The primary suite of the mansion felt like a gilded cage. Dave was facedown on the silk pillows, his brain replaying the moment Kendall walked out. He'd had one of the most beautiful women on the planet in his bed, and he'd spent the time talking about the structural integrity of a sandwich.
"I am a moron," Dave muttered into the pillow. "A world-class, diamond-certified idiot."
The door to the suite creaked open. Dave didn't move, assuming it was Hood coming in to tell him the Ferrari was washed.
"You know, for a guy who just 'entertained' a supermodel, you look like someone just told you your dog died."
Dave sat up fast. It wasn't Hood. It was Lytrell. She was standing there with her arms crossed, looking at the disheveled room with a judgmental eye.
"Lytrell! You can't just... walk into a man's sanctuary!" Dave scrambled to pull the duvet over his chest, forgetting for a second that he was in a body that was basically a walking anatomy poster.
"Sanctuary? Chris, I've seen you in your underwear since you were two. Stop acting like a Victorian maiden," she said, walking over to the vanity and picking up a gold-plated hairbrush. "I talked to Kendall's assistant this morning. We're friends. She told me Kendall left because you were acting... 'disturbed.' Something about a deli?"
Dave felt the blood rush to his face. "I was just... I was hungry, Lytrell! And I thought she might be hungry too! It was a gesture of hospitality!"
Lytrell stopped playing with the brush and looked him dead in the eye. "Hospitality? Chris, you've never offered a woman anything but a drink and a track listing in your life. You're acting like a totally different person. The way you talk, the way you move... even the way you're looking at me right now. It's like you're searching for a script."
"I'm just traumatized!" Dave shouted, jumping out of bed and pacing. "The crash! My brain got rattled like a spray-paint can! I'm trying to find my rhythm again."
"Well, find it fast," Lytrell said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because I saw who was at the gate this morning. That man in the suit. The one you said was a 'fan.' He wasn't asking for an autograph, Chris. He was arguing with security. He looked like he was ready to burn the house down."
Dave's stomach did a somersault. Silas was at the gate. The time for hiding was over.
"I'll handle it," Dave said, trying to sound tough. "I just need to... get dressed. In something intimidating. Do I have any leather jackets with spikes? Something that says 'I will sue you and also punch you'?"
Lytrell sighed, walking toward the door. "Just be careful. Whatever is going on with you... whatever 'new version' of yourself you're trying out... don't let it get you killed. Mom's already lighting candles for you."
As soon as she left, Dave lunged for his phone. He had to pay Silas. He had to get this man away from the house before Lytrell started asking Silas questions. He opened the banking app—a terrifying sea of zeros that he still didn't quite believe—and was about to authorize a transfer when a shadow fell across the balcony.
Dave looked up. Silas wasn't at the gate anymore. He was standing on the second-story balcony, looking through the glass door. He looked bored, like a man waiting for a bus, but the bulge of the suppressed pistol under his jacket was very, very real.
Silas tapped on the glass with the muzzle of the gun.
Dave froze. He was in the "King's" body, but he felt like the same old Dave Burd who used to get bullied for his allergies. He realized then that no amount of muscle memory or tattoos was going to save him if he didn't start playing the game for real.
He walked to the glass door and unlocked it.
"Nice view," Silas said, stepping into the room. He didn't look at the art or the gold. He looked straight at Dave. "But we're done with the games, Chris. Or David. Or whoever is steering this ship today. The boss is tired of waiting. The debt has tripled because of the 'inconvenience' of your little car stunt."
"I have the money!" Dave hissed, pointing at the phone. "I'll send it now! Just get off my balcony before my sister sees you!"
"The money is the baseline now," Silas said, sitting down in a $10,000 designer chair. "Now, we need a favor. Your tour starts soon. Lots of venues. Lots of... 'security' needs. We need you to move some packages for us. In the equipment trucks."
Dave's heart stopped. They didn't just want his money. They wanted to use the "Unity" tour as a drug-running operation.
"I can't do that," Dave said. "There's dogs! There's police! I'm Chris Brown! I'm under a microscope!"
"Exactly," Silas smiled. "Nobody searches the King's truck. You do this, and the debt is gone. You don't... and I start with the sister. She's pretty, Chris. It'd be a shame if she had an 'accident' like yours."
Dave felt a heat rise up from his chest—a raw, protective anger that didn't feel like Dave Burd at all. It felt like the "Breezy" energy, the part of the man that didn't take orders from anyone.
"Get out," Dave said, his voice surprisingly deep and steady.
"Excuse me?"
"Get. Out." Dave stepped into Silas's space. He was taller, broader, and currently fueled by a very real need to protect Lytrell. "I'll pay the debt. Every cent. But you don't mention my family again. And you don't touch my trucks."
Silas stood up, his eyes narrowing. He saw the shift in Dave's posture. For the first time, he saw the man he thought he was dealing with. "You have twenty-four hours to get the first million into the account. After that... the 'packages' become mandatory."
Silas stepped back onto the balcony and vanished as quickly as he'd appeared.
Dave stood in the center of the room, shaking. He had just stood up to a hitman. He felt like he was going to throw up, but he also felt... powerful.
He turned toward the mirror. "Okay," he whispered to the reflection. "No more 'Provider' crap. We need to get serious."
He grabbed his keys. He didn't call the driver. He didn't call Hood. He headed straight for the garage. He needed to clear his head, and he knew only one way to do it.