The Directive Read Free Page B

care less about money, Larry. If this will get you out of the way, I’ll sign on the spot. It’s fine.”
    “We could work up another draft.”
    “That’s okay,” I said. “I already corrected it.” I signed three times on the last pages, stood, and handed it back.
    “If you need to do it with a notary, just let me know,” I said. “Have a good night.”
    If getting rid of that prick only cost me a few million and my signature, I’d gotten off easy. I walked out.

    When I made it back to our hotel room, I found Annie sitting up in bed, working on her laptop.
    “How did it go with Dad?” she asked. “Looks like you survived. Olive branch?”
    “Prenup.”
    “What? He never even talked about it with me. He just ambushed you with it?”
    “And two lawyers.”
    “Oh God. What did you do?”
    “What did I do? Nothing. I signed it. It’s up to you, of course, but I’d be fine if you did, too. Just get him out of the way.”
    I don’t know what she expected. That I would throttle the guy?
    She put her laptop down, shaking her head and fuming. “I’m going to go down there and—” she threw the covers back.
    “Don’t even worry about him,” I said. “Though this means that if things go south for us, you won’t be able to get your hands on my Jeep.” The car in question was a twenty-year-old Cherokee, with fading paint and no shocks, that I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of.
    Even Clark’s rude awakening couldn’t completely burn off the pleasant haze surrounding my brain after four courses and a bottle and a half of Chave Hermitage Burgundy that made me finally understand how people could be so obsessed with wine.
    I lay down next to her on the bed.
    “You’d still love me if it meant having nothing?” I asked.
    “What kind of question is that?” She asked it with sympathy, mainly, and a little offense thrown in. After a moment, she softened. “Come on, Mike. Of course,” she said. “Of course,” she whispered in my ear, then moved down to kiss my neck.

Chapter 4
    I DON’T HAVE very sophisticated opinions about pairings: which wine goes with this or that. But I do have one matchup I feel strongly about. If tonight’s menu involves breaking and entering, life-and-death sprints from the police, or any sort of manic violence, you really can’t go wrong with Steel Reserve in a twenty-four-ounce can and a shot of Old Crow.
    Both of those potables were sloshing along on the Metro seat beside me on my way to my brother’s house. They certainly looked out of place in Annie’s cloth tote bag, which read Tranquil Heart Yoga on the side, over some sort of mandala earth-mother logo. I hadn’t tasted them in years, though they were once the go-to for me and my brother, Jack. You’d drink the top two ounces out of the can of Steel Reserve, pour in the equivalent volume of bourbon, seal the can’s mouth with your thumb, invert once, then sip. Typically this was done while driving (holding and turning the wheel with your knee), very often to the scene of a crime about to be committed. The beer is 8 percent alcohol, but there’s more to it than that, some special alchemy from the combo of cheap bourbon and the medicinal tang of the high-gravity lager. Together they went down like a swallow of burning regret. Within minutes they trashed every restraining impulse in your body and left you an amped-up object of imminent destruction, a teenage hand grenade.
    Tonight was a special night. I needed a best man. I was letting the past back in, no matter how awful it tasted. For a long time my father had been urging me to get back in touch with Jack. He said he had gone straight. Years before, I’d cut my big brother, my only sibling, my old hero, out of my life. However much Jack deserved it, it still broke my heart. I’d been dead wrong about my father’s sins, so maybe Jack deserved another chance, too.
    I missed him. No one knew me like he did. And, for all his faults, Jack had looked out for me