Page 74 of Shark’s Edge

A solid minute passed before either of us spoke again. I stood up and went around to the front of my desk where he stood. I felt awful for getting physical with him, but I’d lost my temper. We’d done far worse to each other over the years—and over dumber things, too.

“What now? Are you still going to see her?” Grant finally asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t know,” I answered quietly. “I pretty much left it up to her. I told her to go take care of the problem, and if she wanted to still see where things could go from there, she knew where she could find me.”

“Take care? Of the problem? Did you actually use that phrasing?” Grant stared at me as though I had sprouted a second head.

“Yeah, more or less.” I shrugged. “That’s what it is. A problem. As far as I see it, anyway.”

“Jesus, Bas. This is why—”

“Why what?” He was pissing me off again. Well, him and the things he didn’t even know yet. Anger percolated in my blood.

“Nothing. It’s not important.”

No, not anger.

Rage.

“Say what you were going to say, Grant,” I gritted through my teeth.

“Why? It’s not going to change anything. You’re not going to change.” He shook his head.

“Why should I change? I’m not the one with the problem here.”

He thought for a minute and then looked at me, a strange smile spreading across his face. It was the same smile he always gave me before he shared an idea I wouldn’t like.

“Tell me, best friend,” he said, as silky as a mongoose would whisper to a snake moments before it struck. “You wouldn’t mind if I have a go with her? Help her with her little ‘problem’? She’s a superfine piece of ass, after all. Young, untested. I mean, Jesus Christ . . . ” He rolled his eyes back dramatically. “I’m getting a boner just thinking about it.” The motherfucker grabbed his cock through his slacks before taking the final strike at my composure. “I’ll bet that red hair is everywhere, if you know what I’m—”

I can’t accurately recount the sequence of events that came after that. They involved Grant, me, the toppled sofa from the weight of both of our bodies slamming into it, and the items that flew off the coffee table, including a glass lamp and a statue Pia sourced from Sri Lanka—which I never really cared for anyway.

Bodies, furniture, pieces of glass, and pottery made for a loud clatter and a big mess.

Big mess, indeed.

Terryn rushed into the office to find Grant and me tangled together on the floor, still grappling with one another. At least one of us shed blood, judging by the red smears on Grant’s face.

“Oh my God! Stop. Stop right now! Mr. Twombley, get off him. I’m calling security!” she wailed hysterically.

“He’s on top of me! Are you blind?” Grant said in a strangled voice. He scrabbled at my hands locked around his throat.

“Oh. True.” She paused, confused. “Mr. Shark? Should I call security?”

“Leave. Now!” I barked.

“Oh, okay. But . . . but . . . there’s blood. Someone’s bleeding . . . ”

She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, and the mention of blood made me stop trying to bash my best friend’s head into the floor another time.

“Get out, Terryn!” we both shouted from the floor.

Her interruption made us pause long enough to get our heads on straight. We both sat up and brushed off our suits.

The door closed with a quiet whump, and I rocked back on my feet, holding a hand out to Grant and helping him stand as well.

“Don’t poke the beast, motherfucker,” I grumbled, pulling him into a man version of a hug.

“You stupid son of a bitch.”