Page 17 of A Quick Buck

“Yes, sir.” Noah hesitated. “We partied together for like the next two days, okay? From Tuesday night to Thursday morning. Which is today. Yeah, you already know that.” He cleared his throat. “Right.”

“Was there ever a time Mr. Medina was not in your company from when you first met to Wednesday evening?”

The room grew tense, and Noah realized the sudden animosity was not aimed at him, but at Not-Brad.

“Answer the question, please.” Alistair pulled Noah’s hair again.

“Wednesday morning,” Noah replied quickly. “He went out to get breakfast. He went to some diner. I don’t know which one. We just, we just ordered in after that.”

“And that was what time, hmm?”

“I…” Noah tried to remember.

“Concentrate for me, hmm?” Alistair let go, and he petted his fingers through Noah’s hair with a surprising tenderness. “Be a good boy and tell me what time it was. Think very hard.”

Noah did. He tried so hard. There was an urge bubbling up inside of him to please Alistair, to be that good boy for him, and it took his breath away.

It alleviated the anguish threatening to tear his heart out, and nothing else mattered—not money, not how lonely he was, and not even his anger at Medina or Brad, or whatever the fuck his name was, for so obviously using him.

He just had to do what Alistair said, and he would be good.

“Probably a little after eight,” Noah said. “I remember bein’ real pissed when my friend Landon”—oh, ew, gross, why did he call Landon that?—“texted me. If I could get my phone, I could be totally sure because I texted him back telling him to fuck off.”

“That won’t be necessary. For now, I’m satisfied.” Alistair gave Noah’s hair another kind pet. “Very good, dear Noah. Thank you.”

Fuck, that felt nice. Noah had to stop himself from butting into Alistair’s hand like a fuckin’ cat. He shook his head. “Yeah. Whatever.”

“Still smells like bullshit,” Erasmus muttered under his breath.

“And cheap ass Brut cologne,” Mace declared much more boldly as he eyed Medina.

Alistair raised his hand to silence them. “Junior. Crybaby. Will you please take Noah upstairs?” He eyed Crybaby. “By all means, please finish your omelet.”

Crybaby apparently had been eating this entire time, and she paused mid-bite. She set the plate down on the nearest table and cleared her throat. “Sorry, Alistair.”

“Go.”

Noah got up, hating how weirdly wobbly his legs were. He should have just gone upstairs, but a fire sparked in him when Brad caught his eye and smiled smugly.

No. Not Brad. Howard fuck-face Medina.

“You know, as long as we’re being fully honest, I think there’s something else I should share,” Noah piped up. “All this asshole talked about was quitting his job ’cause he hated his boss so much.”

“Shut up.” Medina glared at him.

“I guess that’s you, right, Alistair?” Noah grinned. “Yeah, this guy couldn’t wait to quit because he said his boss was an ancient fuckin’ idiot—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Medina was on his feet.

“Let’s see. What else? Oh, right! He’d told me he worked in stocks and trading, but I’m guessing that was bullshit. Was probably all bullshit about being married too. Everything he fuckin’ said was bullshit.”

“You stupid slut, shut up!”

Alistair pointed at Medina.

Erasmus and Mace pulled their weapons out and took aim, waiting for the word to pull the trigger.

Medina froze.