In the third-floor kitchen, Kieran ordered steaks from an app on his phone, then cut four giant lines of coke on a marble countertop. “Bro, you ready for the party or what?”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “As in the thing that just ended?”

Michelson filled his sinuses, wiped the powder from his nose. “That’s nothing, man. I’ve got more ladies coming at nine. You want to hit this?”

“I’ve got a drug test tomorrow, K.”

Kieran took rail number two down like a Dyson. “A what test?”

“As we discussed on the phone, my brand will be security for the elite, which means my people have to stay professional, even at the party of the year. That discipline’s got to start at the top.”

Mike’s cover story was based in a truth, or at least the truth of a dream. As a felon, he couldn’t legally work as a private investigator in California, but he could start a security firm, and Hollywood didn’t seem to mind the shade of his past, given that it was accompanied by notoriety.

Kieran raised a hand to high-five position. “I get it, man. That’s sick.”

Mike knew he had to accept the offer but wondered if Nazis had the same overdeveloped shoulder muscles as Michelson. He slapped that fascist salute and got to the point. “Of course, discretion will be our thing—the kind of loyalty that comes from nondisclosure agreements and large sums of money.”

Kieran wiggled the tip of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Man, that sounds like something I might need.”

“Maybe we can work out an exchange. You’re living the life, K. People will try to find holes they can exploit. Your past, your finances, whether or not your stairs are nonslip in case some low-paid Spiderman wants to slip and fall four stories and sue the trunks off of you.”

“Oh, I take care of Spiderman. That guy got blown today.”

“Seriously. From my perspective, it looks like you’re burning through your investors’ cash. Makes you an easy target.”

“No way. Rep Repair isn’t just a business, it’s my dream, bro. Two years ago, I get out of college and people think I’m a drug dealer and a murderer, all because some girl I’m banging gets drunk and disappears. I mean, it was awful. This was my friend, right? But nobody gave a shit. I had people tweeting I should get life in prison. I decided right then I wasn’t gonna let those asshats call me a murderer for the rest of my life. I made this thing, raised two million, hired the developers. Every bit of cash I blow is mine, clean and everything.”

Mike knew nobody used the word clean unless they were dirty.

“Then they’re gonna ask the obvious. How can a kid two years out of college afford to run the Playboy mansion?”