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There were plenty of places that Finley could recommend, but were they suitable for business deals? Definitely not. The places that Finley Prim frequented were dens of iniquity. Bars full of men and women escaping from the ordinariness of life; men and women who were not ordinary at all. They were criminals, most of them. For better or worse, they took part in activities that put them on the wrong side of the law – sometimes because they had no other choice in order to live without homelessness for themselves or their families. Some were just criminals at heart. They enjoyed the thrill. No one cared, though. They all inhabited the same space with zero issues, many of them far nicer than the regular nine-to-fivers one would meet at Happy Hour at the nearest cocktail bar on a Friday night.

Regardless whether Grant had given Finley permission or not, she’d have walked out – just as she was doing now. Mister Butler stood, stumbling along behind her – as if she had him on a leash and he would go wherever she went. Rolling her eyes, regretting whatever it was she had done, she turned to level him with a steely gaze.

”Handle Bar. Okay? It’s at the edge of Redwood. Use your brains, fine it. I’ll meet you there,” she said, gaze sliding from the overfed oaf to Grant. Sure, the guy was her sire and in that regard, she had an ounce of respect for him. But in that moment she was furious. She wanted only to cross the room and drive a knee into that sensitive area between his legs. Instead, she turned and walked out the door.




The walk through the streets was an interesting one, at best, but nothing that Finley could not handle. There were a few stares, a few wolf whistles and cat calls, but she ignored them all. Grant would have had a car, to be sure. There were probably drivers willing (paid) to take her where she needed to go. But she wasn’t interested in anything Grant had to offer, and preferred her own independence. Home wasn’t too far away, and honestly she didn’t feel like schmoozing with Grant and his friends.

She continued to ponder how much she didn’t want to, how much her involvement in this business deal of his had only been consequential. As thankful as she was that he had pulled her from her bad situation, she’d repaid him by helping him attain the signatures that he required.

By the time she reached the apartment and went rifling around in the manicured garden out front for her fake rock and spare key, she’d decided she wasn’t going back. She’d decided that Grant could take his clients to the Handle Bar – a bar for bikers and miscreants – and he would do so without her. He had enough charm to talk his way out of it, to make a party out of a failure.

Finley went upstairs and, in case of sudden summoning did exactly as she’d left to do – she got dressed. Granted, the outfit she chose wasn’t much more than the outfit she’d been caught in, but it was still an outfit she’d wear outdoors, on the street, in a club. She made sure her hair was fixed, her make-up perfect, heels steadfast upon her feet. In the back of her mind she knew she’d go out again at some point. She wasn’t the type to sit around at home doing nothing.

But after the night she’d had she deserved a break. So she dropped down onto the couch, legs crossed on the coffee table in front of her, remote control in her hand she proceeded to channel surf, her phone resting on the couch beside her.

The Handle Bar? Stonehouse was rather surprised at Finley’s unusual suggestion for the business deal’s after-party. The venue in question was frequented by bikers and boozers, and had a miasma of stale alcohol, sweat, and engine oil. If your idea of heaven was listening to a jukebox blurting out the entire back-catalogue of Iron Maiden and AC/DC, interspersed by drunken karaoke renditions of “Ace of Spades” by Motörhead, then The Handle Bar was the place for you. The shear volume of tattoos made the establishment resemble a living, fleshy art gallery. There were more skulls, roses, and tribal symbols on view than the aftermath of a bloody decapitation massacre at the Society of Celtic Florists annual conference. At least there’d be an opportunity to shoot a game or two of pool, if someone could convince the local hustlers and sharks to give them a turn on a table.

Maybe continuing the night’s entertainment in somewhat less than salubrious surroundings would appeal to the arms traders? It would certainly be… different. Stonehouse knew full well that lapdog Butler would love anywhere that his new mistress told him to go, but Ms Monroe looked as though she’d be more at home in a swanky wine bar, sipping glasses of Prosecco, or knocking back margaritas. Big Dave, the muscular bodyguard, would probably fit like a smooth hand in a velvet glove into a pub full of burley men. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

As the scantily clad blonde announced her choice for the second part of the evening’s soirée, her gaze fully held the attention of Stonehouse. Their eyes locked together for a second or two. Was Finley’s suggestion some kind of masterstroke to get her own back on her sire, clothing revenge, so to speak? Stonehouse had plucked his childe from her prior predicament, and plonked her in the middle of a business meeting wearing nothing but skimpy lingerie. Now, he was supposed to make his way to a buzzing hive of leather and denim dressed in an expensive tailored suit. The sophisticated businessman would stand out like a sore thumb.

Stonehouse grinned internally as Finley signalled her intentions to make her way towards the exit. The svelte siren’s apparel had worked wonders in helping to convince Mr Butler to sign on the dotted line, so if the tall Englishman had to endure a similar level of awkwardness in return, then it was a fair trade.

“Do you…”

Stonehouse’s words fizzled out before he had a chance to finish his sentence, as Finderella spun on her heels, marching purposefully through the door. He was about to ask his leggy blonde childe if she wanted a cab to take her home, as another display of teleportation “magic” didn’t seem appropriate. However, it appeared as though the independent woman had a plan of her own.

“Bloody typical,” muttered Stonehouse under his breath.

Despite the obvious vibes that Finley was sending directly at Stonehouse, the fact that she clearly wanted to get dressed into something more appropriate, the liberated and independent woman was more than happy to wander through the streets of Harper Rock in sexy underwear, undoubtedly fuelling the fantasies of any passing pedestrians. Stonehouse’s internal grin grew wider. He couldn’t help but admire such supreme confidence.

When he was a mere mortal, a humble human living in the “real world”, Stonehouse oozed charisma from every pore. He was the ringmaster in the circus, while others clowned around him. Things were different now. Here in Harper Rock, Stonehouse’s charm seemed to be slowly melting away like a giant iceberg under the influence of vampiric climate change. His ego was still the size of a planet, but wisdom and experience told him that he needed people like Finley to compliment his talents. The disciplined businessman had been pulling tonight’s deal together for weeks, yet the slender siren simply had to flutter her alluring eyelashes, and Butler was a gooey mess, desperate to sign anything that she placed in front of him.

As the door closed behind Finley, her elegant figure drifting away like a graceful ghost, Stonehouse turned his attention to Butler. The grubby arms dealer still had his bulbous eyeballs firmly glued to the blonde’s shapely body as she vanished into the night.

“She’s a truly wonderful woman,” said Stonehouse. “I’m sure that you agree?”

There was no need to wait for a reply, as the entrepreneur already knew the answer.

“Shall we make our way to The Handle Bar?” continued Stonehouse. “It’s an excellent choice, full of energy and excitement. The perfect place to celebrate our partnership.”

Stonehouse didn’t believe his own words, but he’d spoken them with such enthusiasm and conviction that he could almost convince himself that he was telling the truth.

“Bring the car to the front door,” said Butler, putting his bulging eyeballs back into their sockets while addressing his bulky bodyguard. “There’s no time to waste.”

Ignoring the pile of paperwork, the files that Stonehouse had so thoroughly prepared for the meeting, Butler headed towards the door, eager to get to the bar, and be reunited with the sumptuous Finley.

“Come on, come on!” urged the bewitched, balding businessman. “We need to party!”

Stonehouse glanced across at Monroe while she gathered up the folders, her eyes constantly rolling like the wheels of a runaway truck as she mumbled repeatedly under her breath. The lawyer scooped everything up like a mechanical digger before following her boss through the door, shaking her head in disbelief as she passed Stonehouse.

“Please come this way, Mr Stonehouse,” said Dave the bodyguard. “There is plenty of space in our limo.”

Excellent, thought Stonehouse, locking the doors to his office, and following the procession like a rat being lead by the Pied Piper, we’ll be turning up at a bikers’ bar in a limousine. A car with blacked-out windows wouldn’t look at all conspicuous parked next to a row of Harley-Davidsons, would it? The intrigued businessman imagined pushing open the front door of the bar, and been greeted by a hundred sinister stares, and an air of deadly silence, like a scene from a Wild West movie when the unknown drifter wanders into the town saloon.

* * *

The journey across town to Redwood lasted only ten minutes, the limo surfing the wave of green lights at each junction. Unsurprisingly, the chief topic of conversation - lead almost exclusively by Butler - was Finley. Stonehouse was sure that he saw Monroe bury her head into the palms of her hands on at least four separate occasions.

“Ah, here we are,” announced Stonehouse as he spotted the neon sign of the bar up ahead.

“Excellent!” replied Butler, jubilant like a small child about to open his presents on Christmas morning. “The real meeting is about to begin!”

It appeared that eye rolling had suddenly become contagious, Stonehouse mimicking Monroe’s actions. Tonight had been incredibly successful, but it was about to get awfully… interesting.

The limousine pulled up outside The Handle Bar, its four wheels looking particularly peculiar against a backdrop of two-wheeled motorcycles. Dave the bodyguard quickly exited the vehicle in order to continue his role as a chauffer, and was about to open the back passenger door when Butler beat him to it, leaping from the car like a youthful gazelle.

“This place looks perfect,” said Butler, eyeing up the exterior of the bar. “Let’s get inside!”

Monroe buried her face deep into the palms of her hands, releasing an audible sigh. Puffing out her cheeks, the classy businesswoman slipped out of the limo, shuffling the hem of her smart grey skirt.

“He’s the boss,” said Monroe, “so whatever he wants, he gets.”

Stonehouse smiled, although he wasn’t exactly sure if it was a genuine pre-laughter smirk, or a subconscious nervous response to Monroe’s words. The balding arms dealer has definitely got what he wanted in regards to the weapons trade that the pair had recently finalized, but it was crystal clear that Butler desired more than just a delivery of quality firearms. Stonehouse was equally sure that the bewitched Butler wasn’t going to obtain his tall, blonde Holy Grail. The Englishman couldn’t help repeating the word “interesting” over and over again in his mind.

Big Dave clicked the remote control lock for the limo, the orange lights of the car flickering in unison with the neon signs above the entrance to The Handle Bar. Unsurprisingly, Butler took the lead, eager to scope out the joint. His stumpy hands pushed the door wide open, allowing the group to make their way inside. The gang was greeted by the instantly recognizable tones of “All Right Now” by Free, along with several pair of slightly bemused eyes. The traders resembled a bunch of people who had been on their way to a fancy dress party, and had found themselves at a funeral service by mistake.

“Ok,” said Stonehouse, acutely aware that they looked incredibly out of place, like fish out of water, “let me buy you all a drink to celebrate.”

“Tequila shots all round!” shouted Butler enthusiastically. “Actually, no, not for Dave. He has to drive us all home. He’ll have his usual Diet Coke.”

Butler offered a brief glance across to his burly bodyguard then smirked cheekily at Stonehouse.

“Maybe we’ll have some of the full strength Coke later,” he added, “if you know what I mean?”

Stonehouse knew exactly what the chubby gunrunner meant, but the only thing that the sophisticated businessman was taking up his nostrils this evening was the classic combination of body odour and stale booze.

“I’ll get straight onto that drinks order,” said Stonehouse. “Why don’t you all find a table, somewhere cosy where we can continue our discussion?”

The motley crew of dodgy dealer, disgraced lawyer, and hired muscle wandered towards a corner of the bar, leaving Stonehouse to fetch the drinks. He glanced down at the glistening watch that fit snuggly around his left wrist: 8.32pm. How long would it take for Finley to make her appearance? Finderella quite simply had to come to the ball, preferably well before midnight.

The elegant entrepreneur placed his elbows on the bar, hoping that the sticky residue that had made itself at home on the wooden surface wouldn’t stain his Hugo Boss suit. The barman, a guy probably in his late forties with long dark hair, wearing a faded Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt, approached Stonehouse, an inquisitive look creeping across his face.

“Evening sir,” he said in a lively manner. “What can I get you on this fine evening?”

Stonehouse paused, contemplating putting on his best Austrian accent, and replying with: “I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle”, but held back, instead offering a more appropriate response.

“And a good evening to you too. I’d like a Diet Coke, and three shots of tequila, please. In fact, let’s make that six shots of tequila.”

In an instant, Stonehouse had decided that the best way to placate his new business partners was to ply them with a few swift drinks, and get them into a relaxed frame of mind. Doubling up on the shots of alcohol seemed like a good start to get the ball rolling, and throw off any shackles of inhibition. The vampire couldn’t actually drink the stuff himself, but the good thing about shots was that they were very easy to throw over one’s shoulder, rather than down one’s throat.

The efficient barman duly delivered the drinks in extra quick time, taking Stonehouse’s cash equally as fast.

“I’ll have the bottle ready for the next round,” said the barman. “I have a feeling that you may need a few more of these babies!”

A few more indeed, thought Stonehouse as he carried the tray of drinks over to the table like a skilled waiter. Well, he at least looked the part in his tailored suit.

“Here we go,” announced Stonehouse gleefully, “tequila shots!”

Monroe needed no second invitation, reaching out her hand, and nailing the first shot in rapid time. She proceeded to grab the second glass like a hawk pouncing on a hapless field mouse, dispatching the golden liquid in a heartbeat.

“I assumed there were two each,” said the smartly dressed woman, whipping off her hairband, releasing the long flowing locks of her silky dark brunette hair from their ponytail prison. “We’ll get more later, right?”

It was clear that Monroe either needed to let off steam, or numb her senses by getting drunk. Either way, she was on a mission to oblivion.

“Please,” said Stonehouse, “have one of mine. I insist.”

The lawyer accepted Stonehouse’s offer without an ounce of hesitation, throwing the fiery tequila straight down her parched throat. That was a novel way for Stonehouse to deal with his inability to drink anything but rich, tasty body juice.

“And you, Mr Butler,” added Stonehouse, a glint in his eye, “shall we get this party started?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely!” replied Butler, his greedy fingers grabbing a shot glass in each hand. “Down in one!”

Following Monroe’s lead, Butler swigged back the drinks, one straight after the other, like a bawdy pirate. Stonehouse, keen to keep up this electrifying drinking pace, slid his second shot glass under Butler’s grubby nose.

“Please, Mr Butler,” said Stonehouse, “take mine, so that you can catch up with your colleague. I’ll go and get another round in.”

Butler was the boss, the man, and he wanted his lady lawyer to know that he wasn’t going to be outdone by a woman. Smiling broadly, he swiped the spare glass, dispatching the tangy liquid in a huge gulp, before slamming the upturned tumbler down on the table.

“Another round… or three, sounds like an awesome idea!” blurted Butler. “Oh, and when will Finley be here? Can you do that trick again, you know, pull the gorgeous bunny out of the hat?”

The “gorgeous bunny” would probably bite his carrot clean off if Butler used those words to her face. Again, Stonehouse glanced at his watch while he returned to the bar: 8.47pm, only a few minutes since he had last checked. There was no way that Stonehouse was going to summon his childe here, to a crowded bar. That would be a truly stupid idea. What if she was in the bath, or sifting through her wardrobe for something to wear? Butler had already seen enough flesh for one day. No, Stonehouse would wait for Finley to arrive in her own time. That was the right thing to do. After all, why wouldn’t she show up?

Grant Stonehouse was not the kind of person to indulge in the act of facepalming. Slapping one’s own face in an expression of dismay or embarrassment was the preserve of disorganised idiots: men who furiously searched for their car keys when the items were already snuggled up in the owner’s trouser pocket, women scurrying around trying to find their sunglasses that had been perched atop their thick mop of hair all along, or clueless children hunting for the TV remote control that had been conveniently and sensibly placed beside the actual TV by a parent on a tidying up mission. A facepalm was a gesture of failure, a signal of despair and defeat. Frequent facepalmers were real life incarnations of Homer Simpson, hapless characters of ridicule spurting out “dohs” on repeat.

A control freak like Stonehouse had no need to share these emotions of exasperation, because he would never allow a situation to reach such a shambolic state. However, there was always a first time for everything, and the dawn of the Facepalm Age was on the horizon.

No sooner had the sophisticated host with the most returned from the bar carrying another round of shots than the gathering was instantly transformed into an impromptu audition for a reality TV talent show. Grabbing a glass of tequila before it had even had the chance to rest upon the table, and nailing the golden liquid back as though his throat were on fire, Butler the increasingly boisterous businessman broke out into song. His freshly lubricated vocal chords got to grips with Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”, wrestling with the lyrics like a malnourished infant crocodile attempting to drag a powerful wildebeest into the murky depths of an African river.

A few bemused glances from pairs of bewildered eyes dotted around the bar quickly turned to stares as the performance gathered pace. Butler was in his element, transported back to his youth, his heyday, by the power of the tequila TARDIS time machine. Judging by the sniggers that were rapidly spreading around the bar like an outbreak of a highly contagious virus, Butler was less Dr Who, and more Dr Who the ****. Stonehouse possessed the ability to merge with the shadows, to vanish from plain sight. Were it not for the peering eyes fixated in his general direction, this would have been the perfect moment to disappear.

The fist pumps were almost comical in nature as Butler let his emotions flood out, his dam of respectability haemorrhaging dignity by the second. He didn’t care, he didn’t care at all; the middle-aged arms dealer was, in his own words, livin’ the fuckin’ dream, and that dream wasn’t about to end. The Journey number had barely faded out over the Handle Bar’s PA system when the unmistakable guitar intro from “Sweet Child ‘O Mine” by Guns N’ Roses exploded through the speakers like a sonic grenade. Butler’s already illuminated, chubby face started glowing even brighter with delight. He was about to vocally annihilate another classic. One man’s dream was becoming another man’s nightmare.

It was at this point, this stage of cringeworthy awkwardness, when Stonehouse’s hands gently drifted towards his face as if they were on autopilot. His head steadily drooped, set on a collision course to slump into those comforting palms. Thoughts of Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer” blurting out next flooded the entrepreneur’s mind, submerging his resistance. Just as the normally unflustered Englishman was about to have his chiselled cheeks melt unceremoniously like cheese into his grill-like fingers, he caught a glimpse of Dave, the seemingly unflappable bodyguard, rolling his eyes. There was absolutely no way, no way whatsoever, that the unholy double act of eye-rolling and facepalming was going to make an appearance this evening.

In a flash, Stonehouse dragged himself out of his momentary mire, patting Butler on the back.

“Fantastic effort!” he said, offering words of overblown encouragement. “You’ve got a real talent there!”

Rather than getting dragged under by the huge tide of embarrassment, and drowning in an ocean of uneasy discomfort, Stonehouse decided to jump onto his charismatic board, and surf the wave. He smiled broadly, tapping the table in time with the music like a rallying call to spur on his new business partner.

“I hope that you’re going to be doing some air guitar when the solo kicks in?” added Stonehouse. “You’ve mustered quite an audience!”

Butler didn’t disappoint. Wiggling his stumpy fingers while contorting his puffy face, the gunrunner truly believed that he was Harper Rock’s very own version of Slash. The audience in question was collectively grinning at Butler, goading him to continue his ridiculous performance for their own amusement. They were loving the show, giggling to one another at the balding man’s expense.

In Butler’s mind - a mind that was becoming increasingly more intoxicated as he wolfed down tequila after tequila - he was a star. The hot young girls hanging out by the pool tables were undoubtedly his biggest fans, and it was only a matter of time before the barman came over and asked for an autograph.

The longhaired bartender had just paid a visit to Stonehouse’s table to drop off the two-thirds empty bottle of Jose Cuervo as a “gift for the entertainment”, complimenting the karaoke king on his “amazing performance”. The wry grin etched across his face told the true story of the mocking barman’s thoughts. Stonehouse, however, was masking his own feelings like a incredibly experienced burglar donning a ski mask prior to committing an armed robbery, and instead threw out numerous compliments in Butler’s direction.

“We really need to do this again,” said Stonehouse enthusiastically, “you don’t want to leave your fans disappointed.”

Butler simply grinned as a reply, his face resembling a pink balloon that had been inflated to the verge of popping. He was still catching his breath following his exuberant exertions, while a Linkin Park tune soothed the ears of the bar’s clientele. Apparently, the songbird had decided not to join in with this particular ditty “out of respect for that dead guy”. How very noble.

“It looks like your biggest fan still hasn’t arrived,” piped up Monroe, her lips muttering the words from behind the rim of her glass. “Where is your… secretary, Grant?”

The bottle of tequila was swiftly pounced upon like a hawk swooping down on a field mouse, Monroe pouring another shot of luscious liquor into her now empty glass. The legal eagle had remained relatively quiet during the recent shenanigans, steadily knocking back her alcoholic medicine while Dr Who the **** took centre stage. Despite the impressive number of drinks that the woman had slung down her throat, she appeared to be relatively sober, certainly in comparison to her boss, who was one step away from becoming a slobbering mess.

Monroe wasn’t an alcoholic, far from it, but she did take solace in a bottle of reasonably priced Californian Pinot Noir most evenings, often accompanied by a glass or two of an imported London gin. Booze had acted as her comfort blanket, keeping Monroe warm as her successful life collapsed all around her like a house of cards. The wine was the antidote to her clusterfucked existence, the medication that prevented her from going completely mad; it was the vaccine that enabled her to work with the likes of shady characters such as Butler. It was fair to say that the elegant lawyer had built up a reasonable tolerance to alcohol.

Butler, on the other hand, was buzzed up after only a couple of shots of tequila. In spite of his stocky build, the gunrunner was struggling to handle the effects of the spirit, and equally straining to keep up with the hedonistic drinking pace set by his female accomplice. Booze wasn’t really Butler’s vice. He enjoyed a whisky now and again, but his weapon of choice when it came to getting loaded was usually administered via a transnasal approach. Stonehouse was becoming increasingly aware that he’d soon need to deal with the impending drunken business partner scenario.

Firstly, however, he needed to address Monroe’s astute observation about Finley. Where was she? Stonehouse glanced at his watch. Time was marching on like an unruly army, ready to wreak havoc; nine-thirty had come and gone, and ten o’clock was rapidly approaching.

“I’m sure Finley will be here any minute now,” replied Stonehouse. “Let me send her a message, see how she’s doing.”

Fingers scurrying away like a rat, Stonehouse fired off a quick text message:

Where are you? I’m going to summon you in a couple of minutes. Be ready!

Dragging his childe away from wherever she’d decided to reside for the night was potentially a very risky move, and a kneecap could quite conceivably be heading directly towards his groin if he pulled this stunt twice in an evening, but it was a chance that the businessman was going to have to take. He simply couldn’t put all of his hard work in jeopardy by gambling on the possible no-show option. Of course, he could have briefly mentioned that he really needed Finderella’s help, but that was an admission that Stonehouse wasn’t prepared to make. Instead, he’d apologise profusely at a later stage, and placate his offspring with a set of diamond earrings or a pearl necklace. The psychology graduate hadn’t yet managed to get to grips with the complex mechanics of how Finley’s intricate mind worked, but he was sure that he’d figured out at least one or two key buttons to push.

“Ah!” announced Stonehouse, almost immediately after fiddling with his phone’s keypad. “It looks like our guest of honour is on her way. Let me go and grab her.”

Springing to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, Stonehouse smiled gleefully at Butler before wandering towards the rear of the bar. He hadn’t waited for a response from Finley; the manager was just going to get straight to work. The sophisticated businessman hadn’t picked up a woman in the bathroom of a pub since a drunken encounter at university with a first year history student in the unisex toilets of a nightclub, but tonight was proving to be rather... interesting.

Woo! I am hot… to… night! Why has it been so long since I took a tour around the city’s bars? I’m a wealthy man, a man of means with plenty of connections all over the city. With a network line mine, and a bank balance to match, I could be out partying all the time! This could be my new life; forget the guns, and the business deals, it’s time for John Paul Butler to be the party king of Harper Rock!

I mean, just look at those young girls by the pool table. They were whooping and cheering while I was singing. They want to be in my gang; they want to hang out with me and my crew. And the guys too, even if they do look a bit rough around the edges, they can be part of my entourage. I can tell that they are so jealous. Sure, they may be good at pool, and have youth on their side, but you can’t buy the kind of experience that I have. I know stuff, I know about how the world works. I know about life. What do those kids know? How to switch on MTV?

Now the barman, he’s a different story. He may be scruffy, in need of a shave and a haircut, but at least he can spot talent when he sees it. He just keeps coming on over to check me out. He loved my singing; he even complimented me on my performance. He’s a smart cookie. The barman is a businessman, just like me. He knows that when you get a true entertainer into your establishment, someone gifted like yours truly, he’ll end up with a full house of thirsty punters, desperate to spend their hard-earned cash in his bar. I could be his golden goose, laying magic eggs made of cash.

Yeah, they all want a slice of my pie tonight. They all need a piece of my action. I can see what the barman is doing: giving us the bottle so that we stay a little longer, drumming up more business for him while I entertain the crowd. That’s a shrewd move. Maybe I’m starting to like that guy. Maybe he should bring us a fresh bottle of tequila? I don’t think we’ve actually drunk very much yet. The party is only just starting.

“Hey, Dave… Davy, my good man. How many drinks have we had so far? I’m guessing three or four?”

How many fingers is he holding up? Six? No, seven! That can’t be true! There’s no way that we’ve drunk that much. And that cheeky bonus bottle of beer too? Oh yeah, I'd almost forgotten about that one. It was just the one, to pad things out in between shots.

“Are you kidding me, Dave? I only feel like I’ve had a couple. Hey, Grant, get another bottle lined up. I need a few more of these bad boys before my next guitar solo comes blurting through the speakers. And yeah, we definitely need to do this again, buddy.”

Seven? That is just ridiculous. Time must be flying by, but that’s because we are having so much fun. I wonder if the barman would put on “Freebird” by Lynyrd Skynyrd? He clearly likes the band because he’s wearing their T-shirt. That song has such an awesome guitar solo that goes on for months. Yeah, we need more tunes with powerful choruses so that the whole bar can sing along, and some great guitar riffs too.

I hope there’s not too much of that Nu Metal rap stuff. Ok, I know it’s sad that the guy from Linkin Park died, but I never really got into that genre of rock. I want some big hair music, the kind of stuff that I listened to when I was growing up. What’s this, Slipknot? Ah, maybe the next song will hit the spot.

Anyway, forget about the next song, where’s my next drink? I hope that Mr Stonehouse isn’t slacking off. Actually, I guess I do feel kind of wobbly. Maybe I really have knocked back seven shots? And the heat in here, what’s all that about? I’m sure that somebody has turned up the radiators. I don’t want to start sweating. I need to be fresh for when Finley gets here. Where the hell is she, and what’s up with grumpy old Ms Monroe?

“Yo, Monroe! You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Why the sour face? Don’t tell me that you’ve been sucking on all those lemon slices that come with the slammers? Cheer up! Finley will be here any minute… ah, see, that’s exactly what Grant just said.”

I like Katie, she’s a feisty lady, but she’s too uptight. She needs to let herself go, let off some steam. I’m sure that she has a wild side hidden away somewhere. Sure, she’s had a rough ride lately, but I’ve taken care of her. I always take care of those closest to me. I’m going to take such good care of Finley. I’m going to treat my princess so well. She deserves everything.

“What’s that Grant? Finley’s almost here? That’s perfect news; it’s music to my ears. Yeah, sure, go and grab her right away. We’ll line up another round of shots to celebrate the guest of honour’s arrival.”

Am I mumbling? I’m not sure that anybody heard me speak. I’m pretty sure that I did actually talk, although I’m not quite sure. Another shot of tequila to lubricate my throat will probably help. Down in one. It’s the only way!

“Hey, Davy boy. That one makes it eight! We’d better get the next one ready to go, and then we can push towards the big number ten.”

Why is Dave swaying from side to side? This song is by Slipknot. It’s not really a slow smoochie number. My head is starting to ache a little. I suppose that this tune isn’t really floating my boat. Too noisy, that’s it, too noisy.

“Dave, stop wobbling around. You’re making me feel sick.”

The lifestyle of a racing driver appealed to Grant Stonehouse’s flamboyant, egotistical nature. It was so glamorous: the thrill of the chase, whizzing around the track in state-of-the-art machinery; the glory of the victory, accompanied by the adoration of the crowd; the popping of Champagne corks followed by all-night partying aboard a luxury yacht moored in Monte Carlo harbour. It all added up to manufacture an excellently extravagant equation.

As with the vast majority of male children, Stonehouse loved to play with toy cars, nurturing his enthusiasm for the much larger, far faster adult versions. He had a miniature garage, complete with a petrol pump and able-bodied attendant, and a few later years, a Scalextric set. Eventually, the budding Formula 1 champion graduated onto a remote control car. There were endless hours of fun chasing the neighbour’s cat in the backstreets, or simply getting down to the nitty-gritty of a flat out race with his best friend from school. However, one of his favourite cars, perhaps the one for which the nostalgic businessman still held the fondest memories, was a simple wind-up police car.

Made of sturdy plastic, and totally boxy in shape, the chunky toy was hardly the most amazing vehicle in the world; it was certainly not a masterpiece of advanced engineering. The blue and white police car had a basic wind-up mechanism: twist the little key round and round, and create tension in an internal spring. The fun began when the car was placed on the ground, and the pent up energy was released, like a miniature volcano erupting across Stonehouse’s parents’ living room carpet. The humble car zoomed across the floor creating kinetic chaos, a tiny red light flashing away on its roof, until the energy was spent, and the wheels ground to a halt. It was pure joy for a five-year-old child, one who would happily make siren noises to enhance the overall experience.

But even as an innocent infant, Stonehouse wanted to push the boundaries. His developing scientific brain wanted to see how things worked, wanted to discover their limits. Like the true Star Trek fan that he would eventually become, Stonehouse wanted to boldly go where no man had gone before, or at least send his toy police car on a journey that no car had gone before. Twisting the key, over and over again, tightening the internal spring to its extremity, challenging it to go that one extra turn… that was Stonehouse. Inevitably, the over-enthusiastic child pushed too far, wound up the mechanism to breaking point, leading to a tearful conclusion, and the car being consequently consigned to the scrapheap.

As Finley’s fist fizzed towards his face, it was crystal clear to Stonehouse that he had wound his childe up to breaking point. Never mind placating his offspring with a set of expensive diamond earrings, at this rate the entrepreneur was going to have to gift her with an entire jewellery store! Breakfast, lunch and dinner at Tiffany’s.

Stonehouse wasn’t stupid, far from it. He was intelligent, perceptive, generally a pretty good judge of character. The experienced businessman had half expected the volley of verbal abuse that flew from Finley’s bloodstained lips, and was hardly surprised when his feisty childe tried to shove him away. It was fair enough. He probably had it coming. However, the flying fist was a different matter. That was a bolt from the blue, an unexpected physical manifestation of Finley’s anger, a clear indication that she held her sire’s selfish action in utter contempt.

Only lightning-fast reflexes spared Stonehouse the indignity of being punched squarely on the nose by his childe. Finley’s strike was like that of a cobra, darting towards its startled prey, but her agile sire was equal to her attack, swerving like a fellow snake just in the nick of time to avoid the blow. Sugar Ray Stonehouse could feel the sharp, cool breeze created by Finley’s flashing fist as it brushed passed his chiselled cheekbone, the shimmering colour of her nail varnish streaking perilously close to his eyeballs. It was both stunning and strangely thrilling at the same time. Finderella really had tried to smash him in the face!

Once he’d steadied himself, picking up his startled jaw from the floor in the process, Stonehouse gazed directly into the shimmering blue eyes of his childe. If he didn’t know better, the slightly flustered businessman would have sworn that Finley’s orbs - orbs fully loaded with a veritable arsenal of ultra-sharp daggers aimed directly at his head - had transformed into a fiery red colour. He looked his childe up and down, almost certain that he was able to feel the steam that was radiating out of her furious body.

“I love your outfit, Finley,” he said calmly. “You look… amazing. Although, you do appear to have something on your chin.”

Stonehouse swiftly flicked out a hand, wiping a trickle of fresh blood from Finley’s fuming face, maintaining eye contact at all time in case she tried to bite his fingers clean off in a fit of rage. Bringing his reddened, sticky fingertips to his lips, Stonehouse slowly sucked the second-hand blood from his digits.

“That tastes really nice. What was… she like?”

Stonehouse said “she” deliberately; it was a calculated guess. There were subtle differences in flavour on one’s tongues between males and females, probably something related to hormones. The former lover of fine wines could no longer fully indulge in a bottle of Italy’s finest Barolo, or a crisp Sancerre from the Loire region of France, but he had developed a rather sophisticated palate when it came to blood.

“No need to answer that question,” added Stonehouse, “I’m sure that she was exquisite.”

The quality of Finley’s evening snack would have undoubtedly been of a high standard, but Stonehouse was already thinking of a suitable replacement feast. His keen eye had noticed the way in which his childe’s gaze had hovered just a little longer than usual on the delightful figure of Ms Monroe. The two of them could share the disgraced lawyer later this evening, human tapas, so to speak; dine together on her juicy flesh and sumptuous alcohol-laced blood to celebrate the success of their business deal. Stonehous, would definitely suggest this exceptional plan, this devious, deviant escapade.

Stonehouse paused, bracing himself for another assault, either from Finley’s flying fists of fury, or a well-aimed kneecap.

“Finley, I know that you are mad with me, and I think I know a way to make it up to you, but first… I really need your help.”

There, he’d actually done it. Mr Super-Organised had asked for assistance.