CHAPTER SIX
1724 Words
The company car that the chairman loaned him stopped in front of a towering glass building, one of the tallest in Los Angeles. Hawthorne Industries. Wes whistled low under his breath, unimpressed yet mildly annoyed. Places like this always felt suffocating—too clean, too polished, like they were trying too hard to hide the dirt underneath.
He adjusted his sleeves before stepping out, immediately loosening his tie as he strode toward the entrance. The automatic doors slid open, and he walked straight to the foyer, scanning the place with sharp, practiced eyes. High ceilings, modern art, a ridiculous chandelier—definitely too much money in one place.
He stopped in front of the reception desk, leaning against the counter with an easy smirk. “Your boss in?”
The receptionist, a well-dressed woman with perfectly styled hair, gave him a slow, assessing look. Even in a tailored suit, Wes knew he didn’t exactly blend in. His tie was already loose, his hair a little disheveled, and there was something about his stance—casual, too self-assured—that set him apart from the usual corporate types.
“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, tone polite but wary.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling out the black envelope with the chairman’s insignia and tapping it against the marble counter. “Chairman sent me. Said I need to deliver this personally.”
She hesitated, glancing between the envelope and his face, clearly debating whether to take him seriously. “One moment.” She picked up the phone, murmuring something too low for him to hear.
Wes drummed his fingers against the counter, glancing around as he waited. A few men in suits passed by, their conversations clipped and professional. It was a different world, one he never had any interest in being part of.
After a moment, the receptionist hung up and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Take the elevator to the top floor. Mr. Hawthorne will see you now.”
“Atta girl.” He winked, then turned toward the elevator, slipping the envelope back into his jacket.
Showtime.
As soon as the elevator door opened, Wes wasted no time stepping inside. He scanned the buttons, his eyes landing on the topmost one labeled with a single letter—“P.”
Penthouse.
He shrugged and pressed it. If the guy he was supposed to meet wasn’t there, well, that wasn’t really his problem.
When the doors slid open, he stepped into a hallway that looked nothing like the rest of the building. The walls were lined with dark marble, the floors polished to a mirror shine. The whole place reeked of wealth—excessive, obnoxious wealth. He adjusted his suit jacket and strode forward, stopping in front of the only set of double doors at the end of the corridor.
Without bothering to knock, he pushed them open.
A shriek filled the room.
Wes blinked.
On the plush leather couch, a man around his age was half-dressed, his shirt unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders. Kneeling on the floor in front of him was a woman in a nurse’s uniform, her gloved hands holding something and her wide eyes staring up at Wes in horror.
Wes’s eyebrows shot up. “Woah. Sorry to bother you.”
The man on the couch exhaled sharply through his nose, visibly irritated.
Wes tilted his head, glancing between them. “So, man, you have a thing for nurses, too, huh?”
The man’s glare sharpened. “Who the hell are you?”
“Messenger,” Wes said casually, holding up a sleek black envelope. “Chairman sent me. Said I needed to give this to you personally.”
The man didn’t move to take it. Instead, his cold eyes flickered to the woman still kneeling at his feet. “Leave.”
The nurse scrambled up, grabbing her purse and a kit and practically running past Wes without looking back.
Wes stepped further inside, glancing around. “Nice place. Real cozy.”
“Shut up.” The man finally looked him in the eye, buttoning his shirt with sharp, precise movements. “You barge into my office without knocking, interrupting a meeting—”
“Yeah, man, it really looked like a ‘meeting.’” Wes made air quotes with his fingers.
The man exhaled through his nose again, clearly restraining himself. “Hand it over.”
Wes twirled the envelope between his fingers before tossing it onto the coffee table between them. “You’re welcome.”
The man picked it up, examining the seal before finally meeting Wes’s gaze. “Tell your boss I got it.”
Wes smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure he already knows.”
The man picked it up, examining the seal before finally meeting Wes’s gaze. “You work for Joaquin Luciano?”
Wes’s eyebrow shot up at the casual mention of his boss’s name. “Yeah. Why?”
The man tossed the envelope back to him without even opening it. “I don’t work with your kind.”
Wes caught it midair, his jaw tightening. “What do you mean, my kind?”
“You know what I mean.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “Actually, I don’t.”
“Then you’re dense.”
Wes stilled for a second, his fingers curling around the edge of the envelope. “What the hell did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
Without thinking, Wes grabbed the man by his collar, pulling him forward. But even with the sudden movement, the guy barely flinched. His expression didn’t change, and that only pissed Wes off more.
“Say that again and I’ll—”
“Exactly.” The man cut him off, his tone flat, unimpressed. “You’re a mobster. I don’t work with your kinds. Violent and irritating.”
Wes’s grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. “You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t need to,” the man said, his gaze sharp and unwavering. “You’re Joaquin’s errand boy. That tells me enough.”
Wes scoffed, but inside, something twisted. An errand boy? That’s what he thought of him? He’d worked his way up, earned Joaquin’s trust, proven himself time and time again. And this guy—this rich asshole who probably never had to fight for anything—thought he could just dismiss him like he was nothing?
His patience snapped.
“You think you’re better than me?” Wes sneered, his voice low.
The man finally showed some reaction—just a small smirk, but it was enough to make Wes’s blood boil.
“No,” he said, almost lazily. “I know I am.”
Wes got pissed. His grip on the man’s collar tightened, and for a second, he seriously considered throwing a punch. The smug look on the guy’s face wasn’t helping.
“You got a real smart mouth for someone who can’t even stand on his own,” Wes growled.
The smirk disappeared. The man’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he reached up and calmly pried Wes’s fingers off his shirt, his grip surprisingly firm.
“You done?” he asked, voice cool and detached.
Wes exhaled sharply through his nose, clenching his fists. His body was practically vibrating with frustration. He wasn’t used to people talking down to him like this—especially not someone who looked like they belonged in some high-rise office, drinking whiskey and counting money.
He took a step back, rolling his shoulders. “You don’t even know what’s in this damn envelope.”
“And I don’t care.” The man adjusted his collar and leaned back in his seat. “Tell Joaquin I’m not interested.”
Wes scoffed. “You act like you have a choice.”
“I do,” the man said simply. “And I just made it.”
Wes stared at him for a moment, jaw tight, before chuckling humorlessly. “You’re either brave or really f*****g stupid.”
The man’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you’re still standing here. Why?”
Wes gritted his teeth. He wanted to break something—preferably this guy’s nose—but he wasn’t about to go back to Joaquin empty-handed.
“This isn’t over,” he muttered, turning on his heel and storming out.
Wes leaned against the elevator wall, rubbing his jaw as he mulled over his next move. He could send a few guys to shake the bastard up a little—nothing too crazy, just enough to make him reconsider. Or maybe he could pay someone to rough up his business, make things inconvenient for him.
Then again, it wasn’t like the guy was in any condition to run.
Wes exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. When he grabbed him earlier, he hadn’t noticed anything off. But the second he lifted him, there was a stiffness—an unnatural weight. The kind that came when someone had no choice but to rely on others to stand.
That’s when it hit him.
The nurse wasn’t there for fun.
Wes had thought it was just some rich guy’s weird roleplay fantasy, but no—she was actually tending to him. The realization made him pause.
Joaquin hadn’t mentioned anything about this. If the guy was already messed up, what the hell did his boss even want from him? His money?
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, but Wes didn’t move right away.
His hands curled into fists.
He’d figure it out soon enough.
When he got inside the company car, the driver immediately sped away.
“You sure the boss is gonna be okay with that envelope still being here?” the driver’s voice broke his train of thoughts.
“Shut up and drive.”
The car cruised down the busy streets of the city, the hum of the engine filling the silence between them. Wes leaned back in his seat, staring out the window, his mind racing with thoughts of the encounter at Hawthorne Industries.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had seen him somewhere. But where? Nah. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s an asshole and the chairman is going to kill him for not bringing the envelope to that prick.
- Writer
