“I’ve got a job for you,
Ryan.” Geoff draped himself over the designer chair, one of the many
dotted around the ludicrously spacious lounge room of his penthouse apartment.
He wasn’t sure if he was actually sitting the right way on the artistic piece
of furniture - he certainly wasn’t sitting comfortably - but he didn’t care.
The chair had cost five figures and he was going to sit in it, dammit.
Ryan didn’t look up from the gun
he was cleaning. “When don’t you have a job for me?” he asked
mildly, purposefully smudging more gun oil onto the thick glass top of the
coffee table that was scattered with gun parts, primarily because he knew it
drove Geoff insane.
The older man’s eye twitched and
he forced himself relax. His bowtie was loose around his neck and there was a
bottle of whiskey drooping from his fingers, which he lifted to his lips to
take a calming sip, the picture of nonchalance.
“Well, that’s what I’m
paying you for,” he drawled, resisting the urge to try and squirm into a
more comfortable position. Seriously, who the fuck had designed this chair? But
Geoff had committed now, there was no way he could let on that his entire
abdomen was tensed to keep himself from sliding to the floor.