink down. “You’re right. I don’t want to talk about work. It’ll hold until tomorrow.”
“That’s my girl.” Journey grinned. “We’ll get through it. My brothers will be back in Houston at the end of the month, and then work will get back to something resembling normal. We just have to hold out until then.”
With Lydia’s two sons in DC schmoozing senators to ensure that they looked favorably on Kingdom Corp, the bulk of the work they usually handled had fallen on Journey and Samara. It happened twice a year, and she’d been prepared for it.
What she hadn’t anticipated was Nathaniel King dying and her being tasked with handling Beckett in addition to the rest of her responsibilities. One more week. Not even a full week. Once this contract is secured, I can get back to focusing on the rest.
Samara turned and leaned against the bar. Being in Cocoa’s always felt like waking up in a fever dream. Everything was too ostentatious, too over-the-top, in an effort to prove how rich it was. While it brought in good business, the place missed the mark of the top one percent by a mile. Cocoa’s was more what normal people thought rich people were than anything resembling reality.
It didn’t stop Houston’s crème de la crème from coming out in full force every weekend. She studied the dance floor and VIP lounge, picking out two hotel moguls, an heiress, and no fewer than four CEOs. Two men sat with their backs to the bar, and she frowned. “Is that Frank Evans?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She glanced at Journey, taking in the tight set of her shoulders. “Uh-huh. Your mom sent you to negotiate with him again, didn’t she?” While the Kings might be one of the richest families in Houston, Frank Evans owned half of the city. Anyone looking to expand—like Lydia was—had to deal with him in order to negotiate for the best buildings and property.
“He’s a jackass.”
Samara had met him only a handful of times, and though she found him distant and maybe a little scary, she hadn’t gotten the jackass vibe. She held up a hand. “I believe you. You hate him, I hate him.”
Journey glared at the back of his head as if she could turn her gaze into laser beams. “I bet he’s awful in bed. He probably just grunts—a sixty-second man.”
She raised her eyebrows. “That’s a very…specific thing to speculate on.”
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Journey rolled her eyes. “I’m being irrational. I know it, you know it. Just let me have this moment, okay?”
“Consider this moment had.” She turned to catch the bartender’s eye and motioned for another round. Shots might not be on the agenda, but this had just turned into a two-to-four-drink night. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.” Journey caught her look and laughed. “Really, I don’t. I’m just frustrated because negotiations are at a standstill and none of my usual tricks work on him. He just sits there and…stares. It’s irritating in the extreme. I can’t tell if he’s actually listening, or if he’s indulging in some lucid dreaming while I drone on.”
Samara didn’t envy her that task. There was nothing worse than giving a presentation and having the main audience look like they were seconds away from falling asleep. “Maybe you should bring an energy-drink basket to your next meeting. That would get your point across.”
“You know, I think I might do that.” Journey went tense. “Uh, Samara?”
“Yeah?” She accepted their drinks from the bartender and glanced at her friend.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but is that my cousin staring at you right now? He looks like he’s playing a game of Fuck, Marry, Kill, and he’s not sure where he’s going to land.”
She spun around and, sure enough, Beckett was the other man sitting next to Frank in the VIP lounge. The expression on his face was decidedly not friendly. Her stomach sank as he shot to his feet, his intentions clear. “He’s coming over here, isn’t he?”
“Looks that way.” Journey downed her drink and squared her shoulders. “Want me to run interference?”
Considering that Journey’s version of interference often resulted in her photo on the front page of some tabloid, that was the last thing Samara wanted. Any scandal would factor into whether their bid got accepted, and Lydia might skin Journey alive if she thought her daughter caused them to lose it. “No, I got it.” She considered her drink for a half a second and then followed her friend’s lead and downed it like a shot. A very large, very potent shot. Shit, that wasn’t a good idea.
Beckett cut through the crowd, and despite the music and general intoxication, people scrambled to get out of his way, a flock sensing a predator in their midst. Frank trailed after him, his expression as closed off as ever.
Journey shifted closer to her. “You sure? He’s already drawing attention.”
He was. His dramatic path only ensured that whatever conversation he seemed determined for them to have would be in the presence of a hundred witnesses, every single one of them with a camera phone that would record it for posterity’s sake. Damn it. It’s not Journey I have to worry about making a scene. While Beckett wasn’t hers to corral, Samara couldn’t afford for her face to end up all over social media. Lydia would kill her.
“I’ll be back in a few,” Samara murmured and moved away from the bar.
