They bounded up the outside stairs with Zane in the lead. Trey’s best friend didn’t bother knocking. He lowered his former quarterback’s shoulder and busted in the door.
The apartment was one big room. Owens spun around to them.
“Stay where you are!” he demanded in a quavering voice.
He had a dark object in his hand. He was pointing a gun at them. Trey’s heart had a second to trip over itself before Zane roared and rushed Owen.
The driver was a big kid, but he had no chance against Zane’s determination and athletic skill. The mere fact that 6 foot 4 worth of solid muscle was barreling toward him rendered him too scared to shoot. He froze, and Zane hit him, the heels of his palms targeting his lungs. The blow threw him back. Zane’s momentum carried both of them onto the bed, on top of the suitcase. There, they struggled for about ten seconds for control of Owens’ shooting hand, which Zane held wrenched above his head. Losing patience, Zane did something to his wrist. Owens cried out, and the gun clattered to the floor.
Not required for the wrestling match, Trey kicked it farther away. The weapon looked a lot smaller now that it wasn’t aimed at them.
“You can’t . . . kill me!” Owens panted, cradling his possibly broken wrist. “Even you’d go to jail!”
Zane sat on top of him, hands trapping his upper arms, subduing him with his greater weight. “What is your damage? We hired you as a favor.”
“A favor to my fucking aunt,” Owens spat, trying to wriggle free. “You and she think you’re such hot shit. The famous bad boys. Ooh, how awesome to work for you! Everyone’s supposed to kiss your stupid billionaire asses. The truth is you’re nothing but a pair of jumped-up homos trying to pretend you like girls.”
Zane growled, the sound more irritated than enraged. Owens flinched anyway.
“You hit me again, I’ll sue,” he blustered. “You already broke my wrist.”
“You had a fucking gun in your hand!” Zane shook his head at the kid’s stupidity. Trey knew then that Zane wouldn’t hurt him. Owens wasn’t an equal enough opponent, and Zane’s history didn’t allow him to play bully. That was too bad. Trey wouldn’t have minded seeing the kid with at least one more broken body part. Since Zane was setting the standard, Trey stepped to the side of the bed and looked down at him.
“Where’s the footage you took?”
“Somewhere you’ll never find it,” Owens sneered.
If never meant five seconds, his claim was true. The little shit’s gaze cut left, where a laptop sat on a coffee table. Trey strode to it. Owens’ email program was open. Trey’s spirits sank when he saw the last message sent. They weren’t going to catch a break tonight.
“He emailed a video file to a
[email protected].”
“Anybody else?” Zane asked.
“Not that I can see on first glance.”
“Shut it off,” Zane said. “We’ll go through the hard drive after we deal with this idiot.”
“Hey!” Owens objected. “That’s my property.”
Zane gave him a look, swung off him, and retrieved the gun from the floor. Once he’d checked the safety, he tucked it into the back waistband of his trousers. Owens had just enough sense not to protest that.
“You have five minutes to finish packing,” Zane said. “Since you seem a little slow, I’ll explain that you’re fired, and you shouldn’t use me as a reference. You violated the nondisclosure agreement you signed when we hired you, and for that you can be sued.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Owens huffed. “I’ll turn you and your ass-licking butt-buddy into laughing stocks.”#p#分页标题#e#
Zane seemed to take this coolly, but a vein ticked at his temple. “Considering your new best friend is sure to do that anyway, that’s hardly an effective threat.”
Owens sat up, about to spout off again. Zane stopped him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t give in to blackmail, boy. Not from you and not from her.”
“She has lawyers too,” Owens retorted.
“I’m sure she does, but if you think she’ll pay them to work for anyone but herself, you’re stupider than you look. She has what she wants from you. You’ll be lucky if she returns your calls.”
“She cares about me! She said I’m the best lover she ever had.”
Zane simply smiled at him. Jumped-up homo or not, Trey expected that title belonged to him. “Are you planning to pack? You’ve got maybe three minutes left.”
Owens packed, hefted his suitcase, then stomped like a surly teenager down the outside stairs. He owned a scooter, which he putted down the long drive. Thanks to his broken wrist, the machine wobbled at intervals. Trey joined Zane at the window to watch.