Pete Sovereign boosted himself off the bar, giving Mark the full force of his superior grin and thrusting his hand out. “Nice of you to come all this way to beg.”
For a moment, Mark could feel the world stretch and shift—déjà vu. He could feel the moments that had just passed and the moments that were creeping up on them. He remembered how Pete’s nose had given way to his knuckles ten years ago, and he imagined—no lived—with unapologetic clarity, the way Pete’s cheekbone would crack under the force of the even more heartfelt blow Mark was about to deliver.
What stopped him from throwing the punch, oddly enough, was not thinking of his father. It was thinking of Haven Hoyt and the way she’d looked at him in Charme, her eyebrows slightly drawn together as if she were trying to figure him out. As if he were worth figuring out. And even when he’d called her about this meeting, Haven had not said anything about watching his temper or not getting in a fight. She had, in fact, told him he would be capable of handling it maturely.
He heard himself sigh, and he saw Pete’s eyes widen. He leaned as close to Pete Sovereign as he could bear to, steeling himself against the guy’s cologne, and said, “It will be a long, cold wait in hell for you if you think that’s going to happen, douche bag.”
Then he turned and walked out of Mad Mo’s, the din fading behind him as the door swung shut and the cacophony of Manhattan’s streets filled his ears.
3
“WHAT THE HELL were you thinking?”
There was something so incongruous about seeing Haven Hoyt in Queens, standing in the foyer of his apartment building, that it took him a moment to realize she was yelling at him. The hangover wasn’t helping.
“Are you the most self-destructive human being on Earth?”
He almost answered her before he registered that her questions were rhetorical. “Did you come all the way out here to ask me that? Couldn’t you have called?”
It was Saturday morning. Last night, Mark had walked as fast as his legs could carry him away from Mad Mo’s and drowned his sorrows in shots of tequila at Over the Border. Countless shots of tequila. He’d gotten kicked out for harassing the bartender when she refused to serve him one more.
Haven crossed her arms. “I thought this bore discussing in person. Plus, I was so irritated with you that I needed to haul myself out here to burn off steam. Why do you live in Queens?”
“Because there’s not enough room on the island of Manhattan for me and all my self-destructiveness.”
A smile flirted with Haven’s impeccably made-up face and vanished just as quickly. “Seriously, Mark, are you off your rocker?”
“Nope. I am totally sane. Pete Sovereign is, in fact, the biggest douche bag on Earth.”
“Douchier than you? Because you’re looking pretty douchey right about now. Throwing away a reunion tour and hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of dollars. Screwing yourself and me out of a job.”
Righteous fury made her even more beautiful. She kept tossing that glossy black hair, which she was wearing down today. It was perfectly straight and it looked like satin. Haven Hoyt was possibly made of satin from head to toe. Right now, he wanted to rub his entire greedy self all over her.
He caught himself mindlessly staring and attempted to corral some brain cells. “I take it you heard from Jimmy.” Of course. Jimmy would have been on the phone to dismiss Haven almost before Mark’s back had disappeared through the door. They’d have been glad to wash their hands of him, glad to have their low opinion of him confirmed.