Chapter 2

Gaius’ POV

I turn to where I last saw him—which was at the entrance but he’s no longer there. I swing my head to the left and right, trying to find him, but he doesn’t appear to be around.

“Looking for something?” His deceptively light tenor questions from somewhere in the shadows, and I trudge over to see him crouched down in the dark corner and typing away at his phone.

I swipe at his head, “I was looking for you, dummy. What are you doing?” I try to peek at who he’s texting, “Are you talking to one of your whores? You’d better not be doing that; we have a lot of work to do.”

He raises his phone and shakes it under my eyes, “I’m asking Kevin about the raw materials and the trucks.”

I wave dismissively, “Oh no, that’s fine… I’ll sort that out. What I need from you are the tables…”

He leaps to his feet and balks, “Oh no. No, no, no… I’m not doing your dirty work again. You were the one to offend Zane, and you’re the one that’s going to have to make up with him,” he stabs a finger to my chest, “by yourself.”

That’s the problem; I have no plans to. Zane is the only person who’s ever crafted our tables… or he used to be, at the very least. When I opened the last cookhouse, he was down with a stroke and was unable to oversee the table production.

He’d asked his most skilled set of workers to oversee the task, but I negated, insisting that if he wasn’t directly involved, I was getting my tables elsewhere. He’d then told me if I got the furniture elsewhere, I should kiss his ass and not come back to him unless I wanted to meet my creator. It’s interesting to note that he’s one of the wealthiest and roughest men in Europe, and just like me, he knows how to make good on his threats.

Well, I’m in America, and I need some good fucking tables that are going to withstand chemicals and aren’t going to retain mold that’ll contaminate my dr*gs. And Gaius Frederik doesn’t kiss ass.

I swat Ivano’s finger away and hunker over him to let him know just how serious I am, “You’re going to get me those tables in three days, you hear me? Also, screen doors; nothing too thick, just enough to keep the stages apart.”

He rolls his eyes but dips his head in acquiescence.

“You’re a prick.”

I back away from him and make my way to the entrance, stating as I go, “And make sure to send my warmest regards to Zane.”

***

Avery’s POV

If I had a dollar for how many times people have asked what I’m mixed with, Elon Musk wouldn’t dare compare riches with me. And in all these times, my answer is the same: Black and Asian. Of course, people find it rude and get mad at my phrasing because it highlights just how stupid and inherently racist they are. Some get defensive and blurt that they just want to know, and my answer also stays the same: why? Why does my ethnicity matter to you so much? Why are you asking what I’m ‘mixed’ with, like I’m some kind of lab experiment?

Today alone, I’ve had no less than five people; four of them complete strangers ask, and while it gets more annoying each day, I’m definitely coming to terms with the fact that it’s not going to stop anytime soon, and I’m better off desensitizing myself not to get pissed. As long as I’m not point-blank harassed over it, I should be fine.

But I’d be kidding. I said the race question was the only reason for my grumpiness today. It’s some minutes to ten, and I’m currently in a bar, seated with my colleagues around a table bearing glass tumblers containing various kinds of alcoholic beverages.

Again, why? Why can’t we all just be happy to have successfully covered every detail of the Conrad Mail case and not have to be dragged on a late-night drinking stint in the name of celebration?

“So you’re Asian Asian or just regular Asian?”

It’s a chore refraining myself from lifting my cup and splashing its cherry-red contents on the man beside me. He’s cute; he has dark brown hair with bright green eyes and a jawline that would put most models to shame. But that’s where his nice traits end, as he’s a perfect combination of stupid and obnoxious. He’s one of the tech team guys, and he’s been pestering me relentlessly ever since we got here.

I figure it’s better I don’t reply, so I instead lean forward to ask the lady seated at the other side of him, “Hey Alice… do you think we can leave now? I have to be home before the next hour.”

“Really?” The guy—I think his name is Dan, asks as he mimics my posture, effectively obstructing my view of Alice, “You still live with your parents, right? That’s probably why you’re in such a hurry to go home.”

No, Daniel, I don’t live with my parents, and even if I did, they’re not the reasons I want to leave this shitty place.

I stopped wondering why people spoke to me like I was a thoughtless doll ever since high school; it’s because I’m typically not the kind to snap back and incite any trouble. I prefer using calmer and more intelligent means of retorting, but that isn’t always practical. Sometimes I have to be a total bitch to get them to back off.

So I count up to five in my head and slowly rise to my feet, causing everyone to focus their attention on me, but I keep mine on Dan.

“I’m trying my best to have a good time and unwind from the stress of the past weeks, but your endless chattering isn’t helping. Get off your rockers and maybe learn some manners,” then I turn to our field leader and the host, Sophie, “Thanks for the invite and the drinks. It’s always a pleasure working with the team and seeing a case through. Unfortunately, I have to excuse myself and get going, but you all make sure you have a good time, okay?”

As I speak, my hands find the strap of my bag, and I’m already kicking the seat back. Sophie and the others nod and call out their farewells. Alice also gets up, says her goodbyes, and doesn’t forget to flip an already dumbfounded Dan the middle finger. We make our way out the door and into the chilly night.

As we bundle into Alice’s car, I can’t help but remind myself that if I was as firm with the superiors at work as I was with Dan, I’d have been promoted from playing Sherlock Holmes alongside the field agents a long time ago. I’d have been where I’ve always pictured myself when I undertook this career journey: behind a desk, working fervently to deduce what evidence has been found and constantly finding ways to use the facts to tell the stories. That’s what a real crime journalist does.