“Can’t it wait until I get some sleep?”
He either sounded extremely fatigued or a little drunk. Or both. He and Dan had shared a few beers after a particularly grueling workday, but neither of them were drinkers by nature. So he didn’t really know what to think. Had he really been that upset? Or were things just that bad? He remembered what Maksimov had told him downstairs. Not that he’d put it past the man to lie, but Brett had a niggling suspicion there was more to that story. “Come on, it’s not even nine p.m., which makes it seven back in Vegas. You’re not that jet lagged. I thought we could take some time before the true craziness descends in the next day or two to catch up and maybe talk things through a little.”
He waited. Dan didn’t say anything, but he didn’t close the door in Brett’s face.
“I feel like I’m standing out here begging for a nightcap; come on.”
He thought he heard a short snort. Then the door closed, but just long enough for the safety latch to come off. When the door swung back open, Dan was holding the knob but standing just behind the door in his boxers.
“Mind if we turn a light on in here?”
Dan’s response was a short grunt. Fortunately Brett’s hand was already reaching for the light switch before the door shut behind him, sinking them both into full darkness. A moment later, soft lighting on low tables situated just beyond the foyer area flickered on, bathing the stylishly decorated main room in a warm glow. Perfect mood setting for that late-night date a guy might bring back to the room, but not much to go on for a regular conversation. He moved into the living area and reached down to turn on one of the end table lamps.
“Can we just-not,” Dan finished lamely, as Brett switched on the more high powered lamp.
He turned to see Dan squinting in the sudden light, holding his hand up like a shield. But not shield enough to keep Brett from seeing the nasty bruise on his cheek and the split at the corner of his mouth.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“Ran into a door,” he retorted. “Can I get you a beer? Why the hell not,” he answered himself, “you’re paying for them. Did you know they stock the damn fridge? And I don’t mean the minibar. I don’t think this room even has one of those.” He scuffed bare feet across the thick carpeting as he headed into the more dimly lit kitchen area. It was more a wet bar with a Jennair in the middle, and a full-size Sub-zero fridge lodged at one end, then it was a full-fledged kitchen, but it screamed luxury nonetheless. “Wait, what am I saying?” he added dryly as he opened the fridge door, ducking his head a little at the bright interior light. “Of course you know they stock the fridge. You’re used to this shit. How in the hell you’re tired of the shit, I have no idea. Pretty sweet deal,” he added, fishing out two long necks and closing the door with an audible sigh. He grabbed a dish towel and screwed the tops off. “Of course, I guess there’s the irony that you score the best free stuff when you can actually afford to pay for it, but why go there?”
Brett was still standing by the couch, watching his friend. Who was clearly at least a little drunk, and definitely no less bitter than he’d left him a few hours before. Possibly more so. “Some door,” he said, gesturing to Dan’s face with the bottle he’d just been handed.
Dan turned and flopped down in the nearest chair, propping his feet up on the engraved crystal surface of the free form hardwood coffee table now situated between them.
Brett took the couch and propped his feet as well. He took a slow pull from the bottle, trying to figure out the best way to ease into any semblance of rational, constructive conversation. “Ran into Maksimov,” he said, deciding that perhaps it was better to start neutral and wind his way back around to the real topic at hand.
“I’m sure he’s been laying in wait for you,” Dan said, the accompanying chuckle carrying more than a little edge. “He try and woo you back like I said?” He took another pull.
Brett noticed he wasn’t maintaining any kind of eye contact; rather he was looking at the bottle, or staring at his feet. “At least, and then some.”
“And you said?”
“No. I told you that.”
Dan lifted a shoulder in a negligent shrug that said he really couldn’t care less. But Brett wasn’t so sure about that. He watched Dan start to pick at the label on the bottle, the digging motions proving there was more than a little tension beneath the lazy, drunken sprawl he’d adopted.
“Folks change their minds all the time.”
Brett understood the unspoken challenge. “I didn’t change my mind. Not about Maksimov. And not about coming back to work with you. I never told you I would. You do know that.”
Dan snorted. “You’ve only done two things in your life. Play poker and work for my dad, then me. When you gave up poker, what the hell was I supposed to think you were gonna do, huh? Of course I thought you’d come over full time. Hell, I was all ready to propose a partnership. I know you want to design shit, with those degrees you have and all. I was willing to accommodate that.”
“I don’t want to design homes in the desert.”
“What, not good enough for the likes of you now?”
“You know better than that. It’s just not the challenge I want.”
“And what the hell is?”
Brett thought about telling him, about the property he’d found today, about the business idea that had sprung, almost fully formed and too stunningly perfect to be anything but exactly the right thing for him to do. Or at least try. But that business plan involved him…and Kirby. Probably not the best time to spring that tidbit on his oldest and dearest friend.
Then another thought occurred to him. Wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind before, but that was before he understood the reality Dan was facing. Personally and professionally. What if…
“Maybe I’m the one with a proposition for you?”
Dan let his feet slide off the table and thump to the floor as he shoved himself out of the chair and scuffed back to the kitchen for another beer. “I already told you. Not interested.”
“I’m not offering a handout, or a loan for that matter. I’m offering a new business venture opportunity.”
Dan screwed off the lid of the beer and turned around, facing him fully for the first time.
Brett had to work not to wince as he caught the full scope of the damage someone had done to Dan’s face.
“What kind of opportunity?” He lifted his beer in a warning gesture. “Patronize me and I’ll kick your sorry, over-educated ass. So you better have a straight plan in mind and not some elaborate scheme to dump some of your money in my bank account. I work for what I have. We might not all have freak talent like you do, but I’m damn proud of what I built, what my father did before me. That means something.”
He crossed back into the room and dropped heavily back into the chair, wincing a little as he propped his feet up once again. Giving up all pretenses of pretending his face hadn’t been beat all to hell, he rolled the cold bottle over his cheek and groaned a little. “Go on,” he said when Brett simply sat there and watched. “I’m not gonna keel over from a little thump to the head. You know it’s hard. Take a lot more than a fast fist to put me down.”
“You gonna tell me what really happened?”
“Well, obviously, I got in a little fight. It was nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He propped the beer on his stomach. “Go on. What’s this amazing new deal all about? Funny how you didn’t mention it this afternoon, but go on, I’m all ears.”
Dan was a little drunk, more than a little pissed off, and a whole lot hurt. So Brett tried to rein in his own temper. He also tried not to feel sad. Dan didn’t deserve his pity. What he deserved was a good friend who could find a way out of whatever mess he’d gotten himself into.
“Actually, all the pieces just started falling into place today. Before I ran into you,” he added. “It’s still in the idea stage, but I think it has real potential.”
Dan tried and failed to maintain his look of casual disinterest. His body was still slouched in the chair, feet and beer propped, but his eyes had lasered in quite directly on Brett’s now.
Brett wondered if he was more impaired by alcohol or the fight he’d gotten into. Dan wasn’t what anyone would call a hothead. He wasn’t a gambler, either, that Brett knew about anyway. Running a football pool with some of his employees was about the extent of it. Dan had never gotten into the casino life, leaving that to Brett. He worked long hours, rarely took a full day off, and never took vacations. The occasional strip club night out with some of his crew maybe, but that’s about it.
In fact, if he wasn’t sitting there with a face that had been used as a punching bag, Brett would have discounted Maksimov’s comments as nothing other than trying to stir up some trouble to see what might shake
