Goddamn Larry is such a worm, Clayton Cook thought to himself as he watched Richards and the bartender straggle in, their tight-assed Minnesota ways following close behind.
Thing of it was, though, Larry was a handy guy to have around. He was a decent lawyer and his input on the Denver mall deal had served everybody concerned quite well.
Larry, though, never seemed to be content with his efforts. He suffered with a sort of inbred insecurity it seemed, a constant belief that he was not doing enough.
Clayton picked up on this some time ago, observing that Larry would gladly demean himself and perform acts below his status simply because one of the consortium members made a request.
The cocaine dealing being a case in point.
And he and Bryce had taken advantage of this trait many times. Pretty much whenever they needed some menial or otherwise unattractive task taken care of.
But this bartender, this Frank Ford, was another animal altogether, and fast becoming a prickly thorn in the side.
Perhaps just a prick.
And it was Larry’s job to see that he wasn’t.
Didn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Larry needed to keep him reigned in.
You weren’t supposed to bring outsiders to Rancho Deluxe; it was an unwritten rule. Granted, Larry’s circumstances this time were a bit extreme, to say the least, and Bryce had reluctantly forgiven the transgression.
Clayton really hadn’t. But as long as Larry kept the bartender from interfering with the night’s activities, things were cool.
What was the big deal, anyway?
It was just some spic chick who wanted to get her nose packed and her twat fucked by some good looking, wealthy men.
Wasn’t only rock stars that had groupies.
And people from Minnesota were probably unaware that Mexican women loved to get fucked by white men—the more the merrier.
They were going to have a party in her pussy and bring her back to Scottsdale none the worse for wear.
Although she might have some difficulty walking.
(End of Chapter 30)
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