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Summary
As a team, they’d all dealt with some shitty people, but the group she and Booker had infiltrated that night was really something else. It was an old boys' club, exactly the kind of thing you picture when you hear that phrase, and they were all living up to every damn stereotype there was. A bunch of rich old white men chewing on expensive cigars, laughing about their money, groping their eye candy du jour. She’d had to get up, simpering at Booker and stroking her fingers along his arm, just to get away from the conversation he’d gotten involved in: yachts. Fucking yachts.