Hot Asset (21 Wall Street #1)(32)

“Sounds like someone I know,” Kennedy mutters.

I give him a look and open my mouth to snap back, but Matt interrupts.

“You said she’s angling for FBI, right? Maybe this case is a make-or-break thing for her.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I muse.

“That why you made her cry?” Kennedy asks. “Kate said—”

“I didn’t make her cry,” I ground out. “Look, I wanted a night out to forget what’s going on in my life, not rehash it. I appreciate the concern, but it’s not what I need right now. Either back off or leave.”

A moment of silence stretches across the table, and the relentless throb of the music does nothing to ease the tension.

Finally, Kennedy nods and tosses back the rest of his drink. “I get it.”

I give him a wary look. “You do?”

“Yeah. If I were in your shoes, I’d be doing the same. Well, not this,” he says, waving at the scene around us. “But I’d be trying to maintain some semblance of my normal life as well.”

“So you’d be at home with some hideous philosophy tome?” Matt asks.

Kennedy flashes a quick grin. “You guys mind?”

“Go,” I say, gesturing with my glass. “I need to get laid, and you’ll only crash my game.”

Kennedy leans forward. “Worried I might get the girl?”

I snort. “Get out of here, old man.”

“Going,” he says, pushing his empty glass toward the center of the table and standing. “See you Monday. Try not to get arrested or dead.”

“I make zero promises,” I call after his retreating back. “What about you?” I ask Matt after Kennedy leaves.

Matt cracks his knuckles and surveys the room. “I’m not going to leave you alone at a table for six. Let’s get you some female company.”

“I’m too old to need a wingman, dude. Besides, I thought you wanted to get laid, too.”

He gives me an idle smile. “Who said I’m not?”

My eyebrows lift. “You work fast.”

He holds up his iPhone. “Booty text.”

“Anyone I know?”

Matt finishes the rest of his drink. “Lynnae.”

I groan. Lynnae Silverton is one of Matt’s many blink and you’ll miss her ex-girlfriends. She’s hotter than hell and twice as psycho.

She’s also the least of my concerns. I can’t manage my own love life these days, much less his, so I wave him away. “Go.”

He stands but hesitates, running a hand over his neck. “Ian, if you want—”

“I’m fine,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Really.” And I mean it. The entire point of this evening was to escape the mess of my life. I need a break from the constant overanalysis, even if my friends mean well.

Matt studies me for a moment in a shrewd, assessing way that reminds me why he’s so damn good at his job. “You’re fine,” he says.

I throw up my hands. “That’s what I just said.”

“Yeah, but I’m the genius.” He smirks, patting my shoulder. “Means more when I say it.”

I roll my eyes as he laughs and goes off to hook up with his ex.

A few minutes later, I’m all alone at my VIP table. Any other time I’d be on the move, looking for a lady—or three—to keep me company, but I’m not in a hurry tonight.

For the first time in weeks, I feel like I’ve got a moment of solitude that’s not actually solitude. It gives me a second to catch my breath, a break from bullshitting, and yet the pulse of the music, the hundred people around me keep me from being alone with my thoughts.

I’ve never particularly been one for being by myself. Too much time to dwell on shit that shouldn’t be dwelled on. But I like it even less with the SEC on my ass. My thoughts are split fifty-fifty between going to jail and Lara McKenzie, and I’m not sure which one is more troublesome. Especially since the latter is the one who wants to put me in the former.

I spin my cocktail glass idly without taking a drink. I came here tonight to get obliterated and laid, and I don’t feel like doing either. There’s something about having your life turned upside down that makes you stop and look at said life.

Honestly? I don’t know if I like what I see. I won’t say I have regrets, per se. It’s pointless to dwell on what you can’t change, and on principle, I’m still a fan of work hard, play hard.

But I always figured I could play as hard as I wanted until I didn’t want it anymore. That I’d have a chance for the wife and kid and Disneyland vacations when the time felt right.

Now? I’m a little terrified I won’t even get that chance. Not unless I can convince Lara that while I may be a womanizing bastard, I’m not a law-breaking one.

Shit.

I take another sip of my drink and shift to scan for the waitress and close out. I should be at home working on that damn list of people who might have framed me, not pretending I’m twenty-four without a care in the world.

The room’s more crowded than it was just a few minutes ago, and I don’t see my waitress through the tight asses in tiny dresses and bros unsubtly trying to make their move.

In the sea of bare female legs, a denim-clad pair catches my gaze—both because they’re long and damn good legs and because they’re unusual. Jeans in a club? Maybe in January. On a sticky summer evening, most of the women are wearing short skirts or dresses.