Ms. Summers drops her lipstick back into her purse when I return to the kitchen. “Would you like me to show you the joint amenities”—
“I’ll take it,” I cut her off. I’d known I would before I scheduled the showing, but I’m not one to pay commission without making an agent work for it.
“I will start all the paperwork and I assume you have financing in place?” She chews on her lipstick as if she’s been burned at this point before.
I’m about to make her year. “It’s a cash purchase,” I correct her, checking my watch to discover this took longer than expected. “Text me when you’re ready for me to sign. I need to get to an appointment.”
She blinks rapidly like she’s about to pass out. Her fingers search for the printed listing she left on the counter when we arrived. When they find it, she holds it out to me. “It’s three million dollars.”
“I can read,” I say coolly. It’s not the first time a person has assumed my bank balance based on my age.
“Who are you?” she asks before quickly recovering her wits, “I mean, what do you do? I’ll need to know where the funds come from for the paperwork.”
She needs to know because she’s dying to find out how a 24 year-old has three million to drop on a penthouse.
“I manage bank portfolios, personal assets,” I tell her. She doesn’t need to know more than that.
And her first question? Who I am? That’s something I don’t show anyone.
The Barrelhouse is empty at ten o’clock in the morning. The lights are off, chairs still on the tables, and its famous stage empty. The glow from a large neon music note casts a blue hue over the dark space. Its hum fills the quiet with unmistakable tension as though any moment the silence will shatter and spill over with life. At night, it transforms into a blues club that’s equal parts rowdy and respectable. Everyone—and I mean everyone—has played the Barrelhouse. It’s the kind of place where Mick Jagger might stop in and jump on stage for a set unannounced. The place is a landmark in the music industry, and the first club where I ever heard the blues played when I arrived in Tennessee five years ago. Then I was a kid being dragged to hear a musician I’d never heard of in a place I didn’t know existed. Today, its new owner is an old friend.
A man bustles from the back kitchen, a bottle of whiskey in each hand. Even here in his own club, Jack Archer moves like the military—efficient but aware of the entire room, his broad shoulders squared and ready for anything. That’s probably why he instantly spots me, a wide grin splitting his brown face, and holds up a bottle. “Took you long enough. The hard stuff?”
He knows better than to ask. I shake my head anyway. “It’s not even noon.”
“Luca will be disappointed,” he says. “Coffee it is.”
“Luca should have gotten here first.”
“I did,” Luca says sourly behind me.
Turning, I find Luca DeAngelo sitting in the shadows. Jack might move like a lion surveying his kingdom for potential threats, but Luca sticks to the dark corners. He waits in the shadows for the right moment to strike. Individually, we all have our strengths. Now that we’re all here together, we can relax. The tension fades as we drop our collective guard. Jack retrieves ceramic mugs from below the bar and Luca stretches his arms overhead before lounging back lazily in his chair.
“I told you he wouldn’t drink with us,” Luca says. “This isn’t Cairo, after all.”
“Cairo was a different story.” I grab a chair and spin it around. Straddling it, I drop into the chair and wish he hadn’t brought that particular mistake up.
“Most people don’t start their day with a shot of West,” Jack defends me as he pulls a shot from the La Marzocco. The espresso machine is a concession to the number of people who need coffee when a long night of drinking turns into a mad rush home as dawn breaks. “Still take it black?”
I nod.
“You know how I take it,” Luca says.
Jack frowns but pours a dash of Irish whiskey into Luca’s mug. He joins us at the table in the corner.
“It’s like old times,” I say, taking my cup from him. “The three of us sitting in the dark drinking coffee.”
“The coffee is better here,” Jack says.
“The weather, too,” Luca adds.
For all we bash the Middle East, I suspect none of us mean it. We might not miss the heat. But the people? The experiences? Our time there affects us still. I see it every time I get together with my best friends. We can’t stay still. We can’t fall into normal life. We’re always waiting for ground fire or marching orders. At least, Luca and I are. Jack is another story.
“How’s the label?” I blow on my coffee, waiting for it to be cool enough.
Jack, who has always had an inhuman tolerance for heat, takes a sip of his without waiting. “Fine.”
“That means it’s shit,” Luca guesses.
“The record label is fine,” Jack repeats.
Luca continues to ignore his coffee, concentrating on
