Clark’s office chair creaked when Lucian leaned back, and he jerked upright when it felt like the thing was going to break in half with his weight. With an irritated snort, Lucian straightened his tie and black suit jacket, crossing his legs under the battered desk. He shrugged in the shoulder holster that ruined the line of the cloth but kept his Colt at the ready, and his knee nudged the metal pivot-rack that held the Sig .357 on its side, aiming at the empty seats across from him.
Lucian might fuss at Clark for a variety of reasons, but being unprepared was never one of them.
The bar, Glow, was closed, the hour late or very early, depending on one’s view, and all the staff had been dismissed before Lucian, Aaron, and Cale had shown up at Glow’s rear entrance an hour before Kris Fawkes
