Griffin O’Neal is a bastard.
I jogged to the hospital helipad. A moonbeam bounced off the helicopter windshield and I could see my reflection in the glass, the eye already swollen and bruised. So much for helping him after his drunken father bashed his head with a nine iron.
Yeah, that eye would look real snazzy with my tuxedo. Of all nights. I had forty minutes to get changed and make it to the Dan Lazar roast uptown, and I still hadn’t wrapped his gold-plated Reacher.
I had to become a paramedic. Sheesh.
Next time, the bastard bleeds to death.
Gold Plated Reacher!!!!