CHAPTER 7
Twenty-seven years.
Jeff Davis stared at his apartment door as if it were the thin burnt crust of a falling soufflé. At any moment, the crown would collapse and the drummer’s fist would pound through the mahogany door and force him to face the past.
But if he didn’t answer, the solo would play all the way through. Then repeat. Endlessly. The only man he knew who used Iron Butterfly’s drum solo as a knock was also awe-inspiringly tenacious. He was also one of the few men alive who could breeze past this building’s high-level of security with a joke and a smile. Even by New York standards the doormen here were fierce, one of the main reasons he’d bought in. A lot of celebs had.
Phillip Peterson. Knocking, bidda-bidda-bum.
Definitely not a good thing. Please don’t let it be a p
