Paris sauntered up to the bar where Grant was mixing drinks and watched him toss the bottles and glasses around as if they were toys, never being afraid of dropping one. It was a show he put on every once in a while to amaze the customers.
“What are you looking at?” Grant asked.
“I’ve got a secret.”
“Don’t we all? C’mon, tell me what you want.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is? The secret, I mean.”
“Not necessarily. C’mon, what do you need?”
“What are you doin’ here tonight? Slumming?”
Grant ignored his comment.
“It must be hell having to lug all that loot all over town.”
He felt his anger rising. “What’s your order, dumbass?”
“Does the bank have enough room for all your—”
“Look, you little bastard. So I’ve got money. So get over it, okay?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass how much
