CHAPTER TWELVE

Atticus Wales got out of bed and made his way to the ensuite bathroom. After peeing, he stood at the marbled vanity and stared at his reflection in the gold-plated mirror. His thick shag of brown hair was all over his head in a messy pile. His violet eyes with their odd shade of blue were as bright and brilliant as everybody said they always were, but all he saw was a barrenness that bordered on lifelessness. He had the look of a man astonished by the wreck of a life he'd made for himself.

He looked away, wiped his hands, and turned on the shower tap. But as soon as he did, his phone began ringing. He looked at the digital time above the mirror. It was eight-fifty-seven pm. His staff knew to never bother him at night unless it was top level emergency. His friends knew better, too, because he was usually entertaining a lady. That was why, as the water built up steam, he walked back into his bedroom and looked at the lady in his bed first, and then at his Caller ID. When he saw that it was his GM, he answered. "It had better be worthy of this disruption."

"We need to meet."

"What about?"

"Not over the phone."

"But tomorrow."

"Tonight. Right away."

It was never like his GM to play to melodrama. "How bad is it?"

"On a scale from one to ten, it's a thousand."

Atticus let out a harsh exhale. "At the stadium in an hour."

"Not at the stadium. We need optimum privacy."

Now Atticus was worried. It had to be horrific. "At my office then," he said, and ended the call.