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maderrNo doubt this needs lots of corrections still >_< But if I have to go over it one more time, I'll likely save it and not open it for a long, long time. It's probably not as long as it should be, either, but if I explain too much I risk spoilers. And on *that* note, there is a char in here that you've met in Paradise and it will likely spoil his role (which I'm sure everyone has already guessed anyway) - but it doesn' t spoil Paradise itself so I didn't feel too bad. Plus you'll learn more about him here than there, anyway.
Shutting up now. Sip, I hope you like. It was fun to write, despite my bitching. *hearts*
P.S. It's 25 pages, so I'll break it up into two parts.
"I wanted to say thank you, Sullivan. You've made all the difference in this mess."
Sullivan shrugged. "I know my business - and that backstabbing is bad for it. Sterling loyalty goes to the Azura first."
The Azura nodded slowly, as if he was not certain what else to say. It was easy to forget sometimes, Sullivan reflected, that the man before him was so young. His face was young, but there was a heaviness to it that was far too old. But then, the kid - hardly that - had been forced to take over at just fourteen. And what a bitter day that had been.
He'd though it rough to take over at twenty-one. The fact that the Azura was only recently turned twenty-three and was firmly in command commanded respect. If Sullivan had not already been staunchly devoted to working for the Azura family, he would have given his loyalty to the young man before him.
The Azura smiled and waved his words away. "That was never in doubt. I've always known you were on the level, Sullivan. Even when I was a kid."
Sullivan dropped his head and shoulders in a half-bow, hands grasping the ornately carved top of his walnut cane. His hair was the fine, white-blonde usually only seen on children, and his silver-gold tie had been picked to match it exactly, bright against his dark gray suit. "Any idea of who will be replacing Pierre in the Syndicate? Had he any real heirs?"
Azura shrugged, "Matters are being looked into. We need to see how far down the chain the traitors run." Bright blue eyes slid Sullivan a concerned but hesitant look. "At present, we're more concerned about you.
Sullivan grinned, white teeth flashing. "There's no need. In my line of business, everybody wants to replace me. One gets used to it after awhile. And revenge, if that's your fear, is par for the course in this business. I'm sure, as young as you are, you've already had several strong doses of that."
Wincing ever so slightly at the mention of his age, Patrick nodded. "I've still got Crowler's buddies making the occasional attempt."
"Oh, really?" Sullivan's brows rose, but he refrained from pressing questions upon the Azura. Never mind the kid was his boss; it wouldn't do for Sullivan to act like a concerned parent or teacher. That wasn't his role, no matter how close he and the late Azura had once been.
Still, it was tempting. The Azura was nothing like his father, except in the matter of skill. At twenty-three, his father had already acquired a reputation for ruthlessness. This one reminded Sullivan of what he'd always wanted the father to be. He wondered if this one would have said yes - though he would never ask. His feelings for the son were, at best, paternal.
The Azura's bright blue eyes were sharp, intent. "Anyway. My concern isn't me - it's you. Never mind I've got assistants screaming down my neck, I know that if we lose you, we lose control of the shipping yards. I'm not too young to realize the value of that. But all that aside - I won't have a friend harmed because he stood by me." He smiled, and for a moment looked his age. "It's fortunate that I ordered a bodyguard to protect you just as this whole disaster began. He will continue to guard you until I am certain of your safety."
Sullivan blinked, surprise in pale, jade green eyes. "What? Who?" He shook his head, dumbfounded. Azura had hired a bodyguard? And who on earth could it be? He ran through the people recently taken into his employ, unable to associate any of them with the role of bodyguard.
"Now if I told you," the Azura said with the ghost of a grin. "Then it's possible the enemy would learn his identity. But it is someone I trust with my own life. He will protect you at all costs."
"As you wish," Sullivan said faintly, rising to his feet as Azura did. "Thank you, Azura. You are worthy of the title."
The Azura shook his hand and signaled the skinnier of his two bodyguards to escort him out. "Trick, please. And thank you; that means a lot coming from someone who knew my father so well."
Sullivan simply nodded. "Have a good evening." He walked in silence to his car, ignoring the man who walked silently beside him. Azura's bodyguards were men he didn't know, which was smart of Azura -- of Trick. They were his men, not his father's.
The bodyguard opened the car door for him and Sullivan let out a sigh as it closed and the car pulled out of the drive. He stared out the window at the streets and people, one hand going automatically to soothe the ache in his right leg, just above the knee. Too much movement today, he would have to take it easy for a little while. Which wasn't going to be possible, as with the removal of Pierre - one of the higher ups in the Syndicate - there would be much turbulence while a new balance was established.
A new Azura, one of the top Six eliminated for turning traitor and Sullivan the one who'd turned him in. It had been some time since someone had made an active attempt on his life. He wondered if he was up to it. Thirty-seven and most days he felt fifty-seven, and his life hadn't truly been threatened since the incident that had almost cost him a leg.
In his bedroom, Sullivan set aside his cane and began to strip out of his cumbersome business suit. He hated the things, but you didn't meet the Azura in jeans and oxford.
Donning his familiar stone-washed jeans and favorite, worn white oxford, Sullivan discarded his contacts and slipped on a pair of oval glasses, pulled on some socks and retrieved his cane as he headed out the door. He padded downstairs to his office, grateful to be back where he could more or less relax.
Two men waited for him.
In front of the terrace windows was a man built like a brick shithouse, in a blue and green flannel with the sleeves rolled up, his jeans faded and stained with years of abuse. His hair was cut in a tight military style, skin deeply tanned from hours in the sun, making his blue eyes stand out. Ronald, his right hand man. He was directly in charge of everything that happened in the shipping yard.
On the couch directly opposite his desk was a wiry man with precisely arranged, cropped blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, his pursed lips gave the impression that he'd just swallowed something sour. He was dressed in light gray slacks and a dark blue polo. His dark brown eyes watched Sullivan intently. Cameron, his secretary.
"So starting tomorrow, things are back to normal." Sullivan shuffled some papers in front of him, neatly set them out of the way and folded his hands on top of the desk. His walnut cane sat near to hand, leaning against the desk. "Hopefully. How are things in the yard?"
"Unsettled. No one's comfortable with the idea that we helped bust Pierre, boss. Even if it means we're in real good standing with the Azura."
"They should be more unsettled," Sullivan replied icily. "That Pierre nearly had us on the Azura's bad side. So remind them to whom we report in this business and notify me of any problems. Play it cool; the less upset we seem by all this, the less upset they'll be." He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cam, anything for me?"
Cameron gave him a dry look. "You've got several party invitations to pick through. And Hamilton wants to play golf on Sunday."
Sullivan sent a scathing look toward the papers in Cameron's hands. "Because playing golf is something a cripple would have so much fun doing. Tell him to fuck off and give me something of importance."
"Your little freak is being bitchy again."
Seeing Cam's annoyance, Sullivan refrained from laughing. "What's wrong this time?"
"Ask him yourself," Ronald muttered. "Four, three, two, o--"
Dead on cue, there was a series of sharp, short loud knocks on the door of his office. Sullivan grinned and shook his head. "Enter!" he called.
A small whirlwind of energy blew into his office to the sound of some indistinct song blaring from headphones tucked into the collar of a tight, bright green tank top. Short black hair with random strands dyed purple made his blue eyes look almost violet, and the tiny red birthmark beneath his right eye made the whirlwind look younger than his twenty-seven years. His black jeans were worn, soft, and fit well. The thick maroon carpet in Sullivan's office muffled the clomping of his heavy black boots.
"Liv," the whirlwind said, slamming his hands down on the desk, then half-spinning to point an accusing finger at the two men behind him. "Would you please tell these Neanderthals to keep their grubby mitts away from my goddamned equipment before they manage to not only wreck my damned systems but also blow us to smithereens?"
Sullivan couldn't resist a laugh. "Kill the music, Tybalt. It's a wonder to me you're not deaf."
"Huh? Yeah, sure thing." Tybalt thumped the off button on the mp3 player clipped to his pants without taking his eyes off of Sullivan. "Now, about your Neanderthals."
"Watch it, kid." Cameron said in a warning tone.
Tybalt turned his head to sneer. "I ain't been a kid in years. At least I know how to use a damn computer. You couldn't find the on switch if it called your name and asked for a fuck."
"Goddamn you!" Cameron shot out of his chair and headed straight for him, murder in his eyes.
Sullivan figured laughing wouldn't be a good idea at that point. Standing, he raised his voice to be heard over the bickering. "Enough!" he shouted. "Cameron, Tybalt, shut the hell up. Now."
Still glaring at each other, the two men obeyed.
"Tybalt, what's the problem this time?" Sullivan sat back down, but did not relax. He generally had to break up at least three fights before meetings involving Cameron and Tybalt ended.
Tybalt pointed a thumb at Ron and Cam. "These cavemen were pawing over my equipment again. It's hard enough to keep it running like you want without them disrupting everything. Damn systems don't run on magic, you know."
"Yes, I know." Sullivan quirked his lips and then looked at his secretary and assistant. "What's up?"
Cameron was back to pursing his lips. "We have every right to check the equipment. I don't trust leaving it just to him."
Tybalt snorted. "Yeah, because of course you know what the hell you're looking at. I could be planning the theft of the century and all you'd ever see is that I'm playing Pac-man!" Tybalt shot up as Cameron stood to go after him again.
"ENOUGH!" Sullivan roared.
"Liv, I had to spend two hours repairing the damage they did 'looking over' my equipment. If you don't trust me, fine. But have someone who at least knows what a monitor is look over my stuff to verify I'm legit."
Cameron narrowed his eyes, "I know what a monitor is, you nasty little worm. It's no wonder you're so good at computers - you clearly can't get along with people."
Tybalt sneered back at him, "This from the man who gets turned down flat by a blow up doll."
"That's it."
Sullivan began to stop them, then just sighed. "Ron? If you please?"
Ronald nodded. "There was someone wandering around outside last night, boss. Cam and I saw him, but when we called up Tybalt to ask about it, he told us there was no one there. We know what we saw - either he's lying or something is wrong with his precious equipment. Either way, we had the right to check it for ourselves." He shrugged, "Cam got a bit carried away and did something to one of the programs. What, I couldn't tell you." A grin. "I'm just a caveman."
Sullivan smiled back and then grabbed his cane, slamming it down with an echoing crack on his desk. "Cam, Ron, out. Tybalt, stay. We need to talk."
Cameron tucked his shirt back in and smoothed hair. He started to smirk, but winced at the pain caused by the split in his lower lip. He left, Ronald right behind him.
Standing slowly, Sullivan idly made his way around the desk to lean against it, hands braced on his cane as he contemplated Tybalt. "You do like to cause an uproar don't you?"
Tybalt gingerly examined his cheek, where a livid bruise was already appearing. "Only where that backwater monkey is concerned." He looked at Sullivan. "I know I'm the odd one out here, Liv, but give me a break. I know my shit, and I'm not fucking around. I'm on the level - you pay too much for me to want to lose this gig. Swear it."
Sullivan contemplated him in silence for a few minutes, trying to keep his mind on the problem at hand and not on how positively edible his tech was. The tank top and jeans fit entirely too well, and he knew when the young man turned to leave, he'd see the slightest bit of black ink peeking out of the right arm of that tank top. How often had he fantasized about peeling that top off and finally seeing what sort of tattoo the man had on his back? Tracing it with his tongue, tracing the muscles that were surprisingly developed for someone who spent almost all his time on a computer.
Then again, not many techs carried handguns either. He forced his attention back to the present. "Look, everyone is still real tense about everything that just went down. Double-crossing Pierre, even with the Azura's backing, is no small matter. Everyone is going to be tense for a long, long time. So if Cam and Ron are a little anxious, let them be. If it will make everyone happy, I'll bring someone trustworthy in to give your stuff a once over and then all you'll have to do is behave, all right?"
"My computers are fine," Tybalt said petulantly. "But whatever keeps the party going."
"Don't worry. They'll be so anxious to get rid of the 'consultant' I have in mind, they won't be able to approve his analysis fast enough." Sullivan winked. "Now go put something on that bruise and then get back to work. Come by tomorrow afternoon to update me on whatever changes and improvements you've made.
Tybalt flashed him a happy grin. "Sure thing! I've made scads of improvements, just wait."
"Get going, and avoid Cameron for a couple of days."" Sullivan smiled back. He watched as Tybalt turned and left, eyes locking onto the hint of tattoo peeking out of his tank top.
And sighed heavily as the door slammed closed, thinking sobering thoughts to cool himself down. "Out of reach, Sully, out of reach." He and his leg had learned the hard way not to mix business and pleasure.
He jumped slightly at movement from the corner of his eyes, and then realized it was only a plant, rustled by the AC that had just kicked on. "You're a likely target for assassination," he muttered to himself. "Stop lusting after someone ten years younger and think about trying to stay alive."
Sleep was eluding him. Sullivan lay in bed, staring up at his ceiling, and lost count somewhere around sheep number five hundred and thirty.
The house was more or less quiet, and perhaps that was part of the problem. Half his staff worked the late shift, and more than a few of the rest were night owls. He was used to a constant stream of noise…
But betraying Pierre Lemont had been no small thing, and there would be more than a few out for revenge - and still others looking to use revenge as a way to mask attempts to acquire not only the Lemont holdings, but the Sterling as well.
How Azura kept everything in order, he didn’t want to ever know. It was all he could do to control his own much smaller business.
It was little wonder his house was so damn quiet.
Heaving a tired sigh, Sullivan swung himself out of bed and fetched his cane from where it lay against the nightstand. If there was to be no sleep, he could catch up on some paperwork. Setting a trap had forced him to neglect other matters, and it was long past time he caught things up, and it would be easier to do without the constant interruptions that came during the daytime.
His leg resisted at first, displeased to be made to walk about the chill house after being warm and unmoving in bed for so long. But Sullivan pressed on and soon enough the old pain eased enough that he could walk with little trouble.
The tapping of his cane seemed painfully loud on the hardwood floor, but no one and nothing seemed bothered by the noise. Sullivan made his way toward his office…but paused when he heard the familiar click clacking of fingers dancing across a keyboard. He turned right down the main hallway instead of left, stopping in front of the open door of Tybalt's workroom.
For years he'd eschewed electronics as much as possible, loath to be bogged down in the myriad problems that seemed to plague his technology-eager comrades. But the betrayal of Pierre had forced his hand, and before he was even certain of what was going on he'd finally gone about hiring someone to install and maintain the sort of security system that seemed to be a requirement of the day.
Nearly a hundred candidates later, he'd chosen Tybalt from Cameron's final list of three. More than once he'd wondered if he shouldn't have gone with one of the other two, because even to himself he wouldn't admit all the reasons he'd chosen Tybalt.
He'd half expected to find Tybalt closeted up in a dark room, listening to strange, incomprehensible music and staring intently at a monitor through colored spectacles, surrounded by a small disaster area comprised of books, food and god only knew what else.
Tybalt sat up straight in his chair, feet flat on the floor, mp3 player still loud enough to be heard beyond the headphones. But the overhead fluorescents were on, shining down brightly on a neatly ordered office and a row of three flat monitors. There was no speck of food or even dust in sight, except for a bag of strawberry-flavored hard candies. Nothing but walnut furniture and a blue carpet - which Tybalt had protested, but Sullivan had refused to tear it up.
He pulled the headphones from his ears and looked at Sullivan in surprise. "Hey, Liv. What are you doing up?"
"I should ask the same of you."
"One man's bedtime is another man's working day," Tybalt replied with a grin. "If there's going to be trouble, it'll be around this time, and I don't trust the Neanderthals to know what they're looking at."
Sullivan's brows went up. "Would you like me to hire you some help? That shouldn't be too hard to do…" He commended himself on not wincing. Hiring the sort of help Tybalt would require would probably be more of a problem than hiring Tybalt had been.
"Fuck no." Tybalt looked offended by the idea. "There's a saying somewhere about shit like that. Too many bakers or some such shit."
Sullivan's lips quirked. "Too many cooks spoil the broth?"
"That's the one. Except in this case it's more like too much binary jacking off, but whatever." Tybalt grinned when Sullivan started laughing. "So why are you up, Liv? Ug and Lug ask you to check up on me?"
"Nothing of the sort," Sullivan assured him. "I simply couldn't sleep, and thought I'd catch up on some work while it's nice and quiet."
Tybalt laughed. "Nice and quiet?"
"It's not?" Sullivan's brows went up again, though this time there was no humor in the gesture.
"Fuck no, man. Liv, you've got a guard sneaking out to make out with that anorexic bimbo down the street - see here?" Tybalt pointed to his screen, which to Sullivan looked like little more than lines and dots and washes of color. "Never mind what everyone else is up to, though they're not breaking rules at least."
Sullivan smiled. "Looks like Pac man to me. And I don't think I even really know what that is."
Tybalt blinked at him, clearly startled by the reply. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and Sullivan's gaze was caught by the expanse of bare throat and hint of chest beneath the collar of his shirt, emphasized all the more by the heavy silver chain around his neck. "You should teach your cavemen your sense of humor. Hell, any sense of humor would do."
"My men have their good points," Sullivan said gently but firmly. "Perhaps you should refrain from calling them Neanderthals."
Tybalt rolled his eyes. "I call'em like I see him." He waggled his eyebrows and smiled. "But I'll try to refrain, since you suggested it, Liv."
"Good. Now tell me more about this guard."
"Like I said - he's been trying to get nookie from the bitch down the street." He looked at his screen. "I told Cameron; I guess he just wants us to monitor the guy for now." Tybalt shrugged.
Sullivan nodded. "That is my cue to get to work and stop bothering you. Going to bed soon?"
Tybalt twisted to look at the clock on the wall behind him. "In three and a half hours or so."
"Six thirty?"
"Yeah, when your, uh, assistants get up."
Sullivan nodded and turned to leave before he did or said anything idiotic, wishing he had a good excuse to stay and continue speaking.
"When will the dude be here to make sure I'm on the fly?"
"What?" Sullivan asked, the slang throwing him a bit. "Oh. Around eight thirty. Do you want me to wake you up?"
"Nah, s'okay. Just make sure they don't trash my stuff, yeah? This shit's more finicky than Pierre's ex-girlfriend and twice as expensive. Anyone fucks with it, I'm taking it out of their flesh."
Sullivan laughed, "Duly noted, Tybalt. I will see you tomorrow."
"Later, Liv."
Nodding farewell, Sullivan slowly made his way back down the hallway and to his study. Sitting down heavily, he stared at the different stacks of work laid out neatly for him to begin whittling down. He wasn't feeling terribly motivated, though, of a sudden. His concentration had been stolen completely and utterly by his tech.
Patrick Azura had his fathers no nonsense, cold rage, terribly efficient business mien. Otherwise the boy was completely unlike his father - playful and humorous in different ways.
Tybalt was so much like the late Azura it sometimes hurt. Loud and noisy and completely lacking in respect unless he felt like giving it. Antagonistic to the point it was a wonder he was still breathing. So uncaring for anyone's opinion…traits that had eventually shaped Curtis Azura into the ruthless leader he later became.
He'd been so easy to fall in love with, even with knowing that his interest would never lie with another man. But for years he'd bee a friend too…until Sullivan had proposed they give the syndicate life up. Forsake it, abandon it, run away and not look back. It had been a dumb thing to do, but on their verge of taking over things they weren't ready to take over, it had also seemed the right thing to do.
Eventually Curtis grew too busy and distant for them to be more than casual acquaintances - and Sullivan knew it had been on purpose. Above and beyond all things, Curtis despised cowardice.
Forcing his thoughts off his unhappy past, Sullivan forced himself to the work at hand. For better or worse, he hadn't run away. He was firmly entrenched in the syndicate and planned to be until old age or some fool who could aim scored a better hit than his leg.
"What in the bloody fucking hell is going on here?"
Sullivan turned to look as Tybalt came barreling into his computer room and almost had a heart attack.
Loose jeans, the slightest hint of red boxers. A bundle of dark pink fabric in his hand, obviously his tank top for the day.
And a black fleur de lis tattooed on his abdomen.
Tybalt was oblivious to all but the smirking young man seated in his chair in front of the computers. "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing to my systems? And turn the goddamn alarms off already."
"Yowza. Good morning, sex kitten." The man at the computer grinned, taping a few keys before turning and looking Tybalt up and down slowly. He twisted to look at Sullivan, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake your boy toy."
Sullivan choked. "This is my tech, Mickey."
"Oh." Mickey looked at Tybalt again. "I think you're letting him go to waste, putting him on the comps."
"Who the fuck are you?" Tybalt asked again.
"Name's Mickey Lemasters," the man said easily, leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. "But you can call me Mick."
"Ooooh," Tybalt waggled his fingers at Mickey. "Lucky, lucky me."
Mickey laughed, tossing strands of blonde hair out of his dark brown eyes. "The kitten has claws."
"Yeah, and they're going to wind up shredding your nuts if you don't shut the fuck up and get away from my computers."
Mickey shot an amused glance at Sullivan, "Your toy always this feisty, or am I just lucky?"
Cameron just laughing, ignoring the dark looks Tybalt sent his way.
"Tybalt is many things, Mickey," Sullivan replied. "But he is not my toy, and I'll remind you that here no one is impressed by your family connections, so no one will leap to your defense if Tybalt decides to kill you for casting aspersions upon his character."
"I wouldn't say it's an aspersion to be called your boy toy, Sully. You're not bad for an old, decrepit man of thirty-seven." Mickey winked at Sullivan. He shifted his attention back to Tybalt, crooking a finger. "Want to come see that I haven't hurt your precious babies, sugarsnap? All I'm doing is verifying you're not up to anything worse than naughtysugardaddies.com"
Tybalt took two steps toward Mickey and punched him.
Mickey laughed, rebalancing himself in Tybalt's chair, testing his jaw. "You've got a neat right, sugarsnap."
"The name is Tybalt, you desperate little rat."
"Desperate? Che." Mickey laughed some more. "If you're going to insult me, sexy, do a better job of it than that. I lack respect, that's a far cry from desperate."
Tybalt just glared.
"Okay, okay, sugarsnap. Unbunch your panties and go get some breakfast or something if you're satisfied I haven't hurt your equipment. I'm still not done checking your work."
Tybalt made a visible effort not to punch him again, turning to Sullivan. "I'll be chilling in the kitchen, come and get me when he's gone. And make sure he doesn't set the alarms off again." With that he pulled on his tank top and then turned on his heel, stomping out of the room to get some breakfast.
Mickey tsked softly, "Somebody needs more than a quick hand job in the shower."
Sullivan choked. "Mickey! Work! Please! Stop harassing my employees."
"Yeah, yeah. All work, no play, that is the mobster's way."
Cameron dug into his pocket and pulled out a small battle of aspirin. Downing four of them, he passed the bottle to Sullivan, who also swallowed four.
"People do that a lot around me," Mickey muttered as he went back to work.
A stupendous crash made Sullivan jump, pen jerking across the draft he'd been trying to write for the past hour. Severely annoyed, he grabbed his cane and rose slowly to his feet. The door to Cameron's office banged open just as he reached the hallway door. "I'll bet your bitch has something to do with this. He's been wreaking havoc every goddamned damned day this week, Sully."
Sullivan sighed. "He's never alone though, is he?"
"Let me guess," Cameron said acidly, holding the office door closed to stare coldly at his boss. "The poor little guy is misunderstood?"
Sullivan narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at, Cam?"
"I think it's pretty obvious. You've never played favorites before, boss. His ass isn't that great. If he keeps annoying everyone, drop him." Whatever else Cameron was about to say died on his lips, unable to withstand the anger on Sullivan's face that had cowed people far stronger than he.
Another crash spared Cameron from Sullivan's rage. "What is he doing this time?" the secretary asked despairingly. "That sounds expensive."
"Hopefully it's that green shit the late Azura's wife 'gifted' to us."
"We should be so lucky…" Cameron murmured, preceding Sullivan as they headed for the kitchen.
Sullivan could feel a headache coming on, as he stared at the disaster area that had once been a state of the art kitchen. "Dare I ask?" he said, looking from a red-faced, sputtering, soup-soaked chef to a batter-drenched Tybalt. He did his best to avoid looking at the wreckage on the floor and counters.
"Fire them both," Cameron said, rubbing his forehead. "Kill them both. I'll take care of the details."
"Fuck you," Tybalt said scathingly, though the effect was ruined by the cream-colored batter that covered his head and the majority of his violet tank top. "I've still got half a pot of soup, and any excuse to cover you with it will do."
"Tybalt," Sullivan said in warning. "That's enough. You'd better have a good explanation for all of this." He shot a look at his chef, who'd been slinking toward the back door. "So had you."
For answer, his chef launched into rapid fire Italian and only Sullivan's fluency enabled him to keep up with it. He quirked a brow at Tybalt, hands gripping his cane as he leaned on it. "Tybalt?"
Tybalt picked a stray piece of carrot off his arm. "He fucking started it when he began yelling at that poor little maid. All I did was tell him to back the fuck off and suddenly I'm ready to be thrown on the griddle and doused in syrup. Fucking foreigners."
The image of Tybalt covered in syrup was not one Sullivan needed, especially in the aftermath of being told he'd been playing favorites. "Which maid?" he asked, frowning in thought.
"Lara?" Cameron supplied. "She's his assistant, not a maid."
"Whatever. Get a less abusive chef."
Sullivan turned to his chef and started grilling him, his Italian nearly as fast as the chef's. Several minutes later the chef stormed from the kitchen, and the slamming of his door rattled the house. "Somebody get me some aspirin," Sullivan said tiredly. "Tybalt, could you please go just one hour without pissing someone off?"
"It's not my damn fault your gardener's a whack job and your chef an abusive nutcase."
Sullivan gratefully accepted the pills and water Cameron brought him. "And the mail man?"
"He started it."
Cameron rolled his eyes, "Why were you getting the mail anyway?"
"I was bored. Nothing ever happens around this joint and my computers only need so much babysitting."
Sullivan almost laughed.
Cameron, however, was far from amused. "It's not the computers that need a babysitter."
"Watch it, sourpuss. The soup is just begging to say hello to that pretty suit of yours."
"Enough," Sullivan said quietly, but with force. "Tybalt, get this kitchen cleaned. Cameron, you have work to do. See what you can do about soothing my chef." Leaning heavily on his cane, Sullivan turned and left the room, ignoring the sounds of his secretary and tech bickering behind him.
Shutting up now. Sip, I hope you like. It was fun to write, despite my bitching. *hearts*
P.S. It's 25 pages, so I'll break it up into two parts.
Eyes On You
Azura Sidestory 01
"I wanted to say thank you, Sullivan. You've made all the difference in this mess."
Sullivan shrugged. "I know my business - and that backstabbing is bad for it. Sterling loyalty goes to the Azura first."
The Azura nodded slowly, as if he was not certain what else to say. It was easy to forget sometimes, Sullivan reflected, that the man before him was so young. His face was young, but there was a heaviness to it that was far too old. But then, the kid - hardly that - had been forced to take over at just fourteen. And what a bitter day that had been.
He'd though it rough to take over at twenty-one. The fact that the Azura was only recently turned twenty-three and was firmly in command commanded respect. If Sullivan had not already been staunchly devoted to working for the Azura family, he would have given his loyalty to the young man before him.
The Azura smiled and waved his words away. "That was never in doubt. I've always known you were on the level, Sullivan. Even when I was a kid."
Sullivan dropped his head and shoulders in a half-bow, hands grasping the ornately carved top of his walnut cane. His hair was the fine, white-blonde usually only seen on children, and his silver-gold tie had been picked to match it exactly, bright against his dark gray suit. "Any idea of who will be replacing Pierre in the Syndicate? Had he any real heirs?"
Azura shrugged, "Matters are being looked into. We need to see how far down the chain the traitors run." Bright blue eyes slid Sullivan a concerned but hesitant look. "At present, we're more concerned about you.
Sullivan grinned, white teeth flashing. "There's no need. In my line of business, everybody wants to replace me. One gets used to it after awhile. And revenge, if that's your fear, is par for the course in this business. I'm sure, as young as you are, you've already had several strong doses of that."
Wincing ever so slightly at the mention of his age, Patrick nodded. "I've still got Crowler's buddies making the occasional attempt."
"Oh, really?" Sullivan's brows rose, but he refrained from pressing questions upon the Azura. Never mind the kid was his boss; it wouldn't do for Sullivan to act like a concerned parent or teacher. That wasn't his role, no matter how close he and the late Azura had once been.
Still, it was tempting. The Azura was nothing like his father, except in the matter of skill. At twenty-three, his father had already acquired a reputation for ruthlessness. This one reminded Sullivan of what he'd always wanted the father to be. He wondered if this one would have said yes - though he would never ask. His feelings for the son were, at best, paternal.
The Azura's bright blue eyes were sharp, intent. "Anyway. My concern isn't me - it's you. Never mind I've got assistants screaming down my neck, I know that if we lose you, we lose control of the shipping yards. I'm not too young to realize the value of that. But all that aside - I won't have a friend harmed because he stood by me." He smiled, and for a moment looked his age. "It's fortunate that I ordered a bodyguard to protect you just as this whole disaster began. He will continue to guard you until I am certain of your safety."
Sullivan blinked, surprise in pale, jade green eyes. "What? Who?" He shook his head, dumbfounded. Azura had hired a bodyguard? And who on earth could it be? He ran through the people recently taken into his employ, unable to associate any of them with the role of bodyguard.
"Now if I told you," the Azura said with the ghost of a grin. "Then it's possible the enemy would learn his identity. But it is someone I trust with my own life. He will protect you at all costs."
"As you wish," Sullivan said faintly, rising to his feet as Azura did. "Thank you, Azura. You are worthy of the title."
The Azura shook his hand and signaled the skinnier of his two bodyguards to escort him out. "Trick, please. And thank you; that means a lot coming from someone who knew my father so well."
Sullivan simply nodded. "Have a good evening." He walked in silence to his car, ignoring the man who walked silently beside him. Azura's bodyguards were men he didn't know, which was smart of Azura -- of Trick. They were his men, not his father's.
The bodyguard opened the car door for him and Sullivan let out a sigh as it closed and the car pulled out of the drive. He stared out the window at the streets and people, one hand going automatically to soothe the ache in his right leg, just above the knee. Too much movement today, he would have to take it easy for a little while. Which wasn't going to be possible, as with the removal of Pierre - one of the higher ups in the Syndicate - there would be much turbulence while a new balance was established.
A new Azura, one of the top Six eliminated for turning traitor and Sullivan the one who'd turned him in. It had been some time since someone had made an active attempt on his life. He wondered if he was up to it. Thirty-seven and most days he felt fifty-seven, and his life hadn't truly been threatened since the incident that had almost cost him a leg.
*~*~*~*
In his bedroom, Sullivan set aside his cane and began to strip out of his cumbersome business suit. He hated the things, but you didn't meet the Azura in jeans and oxford.
Donning his familiar stone-washed jeans and favorite, worn white oxford, Sullivan discarded his contacts and slipped on a pair of oval glasses, pulled on some socks and retrieved his cane as he headed out the door. He padded downstairs to his office, grateful to be back where he could more or less relax.
Two men waited for him.
In front of the terrace windows was a man built like a brick shithouse, in a blue and green flannel with the sleeves rolled up, his jeans faded and stained with years of abuse. His hair was cut in a tight military style, skin deeply tanned from hours in the sun, making his blue eyes stand out. Ronald, his right hand man. He was directly in charge of everything that happened in the shipping yard.
On the couch directly opposite his desk was a wiry man with precisely arranged, cropped blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee, his pursed lips gave the impression that he'd just swallowed something sour. He was dressed in light gray slacks and a dark blue polo. His dark brown eyes watched Sullivan intently. Cameron, his secretary.
"So starting tomorrow, things are back to normal." Sullivan shuffled some papers in front of him, neatly set them out of the way and folded his hands on top of the desk. His walnut cane sat near to hand, leaning against the desk. "Hopefully. How are things in the yard?"
"Unsettled. No one's comfortable with the idea that we helped bust Pierre, boss. Even if it means we're in real good standing with the Azura."
"They should be more unsettled," Sullivan replied icily. "That Pierre nearly had us on the Azura's bad side. So remind them to whom we report in this business and notify me of any problems. Play it cool; the less upset we seem by all this, the less upset they'll be." He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Cam, anything for me?"
Cameron gave him a dry look. "You've got several party invitations to pick through. And Hamilton wants to play golf on Sunday."
Sullivan sent a scathing look toward the papers in Cameron's hands. "Because playing golf is something a cripple would have so much fun doing. Tell him to fuck off and give me something of importance."
"Your little freak is being bitchy again."
Seeing Cam's annoyance, Sullivan refrained from laughing. "What's wrong this time?"
"Ask him yourself," Ronald muttered. "Four, three, two, o--"
Dead on cue, there was a series of sharp, short loud knocks on the door of his office. Sullivan grinned and shook his head. "Enter!" he called.
A small whirlwind of energy blew into his office to the sound of some indistinct song blaring from headphones tucked into the collar of a tight, bright green tank top. Short black hair with random strands dyed purple made his blue eyes look almost violet, and the tiny red birthmark beneath his right eye made the whirlwind look younger than his twenty-seven years. His black jeans were worn, soft, and fit well. The thick maroon carpet in Sullivan's office muffled the clomping of his heavy black boots.
"Liv," the whirlwind said, slamming his hands down on the desk, then half-spinning to point an accusing finger at the two men behind him. "Would you please tell these Neanderthals to keep their grubby mitts away from my goddamned equipment before they manage to not only wreck my damned systems but also blow us to smithereens?"
Sullivan couldn't resist a laugh. "Kill the music, Tybalt. It's a wonder to me you're not deaf."
"Huh? Yeah, sure thing." Tybalt thumped the off button on the mp3 player clipped to his pants without taking his eyes off of Sullivan. "Now, about your Neanderthals."
"Watch it, kid." Cameron said in a warning tone.
Tybalt turned his head to sneer. "I ain't been a kid in years. At least I know how to use a damn computer. You couldn't find the on switch if it called your name and asked for a fuck."
"Goddamn you!" Cameron shot out of his chair and headed straight for him, murder in his eyes.
Sullivan figured laughing wouldn't be a good idea at that point. Standing, he raised his voice to be heard over the bickering. "Enough!" he shouted. "Cameron, Tybalt, shut the hell up. Now."
Still glaring at each other, the two men obeyed.
"Tybalt, what's the problem this time?" Sullivan sat back down, but did not relax. He generally had to break up at least three fights before meetings involving Cameron and Tybalt ended.
Tybalt pointed a thumb at Ron and Cam. "These cavemen were pawing over my equipment again. It's hard enough to keep it running like you want without them disrupting everything. Damn systems don't run on magic, you know."
"Yes, I know." Sullivan quirked his lips and then looked at his secretary and assistant. "What's up?"
Cameron was back to pursing his lips. "We have every right to check the equipment. I don't trust leaving it just to him."
Tybalt snorted. "Yeah, because of course you know what the hell you're looking at. I could be planning the theft of the century and all you'd ever see is that I'm playing Pac-man!" Tybalt shot up as Cameron stood to go after him again.
"ENOUGH!" Sullivan roared.
"Liv, I had to spend two hours repairing the damage they did 'looking over' my equipment. If you don't trust me, fine. But have someone who at least knows what a monitor is look over my stuff to verify I'm legit."
Cameron narrowed his eyes, "I know what a monitor is, you nasty little worm. It's no wonder you're so good at computers - you clearly can't get along with people."
Tybalt sneered back at him, "This from the man who gets turned down flat by a blow up doll."
"That's it."
Sullivan began to stop them, then just sighed. "Ron? If you please?"
Ronald nodded. "There was someone wandering around outside last night, boss. Cam and I saw him, but when we called up Tybalt to ask about it, he told us there was no one there. We know what we saw - either he's lying or something is wrong with his precious equipment. Either way, we had the right to check it for ourselves." He shrugged, "Cam got a bit carried away and did something to one of the programs. What, I couldn't tell you." A grin. "I'm just a caveman."
Sullivan smiled back and then grabbed his cane, slamming it down with an echoing crack on his desk. "Cam, Ron, out. Tybalt, stay. We need to talk."
Cameron tucked his shirt back in and smoothed hair. He started to smirk, but winced at the pain caused by the split in his lower lip. He left, Ronald right behind him.
Standing slowly, Sullivan idly made his way around the desk to lean against it, hands braced on his cane as he contemplated Tybalt. "You do like to cause an uproar don't you?"
Tybalt gingerly examined his cheek, where a livid bruise was already appearing. "Only where that backwater monkey is concerned." He looked at Sullivan. "I know I'm the odd one out here, Liv, but give me a break. I know my shit, and I'm not fucking around. I'm on the level - you pay too much for me to want to lose this gig. Swear it."
Sullivan contemplated him in silence for a few minutes, trying to keep his mind on the problem at hand and not on how positively edible his tech was. The tank top and jeans fit entirely too well, and he knew when the young man turned to leave, he'd see the slightest bit of black ink peeking out of the right arm of that tank top. How often had he fantasized about peeling that top off and finally seeing what sort of tattoo the man had on his back? Tracing it with his tongue, tracing the muscles that were surprisingly developed for someone who spent almost all his time on a computer.
Then again, not many techs carried handguns either. He forced his attention back to the present. "Look, everyone is still real tense about everything that just went down. Double-crossing Pierre, even with the Azura's backing, is no small matter. Everyone is going to be tense for a long, long time. So if Cam and Ron are a little anxious, let them be. If it will make everyone happy, I'll bring someone trustworthy in to give your stuff a once over and then all you'll have to do is behave, all right?"
"My computers are fine," Tybalt said petulantly. "But whatever keeps the party going."
"Don't worry. They'll be so anxious to get rid of the 'consultant' I have in mind, they won't be able to approve his analysis fast enough." Sullivan winked. "Now go put something on that bruise and then get back to work. Come by tomorrow afternoon to update me on whatever changes and improvements you've made.
Tybalt flashed him a happy grin. "Sure thing! I've made scads of improvements, just wait."
"Get going, and avoid Cameron for a couple of days."" Sullivan smiled back. He watched as Tybalt turned and left, eyes locking onto the hint of tattoo peeking out of his tank top.
And sighed heavily as the door slammed closed, thinking sobering thoughts to cool himself down. "Out of reach, Sully, out of reach." He and his leg had learned the hard way not to mix business and pleasure.
He jumped slightly at movement from the corner of his eyes, and then realized it was only a plant, rustled by the AC that had just kicked on. "You're a likely target for assassination," he muttered to himself. "Stop lusting after someone ten years younger and think about trying to stay alive."
*~*~*~*
Sleep was eluding him. Sullivan lay in bed, staring up at his ceiling, and lost count somewhere around sheep number five hundred and thirty.
The house was more or less quiet, and perhaps that was part of the problem. Half his staff worked the late shift, and more than a few of the rest were night owls. He was used to a constant stream of noise…
But betraying Pierre Lemont had been no small thing, and there would be more than a few out for revenge - and still others looking to use revenge as a way to mask attempts to acquire not only the Lemont holdings, but the Sterling as well.
How Azura kept everything in order, he didn’t want to ever know. It was all he could do to control his own much smaller business.
It was little wonder his house was so damn quiet.
Heaving a tired sigh, Sullivan swung himself out of bed and fetched his cane from where it lay against the nightstand. If there was to be no sleep, he could catch up on some paperwork. Setting a trap had forced him to neglect other matters, and it was long past time he caught things up, and it would be easier to do without the constant interruptions that came during the daytime.
His leg resisted at first, displeased to be made to walk about the chill house after being warm and unmoving in bed for so long. But Sullivan pressed on and soon enough the old pain eased enough that he could walk with little trouble.
The tapping of his cane seemed painfully loud on the hardwood floor, but no one and nothing seemed bothered by the noise. Sullivan made his way toward his office…but paused when he heard the familiar click clacking of fingers dancing across a keyboard. He turned right down the main hallway instead of left, stopping in front of the open door of Tybalt's workroom.
For years he'd eschewed electronics as much as possible, loath to be bogged down in the myriad problems that seemed to plague his technology-eager comrades. But the betrayal of Pierre had forced his hand, and before he was even certain of what was going on he'd finally gone about hiring someone to install and maintain the sort of security system that seemed to be a requirement of the day.
Nearly a hundred candidates later, he'd chosen Tybalt from Cameron's final list of three. More than once he'd wondered if he shouldn't have gone with one of the other two, because even to himself he wouldn't admit all the reasons he'd chosen Tybalt.
He'd half expected to find Tybalt closeted up in a dark room, listening to strange, incomprehensible music and staring intently at a monitor through colored spectacles, surrounded by a small disaster area comprised of books, food and god only knew what else.
Tybalt sat up straight in his chair, feet flat on the floor, mp3 player still loud enough to be heard beyond the headphones. But the overhead fluorescents were on, shining down brightly on a neatly ordered office and a row of three flat monitors. There was no speck of food or even dust in sight, except for a bag of strawberry-flavored hard candies. Nothing but walnut furniture and a blue carpet - which Tybalt had protested, but Sullivan had refused to tear it up.
He pulled the headphones from his ears and looked at Sullivan in surprise. "Hey, Liv. What are you doing up?"
"I should ask the same of you."
"One man's bedtime is another man's working day," Tybalt replied with a grin. "If there's going to be trouble, it'll be around this time, and I don't trust the Neanderthals to know what they're looking at."
Sullivan's brows went up. "Would you like me to hire you some help? That shouldn't be too hard to do…" He commended himself on not wincing. Hiring the sort of help Tybalt would require would probably be more of a problem than hiring Tybalt had been.
"Fuck no." Tybalt looked offended by the idea. "There's a saying somewhere about shit like that. Too many bakers or some such shit."
Sullivan's lips quirked. "Too many cooks spoil the broth?"
"That's the one. Except in this case it's more like too much binary jacking off, but whatever." Tybalt grinned when Sullivan started laughing. "So why are you up, Liv? Ug and Lug ask you to check up on me?"
"Nothing of the sort," Sullivan assured him. "I simply couldn't sleep, and thought I'd catch up on some work while it's nice and quiet."
Tybalt laughed. "Nice and quiet?"
"It's not?" Sullivan's brows went up again, though this time there was no humor in the gesture.
"Fuck no, man. Liv, you've got a guard sneaking out to make out with that anorexic bimbo down the street - see here?" Tybalt pointed to his screen, which to Sullivan looked like little more than lines and dots and washes of color. "Never mind what everyone else is up to, though they're not breaking rules at least."
Sullivan smiled. "Looks like Pac man to me. And I don't think I even really know what that is."
Tybalt blinked at him, clearly startled by the reply. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and Sullivan's gaze was caught by the expanse of bare throat and hint of chest beneath the collar of his shirt, emphasized all the more by the heavy silver chain around his neck. "You should teach your cavemen your sense of humor. Hell, any sense of humor would do."
"My men have their good points," Sullivan said gently but firmly. "Perhaps you should refrain from calling them Neanderthals."
Tybalt rolled his eyes. "I call'em like I see him." He waggled his eyebrows and smiled. "But I'll try to refrain, since you suggested it, Liv."
"Good. Now tell me more about this guard."
"Like I said - he's been trying to get nookie from the bitch down the street." He looked at his screen. "I told Cameron; I guess he just wants us to monitor the guy for now." Tybalt shrugged.
Sullivan nodded. "That is my cue to get to work and stop bothering you. Going to bed soon?"
Tybalt twisted to look at the clock on the wall behind him. "In three and a half hours or so."
"Six thirty?"
"Yeah, when your, uh, assistants get up."
Sullivan nodded and turned to leave before he did or said anything idiotic, wishing he had a good excuse to stay and continue speaking.
"When will the dude be here to make sure I'm on the fly?"
"What?" Sullivan asked, the slang throwing him a bit. "Oh. Around eight thirty. Do you want me to wake you up?"
"Nah, s'okay. Just make sure they don't trash my stuff, yeah? This shit's more finicky than Pierre's ex-girlfriend and twice as expensive. Anyone fucks with it, I'm taking it out of their flesh."
Sullivan laughed, "Duly noted, Tybalt. I will see you tomorrow."
"Later, Liv."
Nodding farewell, Sullivan slowly made his way back down the hallway and to his study. Sitting down heavily, he stared at the different stacks of work laid out neatly for him to begin whittling down. He wasn't feeling terribly motivated, though, of a sudden. His concentration had been stolen completely and utterly by his tech.
Patrick Azura had his fathers no nonsense, cold rage, terribly efficient business mien. Otherwise the boy was completely unlike his father - playful and humorous in different ways.
Tybalt was so much like the late Azura it sometimes hurt. Loud and noisy and completely lacking in respect unless he felt like giving it. Antagonistic to the point it was a wonder he was still breathing. So uncaring for anyone's opinion…traits that had eventually shaped Curtis Azura into the ruthless leader he later became.
He'd been so easy to fall in love with, even with knowing that his interest would never lie with another man. But for years he'd bee a friend too…until Sullivan had proposed they give the syndicate life up. Forsake it, abandon it, run away and not look back. It had been a dumb thing to do, but on their verge of taking over things they weren't ready to take over, it had also seemed the right thing to do.
Eventually Curtis grew too busy and distant for them to be more than casual acquaintances - and Sullivan knew it had been on purpose. Above and beyond all things, Curtis despised cowardice.
Forcing his thoughts off his unhappy past, Sullivan forced himself to the work at hand. For better or worse, he hadn't run away. He was firmly entrenched in the syndicate and planned to be until old age or some fool who could aim scored a better hit than his leg.
*~*~*~*
"What in the bloody fucking hell is going on here?"
Sullivan turned to look as Tybalt came barreling into his computer room and almost had a heart attack.
Loose jeans, the slightest hint of red boxers. A bundle of dark pink fabric in his hand, obviously his tank top for the day.
And a black fleur de lis tattooed on his abdomen.
Tybalt was oblivious to all but the smirking young man seated in his chair in front of the computers. "Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing to my systems? And turn the goddamn alarms off already."
"Yowza. Good morning, sex kitten." The man at the computer grinned, taping a few keys before turning and looking Tybalt up and down slowly. He twisted to look at Sullivan, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake your boy toy."
Sullivan choked. "This is my tech, Mickey."
"Oh." Mickey looked at Tybalt again. "I think you're letting him go to waste, putting him on the comps."
"Who the fuck are you?" Tybalt asked again.
"Name's Mickey Lemasters," the man said easily, leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. "But you can call me Mick."
"Ooooh," Tybalt waggled his fingers at Mickey. "Lucky, lucky me."
Mickey laughed, tossing strands of blonde hair out of his dark brown eyes. "The kitten has claws."
"Yeah, and they're going to wind up shredding your nuts if you don't shut the fuck up and get away from my computers."
Mickey shot an amused glance at Sullivan, "Your toy always this feisty, or am I just lucky?"
Cameron just laughing, ignoring the dark looks Tybalt sent his way.
"Tybalt is many things, Mickey," Sullivan replied. "But he is not my toy, and I'll remind you that here no one is impressed by your family connections, so no one will leap to your defense if Tybalt decides to kill you for casting aspersions upon his character."
"I wouldn't say it's an aspersion to be called your boy toy, Sully. You're not bad for an old, decrepit man of thirty-seven." Mickey winked at Sullivan. He shifted his attention back to Tybalt, crooking a finger. "Want to come see that I haven't hurt your precious babies, sugarsnap? All I'm doing is verifying you're not up to anything worse than naughtysugardaddies.com"
Tybalt took two steps toward Mickey and punched him.
Mickey laughed, rebalancing himself in Tybalt's chair, testing his jaw. "You've got a neat right, sugarsnap."
"The name is Tybalt, you desperate little rat."
"Desperate? Che." Mickey laughed some more. "If you're going to insult me, sexy, do a better job of it than that. I lack respect, that's a far cry from desperate."
Tybalt just glared.
"Okay, okay, sugarsnap. Unbunch your panties and go get some breakfast or something if you're satisfied I haven't hurt your equipment. I'm still not done checking your work."
Tybalt made a visible effort not to punch him again, turning to Sullivan. "I'll be chilling in the kitchen, come and get me when he's gone. And make sure he doesn't set the alarms off again." With that he pulled on his tank top and then turned on his heel, stomping out of the room to get some breakfast.
Mickey tsked softly, "Somebody needs more than a quick hand job in the shower."
Sullivan choked. "Mickey! Work! Please! Stop harassing my employees."
"Yeah, yeah. All work, no play, that is the mobster's way."
Cameron dug into his pocket and pulled out a small battle of aspirin. Downing four of them, he passed the bottle to Sullivan, who also swallowed four.
"People do that a lot around me," Mickey muttered as he went back to work.
*~*~*~*
A stupendous crash made Sullivan jump, pen jerking across the draft he'd been trying to write for the past hour. Severely annoyed, he grabbed his cane and rose slowly to his feet. The door to Cameron's office banged open just as he reached the hallway door. "I'll bet your bitch has something to do with this. He's been wreaking havoc every goddamned damned day this week, Sully."
Sullivan sighed. "He's never alone though, is he?"
"Let me guess," Cameron said acidly, holding the office door closed to stare coldly at his boss. "The poor little guy is misunderstood?"
Sullivan narrowed his eyes. "What are you getting at, Cam?"
"I think it's pretty obvious. You've never played favorites before, boss. His ass isn't that great. If he keeps annoying everyone, drop him." Whatever else Cameron was about to say died on his lips, unable to withstand the anger on Sullivan's face that had cowed people far stronger than he.
Another crash spared Cameron from Sullivan's rage. "What is he doing this time?" the secretary asked despairingly. "That sounds expensive."
"Hopefully it's that green shit the late Azura's wife 'gifted' to us."
"We should be so lucky…" Cameron murmured, preceding Sullivan as they headed for the kitchen.
Sullivan could feel a headache coming on, as he stared at the disaster area that had once been a state of the art kitchen. "Dare I ask?" he said, looking from a red-faced, sputtering, soup-soaked chef to a batter-drenched Tybalt. He did his best to avoid looking at the wreckage on the floor and counters.
"Fire them both," Cameron said, rubbing his forehead. "Kill them both. I'll take care of the details."
"Fuck you," Tybalt said scathingly, though the effect was ruined by the cream-colored batter that covered his head and the majority of his violet tank top. "I've still got half a pot of soup, and any excuse to cover you with it will do."
"Tybalt," Sullivan said in warning. "That's enough. You'd better have a good explanation for all of this." He shot a look at his chef, who'd been slinking toward the back door. "So had you."
For answer, his chef launched into rapid fire Italian and only Sullivan's fluency enabled him to keep up with it. He quirked a brow at Tybalt, hands gripping his cane as he leaned on it. "Tybalt?"
Tybalt picked a stray piece of carrot off his arm. "He fucking started it when he began yelling at that poor little maid. All I did was tell him to back the fuck off and suddenly I'm ready to be thrown on the griddle and doused in syrup. Fucking foreigners."
The image of Tybalt covered in syrup was not one Sullivan needed, especially in the aftermath of being told he'd been playing favorites. "Which maid?" he asked, frowning in thought.
"Lara?" Cameron supplied. "She's his assistant, not a maid."
"Whatever. Get a less abusive chef."
Sullivan turned to his chef and started grilling him, his Italian nearly as fast as the chef's. Several minutes later the chef stormed from the kitchen, and the slamming of his door rattled the house. "Somebody get me some aspirin," Sullivan said tiredly. "Tybalt, could you please go just one hour without pissing someone off?"
"It's not my damn fault your gardener's a whack job and your chef an abusive nutcase."
Sullivan gratefully accepted the pills and water Cameron brought him. "And the mail man?"
"He started it."
Cameron rolled his eyes, "Why were you getting the mail anyway?"
"I was bored. Nothing ever happens around this joint and my computers only need so much babysitting."
Sullivan almost laughed.
Cameron, however, was far from amused. "It's not the computers that need a babysitter."
"Watch it, sourpuss. The soup is just begging to say hello to that pretty suit of yours."
"Enough," Sullivan said quietly, but with force. "Tybalt, get this kitchen cleaned. Cameron, you have work to do. See what you can do about soothing my chef." Leaning heavily on his cane, Sullivan turned and left the room, ignoring the sounds of his secretary and tech bickering behind him.
Not much to correct here...
Date: 2005-06-07 03:57 am (UTC)"thought" there.
Azura shrugged, "Matters are being looked into. We need to see how far down the chain the traitors run."
Fullstop, comma?
He wasn't feeling terribly motivated, though, [all] of a sudden.
Missed a word?
Patrick Azura had his fathers no nonsense, cold rage, terribly efficient business mien.
"father's". And I'd reccomend "no nonsense, cold rage [and] terribly" there?
But for years he'd bee a friend too…until Sullivan had proposed they give the syndicate life up.
"been" there.
He twisted to look at Sullivan, "Sorry, didn't mean to wake your boy toy."
Fullstop, comma?
Cameron just laughing, ignoring the dark looks Tybalt sent his way.
"Cameron was laughing", or "Cameron just laughed".
Mickey tsked softly, "Somebody needs more than a quick hand job in the shower."
Fullstop, comma? I never catch those properly. =_=;
The door to Cameron's office banged open just as he reached the hallway door.
Are their offices across from each other? It would be nice to know. I mean, I think I was wondering how come Sully's moving but it's Cam's door that's slamming open.
Re: Not much to correct here...
Date: 2005-06-07 04:03 am (UTC)You are ruthless :P
Their offices are connected. I'll make that more clear (in the morning, jeez why am I still awake? X_X)
Re: Not much to correct here...
Date: 2005-06-07 04:19 am (UTC)Oh, okay, that makes it more clear.
*huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugs* Go to bed!
no subject
Date: 2005-06-07 11:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-07 11:46 am (UTC)^^;;
no subject
Date: 2005-06-08 11:58 pm (UTC)'command commanded' sounds a little awkward to me. perhaps, demanded respect or firmly in control?
I think you meant thumbed, not thumped.
made me laugh ^^