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The Middle Man (Professionals #6)
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Gemma was always searching for a cause.
Lincoln was always searching for Miss Right.
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Everyone had gotten together and staged an intervention.
I was stuck doing my paperwork.
In all fairness, I had maybe been slipping handfuls of it into everyone else’s piles for the past, I don’t know, four or five years. I lucked out in that they generally just chugged through it while they did their own without even really noticing it didn’t belong to them. I heard shit like that happened when you got ‘in the zone’ with work.
I wouldn’t know.
And I certainly wasn’t ‘in the zone’ as I shuffled through the seemingly endless pages they had so gleefully stacked on my desk on their way out of the office for the night so that I couldn’t go to them for assistance. Which I badly needed.
Even Jules had up and left.
Leaving me to my own devices.
Which were rusty. In need of some serious WD-40. The only problem was, I had no idea where to find that.
“Come to pile more on?” I grumbled as a telltale pair of shoes walked into my line of vision.
Everyone in the office made what most people would refer to as a ‘killing.’ We all spent it on the things that we gave a shit about. Suits, fixing things up around the house, shoes.
But no one had shoes like those.
Because no one had money like he did.
We all had, for the most part, come from somewhat humble beginnings. If not poor, then just solid workaday middle-class families. It was why a lot of us had joined the military after high school. To be able to afford a future. Whatever the cost in other ways. Mentally, emotionally, physically.
I had a knee that told me when rain was coming and a tendency toward bad dreams.
But I’d been able to take care of myself after I was done, albeit not grandly.
Then came Quin and the fixer firm and more abundance than I could have ever expected.
Still, though, nothing near what Bellamy had.
Born rich, he’d learned the ins and outs of investing at his father’s knee, then went ahead and something like quadrupled his already insane fortune.
So, yeah, he had shoes on his feet that belonged in a museum or some shit.
“That would imply I have paperwork in the first place,” he said, making my head turn up, finding him lowering down into the chair across from my desk.
“Why does Quin have you on the payroll when you never have work?”
“Because when I do, I am damn good at it.”
That wasn’t untrue.
Quin had courted Bellamy for ages before he had finally agreed to work with us. Because he was good at what he did. He was really good at killing.
Most of us had done our fair share in the past. In the name of country and for our own safety.
Bellamy did it for shits and giggles.
He did it because it needed doing.
A moral quest of sorts, if you will.
In his sphere, in particular, there seemed to be a fuckuva lot of closet pedos or rapists or wife-beaters. They were the kind of people with the wealth and status–and all the protection that came with those things–to get away with it.
Until Bellamy found out about it, of course.
He took a lot of pleasure in getting rid of people who thought of themselves as untouchable.
It wasn’t until Quin all but insisted on it that he decided to do it for a side gig. A hustle he didn’t need given the obnoxious fortune he sat on without any effort at all these days.
“What do you say we go catch a plane to Vegas?” he asked, inspecting the model car on my desk with pinched brows. “Lose a spectacular amount of money. Hit on an unconscionable number of women. Drink ourselves into oblivion.”
“Pretty sure Quin expects us in the office tomorrow.” It was a workday, after all.
“So, we catch a plane back in the morning. Great way to sleep off the possible hangover.”
It was tempting.
I wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t.
Going out with Bellamy was like your teenage fantasies come to life. Flights were first class, hotel rooms were presidential suites, drinks were top shelf, managers in bars, restaurants, and casinos tripped over themselves to make sure you were having the time of your life. If you wanted to have a good time, Bellamy was how you would find it. Effortlessly.
Normally, unless I was on a case, I never turned down the chance when he offered it.
But, just this once, I knew I needed to be practical.
“I can’t this time. Quin isn’t letting me on any active cases until I catch up on all this shit.”
From the looks of things, that meant something like five years from now.
“So, you are on a paid vacation.”
“I don’t like being stuck.”
That was true enough. But only partially so. There were plenty of times when I didn’t mind being grounded, when all the traveling was more of a hassle than something I wanted to do.