Chapter 18: Come Pick Me Up

“Holy shit, Adrian! You can’t get it up?”

Lucas’s shout explodes across the private room.

Evan startles so badly that whiskey nearly spills from his glass. A cold stare lands between his shoulder blades.

He turns and finds Adrian watching him from across the room as if deciding where to bury the knife.

“I didn’t say it,” Evan says quickly. “Mr. Grant guessed.”

He shifts the blame without hesitation.

“Leave him alone,” Lucas says, still oblivious to the danger. “I know you. With that face and that bank account, no woman is turning you down. There’s no shame in getting help.”

He leans closer.

“I know an old Chinese medicine doctor in Flushing. Very discreet. A few packets of herbs and you’ll be back in action. Two kids in three years. Guaranteed.”

Adrian lets him finish. “How do you know so much?”

Lucas’s grin freezes.

Damn it.

He actually visited that doctor once.

The first time Lucas and Stella slept together, neither of them had much experience. They tried four times that night, and not once did he make it past five minutes.

Stella said nothing, but the look she gave him the next morning was enough to wound his pride.

Too embarrassed to visit a regular clinic, Lucas found an elderly Chinese doctor known for his discretion. The man checked his pulse, asked almost nothing, and prescribed several foul-smelling packets of herbs.

Three days later, things went much better. Whether the herbs worked or he was simply less nervous, Lucas never bothered working out.

“A friend went,” he says, reaching for his whiskey. “I asked for him. Take the advice or don’t.”

“I’m not sick.”

Lucas studies him. Adrian looks too calm to be bluffing.

“Then what are you sulking about? Rosalie won’t talk to you?”

Adrian stares at the melting ice in his glass.

Lucas nudges his shoe. “I asked you a question.”

“She won’t answer my calls or messages.”

The joke on Lucas’s tongue disappears when he sees Adrian’s expression.

Adrian presses his thumb against the side of his glass. “I hurt her badly five years ago.”

The ice taps softly against the crystal. He empties the glass, and when he sets it down, his eyes are faintly red.

“You had your reasons,” Lucas says. “She’s back now. Take your time. Win her back.”

He thinks for a moment. “I could ask Stella to talk to Rosalie. Some things are easier between women.”

“Have you and Stella finally made it official?”

“Not yet.”

“Then forget it.”

Lucas frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I intend to marry Rosie.” Adrian pours a little more whiskey. “I’m not letting someone who still won’t call you her boyfriend give Rosie relationship advice.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Lucas opens his mouth, then closes it again.

He was Stella’s first, and she was his. Somewhere along the way, they began sharing beds, keys, vacations, and nearly everything else. Everything except the word relationship.

“You’re impossible.” Lucas raises his glass. “Just drink.”

By ten thirty, Adrian has emptied his glass five times, but every pour barely covered the bottom. Altogether, he hasn’t finished a full drink. He smells faintly of whiskey and remains painfully sober.

“Evan.”

Evan looks up from his laptop. “Yes, Mr. Mercer?”

“Call Rosalie.”

“What should I tell her?”

“That I’m drunk and need her to pick me up.”

Lucas nearly inhales his whiskey.

“You’ve had less than one drink. No one will believe you’re drunk.”

Adrian leans back and rubs his forehead, ignoring him.

Evan calls. Rosalie answers after several rings.

“Hello?”

Her words are muffled by the sheet mask covering her face. She has finished her sketches and is getting ready for bed.

“Ms. Hayes, this is Evan Brooks, Mr. Mercer’s assistant.”

Rosalie sits up. “What happened?”

“Mr. Mercer has been drinking at Angel Lounge. He’s quite intoxicated. Would you be able to pick him up?”

“Why don’t you take him home?”

Evan reaches for his untouched whiskey. “I’ve been drinking too.”

He takes a large swallow without changing expression.

“Then have his driver take him.”

Adrian lowers the hand from his forehead, his face darkening.

“His driver is downstairs,” Evan says quickly, “but Mr. Mercer keeps calling your name and refuses to leave. You only need to persuade him into the car. The chauffeur will handle everything else.”

He adds with impressive sincerity, “Please, Ms. Hayes.”

Silence follows.

Rosalie already regrets answering. Adrian has an assistant, a driver, and an entire club staff. He should not be her responsibility.

Her finger hovers over the end-call button.

“Which room?”

Evan gives her the number.

“I’ll be there in half an hour.”

The call ends.

“She’s coming?” Adrian asks immediately.

“Yes.”

Lucas looks at him with disgust. “Pathetic.”

Now he understands why Adrian invited him. He is only part of whatever game Adrian and Rosalie are playing.

Lucas checks his phone. Stella has not answered either of his messages.

Adrian checks his watch again and again.

At eleven ten, Lucas drawls, “Relax. She said she was coming—”

Footsteps sound outside.

Evan opens the door.

Rosalie stands in the hall, barefaced, her blonde hair pinned loosely behind her head. A thin trench coat covers what appears to be sleepwear.

“Ms. Hayes.”

“Where is he?”

Evan steps aside.

The room smells strongly of whiskey. Rosalie walks in and immediately sees Adrian sunk deep into the sofa, eyes closed, two shirt buttons undone, one hand resting across his forehead.

He looks convincingly drunk.

Almost too convincingly.