“H.R. said she’s gorgeous,” King noted. Ah, so that was the priority. Not Jiang and the business with the club. Not the dead ’coon at Honey Bear Café. For the romantic, the girl would always come first. “She’s a kid,” I rebuked with a one-shoulder shrug. And she was. Twenty-five. Sixteen years younger than me. Cleo’s best friend.
