Page 55 of Sixth Sin

DOMINIC

Gaining access into Silverline Studios requires a photo ID, birth certificate, passport, fingerprint, background check, blood sample, and full body cavity search.

And that’s just at the front security booth checkpoint.

After I’m granted access, I drive up to the main studio building. Slamming the car door, I stand there stewing in my own anger, fueled by the bright green lawn surrounding me like a grassy moat. It’s immaculate, flashy, and glaringly out of place. Almost as if someone dug up a tropical island and air dropped it over LA’s scorched brown earth.

Typical excess, just like Rosten himself.

And since I’m in no mood for horticultural dick swinging, I pick up the pace, grinding my teeth as I pass through the metal detector and enter the fancy glass enclosed reception area.

“Greg Rosten is expecting me,” I say to the receptionist. There’s no need for pleasantries. I’m not a pleasant guy. Plus, she’s on his payroll, which automatically puts her on my shit list.

“Name?”

She knows damn well who I am, but I’ll give her two points for attitude. At least this one has some fire in her, unlike the mannequins wandering around here fighting over who’s next in line to shove their tongue up Rosten’s asshole.

“Are we really going to play this game? I’ve got places to be and people to do. A few of whom are going to be put out if they miss getting dicked down because I was dicking with you.”

Glaring at me, she punches a few numbers into her desk phone, scowling as she speaks into the wireless headset strapped to her face. “Dominic McCallum is here to see Mr. Rosten.”

Told ya.

She gives me a barbed wire smile. “Down the hall, exit, and go to the main studio building then take the elevator to the penthouse.” She slides a square piece of plastic across the top of her desk. “Use this keycard once you’re in the elevator. It’ll provide you access to the penthouse where Susan will collect it.”

“Perfect.” I give her a wink and head toward the lion’s den.

The damn place is like a maze. Doors leading to more doors and studios that look like construction warehouses. By the time I make it to the main building and board the elevator with the magical keycard, my fists are clenched, and I’m out of patience.

“Mr. McCallum.” Rosten’s secretary stares up at me from behind her expensive desk. It’s not a question. And why should it be? Breaking into the White House would be easier than gaining access to the president of Silverline Studios.

“Sue.”

She holds out her hand. “Your keycard.”

I hand it over without arguing, and she stands without speaking, motioning me to follow her. She knocks on a door, opening it barely a crack. “He’s here.”

My mind is still swirling with images of that picture, not only with fear over what damage it could do, but with rage over knowing Rosten saw Angel like that. Half-naked and vulnerable. That sick, twisted fuck probably jerked off to it already.

Just the thought makes me force my way through Sue’s little cracked open doorway.

“Hey you can’t—”

“Fuck off, Sue.”

Once I lock eyes with Rosten, we might as well be the only two in the room anyway. I haven’t seen him since the arbitration, but he hasn’t changed. He’s still the same overprocessed cocksucker he’s always been.

Rosten’s lips quirk up in a devious smile as he waves a hand at her. “Leave us.”

“Yes, sir,” she concedes, and just before closing the door I hear her mutter, “My name is Susan, asshole.”

Greg Rosten’s office is just as pretentious as the sprayed lawn. All marble and mirrors with walls lined with multiple television screens and big glass windows overlooking the movie studios. I assume that’s by design, so he can feel like king of the castle. The master of his domain, looking out over all his loyal subjects and eenie meenie minie mo’ing the next in line to pluck out of obscurity and bend over his desk.

He smiles, showing off his obscenely white veneers. “Dominic, so glad you could make it. Have a seat.”

No wonder this fucker has to drug women to get laid. Everything about him screams douchebag from his Dumbo ears, to his patchy gray beard, to his beady little rat eyes, to his fuzzy balding head. If I were a chick, I’d rather suck off a horse.

“I prefer to stand, thanks.”

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