Page 48 of Riot Reunion
“Presley,” Elodie sighs. “Her dad’s told her to go back to Mountain Lakes. She has a flight back to New Hampshire in the morning.”
“Jesus wept. You mean to tell me we flew all the way to fucking Alaska and now Presley’sleavingagain? Has she told Pax?”
“She said she did, yes. Has he said anything to you about it?”
I don’t make a habit of reading my messages when I’m on a date, so I have no idea if Pax has been blowing me up about this. When I open up my texts, I find that thereisone message from him.
PAX:She’s going back to NH. I’m gonna need to use the house for a couple of days. That cool?
I answer immediately.
ME:Sure.
PAX:Do NOT come!
“What did he say?”Elodie asks.
“He said he’s going back there, too. That he wants to use the house for a couple of days. And then he told me very emphatically not to come.”
“If you even think about suggesting we go back to Cambri—”
“Don’t worry, Stillwater. I’ve learned my lesson. We aresogoing. If I let Pax stay at the house unattended, he’ll probably burn the place down to the ground.”
16
CARRIE
Lunch goes off without a hitch.No one gets stabbed with a butter knife. Miraculously, no fists are thrown, either. Dash spends three hours practicing his piece over and over again at the hotel, and before we know it, it’s time to go over for the restaurant’s opening dinner. The restaurant isn’t what I’d call…homey. The lighting leaves something to be desired. The simple fixtures and fittings are very clean-lined. Surgical, almost. Everything is sharp lines and right angles. The artwork on the walls feels severe. Even the chairs are made of bare, unfinished wood, too shallow to properly perch an ass on comfortably.
A strange buzzing sound—irritating, tinnitus-like—pervades the space, which is large and drafty. With the right staff on deck, you could manage two or three hundred covers here on any given night of the week. I don’t think Michael will have a fight on his hands for a reservation, though. With the undesirable location of the restaurant (right by the commercial port) and the bizarre, cold vibe when you walk through the doors of ‘Alba,’I’m going to be very surprised if Michael’s first venture as a restauranteur isn’t very short-lived.
“What do you think?” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he seems rather pleased. He gazes affectionately up at the stark white ceiling as if this place reminds him of a trattoria in Florence, not a prison cell in Alcatraz. “The kitchen’s a work of art,” he announces proudly.
Dash dressed in ripped jeans and an oversized black t-shirt in honor of today’s momentous unveiling; I tried to coerce him into a suit, but he point-blank refused. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was actuallytryingto offend Michael. My boyfriend spins around in a circle, mouth open a fraction, a frown marring his handsome features. Once he’s completed a full three-sixty spin, and then another one for good measure, clears his throat and says, “It’s fucking horrible.”
“DASH!”
“What? Am I supposed to lie? I’ve been inside more welcoming morgues.”
“I thought the English were supposed to bepolite.”
Dash gives me a pointed look. “Manners are for the great unwashed masses,Stella. I’m a Lord. The blunter I am, the more of an old-blooded eccentric I appear. Men of title in my position are encouraged to be total cunts whenever the opportunity arises.”
“That might be the case while navigating bullshit social environments back in London, but this is Michael’s restaurant. He’s family. He’s—”
“Glad,” Michael says, cutting in. “Itisfucking horrible. The ambiance is off-kilter, one hundred percent. And wait ’til you try the food. It’s the blandest thing you’ll ever put in your mouth.” He beams as he speaks—you’d think unpalatable food and a hostile eating environment wereexactlywhat he was going for. Dash doesn’t seem surprised by Michael’s attitude at all. Me, on the other hand?
“Sorry. You’re gonna have to explain. I don’t get it.”
“I have an income that I can’t declare to the IRS,” Michael states simply. “But I want tobuythings, so I need a reasonable explanation as to where all of my cash comes from. A restaurant’s a great front to feed cash back into circulation. Why do you think the Italians all have restaurants?”
I gape at him. “Money laundering? You’re using this place tolaunder money?”
Michael chucks me under the chin, giving me the same look a father might give a four-year-old right before explaining something difficult. “You’re not in high school anymore, Carrie. And I’m not one to keep secrets from the important people in my life. I don’t like to say that term out loud. But yeah. I launder a fuck-load of money. Most of the time, it’s physicallyandmetaphorically covered in blood. That’s just how it goes.”
“Awesome.”
“So, you make the place miserable. People hate the vibe and the food. No one comes. You run fake transactions through as cash, pretending you’re doing a roaring trade, and then you get to deposit your dirty cash at the bank. Meanwhile, the inventory you buy for the kitchens is used as groceries for you and your cohorts,” Dash muses.
