Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(18)
“Sir, can I help you?” The question is posed again, this time telling me in no uncertain terms that she’s not interested in wasting her time with me if my wallet is going to open any time soon. This time she’s not looking quite so friendly. Her ample assets are removed from my arm, leaving me with the impression that I’m about to be escorted from the premises if I don’t cough up a satisfactory answer quickly.
“I’m planning a bachelor party. Your establishment was mentioned as somewhere to check out.” The lie falls smoothly off my tongue and I roll my eyes when she suddenly becomes amenable to my presence once again.
“Well, as you can see.” A long, hot-pink talon is pointed toward the group of lingerie clad women sitting on the couches that line the nearest wall. “We offer an array of ladies to choose from. Your groom and his friends can rest easy knowing that all of their tastes can be provided for.”
She moves away from me and grabs a couple brochures from the bar.
I take the opportunity to see what Judge McManus is up to. He’s apparently having his tastes catered to as I watch him manhandle a small blonde out of the saloon toward the back of the establishment. I take his exit as my cue to get the hell out of here—not that my cock is onboard with that plan. He’s taken a bit of a liking to the brunette who’s smiling at me from across the room.
“Settle down,” I mutter out the side of my mouth. In a louder voice, I bid farewell to the hostess who’s heading back to me. “I, uh, I’ll see you later.”
“Sir,” she calls after me, holding the pamphlets high in the air. “If you’ll wait, I have the information you asked for.”
Dropping my head, I pretend that I can’t hear her and let the heavy door swings closed behind me as I make a hasty exit down the street in the direction of my car.
Safely back in the BMW, I pull the file from the back seat and run my gaze down the rest of the judge’s schedule. One appointment calls out to me. It’s the only way to get rid of Judge McManus and his wife at the same time.
Family dinner. Saturday night. Them and their four children plus their kid’s various offspring.
There’s nothing scheduled after this dinner so I’m picturing a quiet night, just the Judge and Mrs. Judge snuggled into their too expensive, rich-asshole versions of a Snuggie while they bunker down to watch a classic movie together. The security system isn’t set because they’re not heading to bed just yet. They’re just two unsuspecting victims who think their exclusive suburb insulates them from the consequences of their actions. And, I’m the friendly, wannabe serial killer who plans on paying a lethal visit.
TWELVE
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It’s strangely cool tonight—unseasonably so—which I suppose is a blessing. For some reason, I’d pictured sweat rolling down my back and a clammy sensation overwhelming me as I contemplated what I was here to do. None of that has come to pass so far.
Instead, I’m calm and collected and counting down the minutes until the younger McManus generation loads their offspring into their fancy vehicles and depart down the long, winding drive. From my vantage point on the roof of their small garden shed, I can see the maid cleaning up the final vestiges of their five-course meal in the huge, galley kitchen. Judge McManus is sharing a scotch and a cigar with his only son on the back patio while Mrs. McManus and her three daughters are benignly chatting as they watch the children play with the gifts their grandparents gave them when they arrived.
Apparently, the invitation to family dinner doesn’t extend to the partners of their children—not one spouse is to be seen. I’d try harder to pick apart the threads that make up this family if I could muster more than the most cursory of curiosities.
I guess, the knowledge that none of it will matter in less than an hour stops me from caring. Whatever issues they have with their children’s chosen ones, it’s all going to cease to exist by the time the sun rises in the morning.
“Well, I better get the kids back to Martha,” the McManus’ son doesn’t sound all that upset at leaving. He’s been struggling to keep the conversation flowing with his father since they finished discussing the finer points of the cigars they’d smoked and the small nib of—I’m assuming—expensive scotch they’d consumed. “I’ll see you next month.”
Judge McManus claps his son of the shoulder as they head back inside.
“Same time, same place,” I hear him assure his eldest just before the French doors close behind them.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t bet on it,” I mutter to myself as I slide from the roof of the garden shed. With exaggerated movements that I probably picked up from a Jackie Chan movie when I was an impressionable teen, I roll across the lush, green lawn and promptly drop the backpack I forgot I had slung over my shoulders.
A ninja, I will not make.
Once I’ve reclaimed my bag and shoved it back into place, I crouch down behind the tall hedge. My position affords me the perfect view of the brightly lit living areas and a snippet of the front gate.
It’s a matter of minutes before the McManus children are headed down the driveway and back to their lives away from their parents. The ornate, cast iron gates automatically rattle to a close along their tracks behind them, heralding an end to family night.