Only You by Jerry Cole (the top 100 crime novels of all time TXT) 📕

a guy he sort of knew from years ago reacting to his photo in front of the Munttoren. It was smiley face with love heart eyes, the simplest of Instagram reactions.

And yet it did something to Bradley.

Why go home? Seriously, what was the point? Here he was, in this beautiful city that so many people would kill to set foot in. Was he really going to waste all that because of Jackson? Jackson had already left him anyway. And going back now wouldn’t help his chances.

Besides, Jackson would see the story eventually, and when he did...

A smirk crossed Bradley’s face, one that soon turned into a smile. His heart was back inside his chest, beating at a tremendous rate. His face began to flush with excitement and a sudden surge of energy flowed through his body like he couldn’t have predicted. On his feet, Bradley leapt for his suitcase and threw it open. He wasn’t going to sit in his room all night and wallow in self-pity. Instead, he was going to take a leaf out of Jackson’s book and go out and make something of this trip.

But before he did that, he’d need the perfect outfit...

Chapter Four

“How much?!” Sherman shouted. He even cupped one hand around his mouth as he did so, while using the other hand to plug one ear so as to drown out all the background noise. There was a lot to drown out too, so he had to shout extra loud.

“Eighty,” the suave looking Dutchman responded coolly. He didn’t shout like Sherman, and because of this his words were quickly swallowed by the noise of the club. But he didn’t care either, seeming to find Sherman’s increased annoyance amusing.

“Fifty?!” Sherman shouted back hopefully. He held up five fingers, to further help his point.

The Dutch-man's face was long and sharp, while his white-blonde hair was shining wet from gel and combed back over his head. He rolled his eyes at Sherman and then held up eight fingers. “Eighty,” he said again, making sure that his lips spelled out the word.

This time, Sherman understood perfectly. He was in a club that’s music was so loud that his ears had to now be permanently damaged because of it. He was so damn tired that he wasn’t even certain the flashing lights that filled the club were real and not some part of an insomnia induced hallucination. And the man he spoke to probably didn’t even speak English as a second language. But still, there could be no misunderstanding what had been said.

Sherman’s face dropped. “Eighty?!” He made sure to give the Dutch-man his most bewildered expression. “For one gram?!” He held up a single finger.

The Dutch-man's thin lips curled into a smug smile and he nodded a second time. He was sitting on a stool at the bar, with his back turned to it so as to face the club. Standing beside him were two very large men, also with blonde hair and long, angular faces. They were the muscle. The Dutchman indicated to the large man to his right, who nodded his understanding and then started for the bathroom.

“Go,” the Dutchman said. He nodded in the direction of the bathroom, toward where the large man had just disappeared. “He will do.”

“He will do?” Sherman frowned. “What do you mean?!” he shouted. “I just want one gram of —”

The Dutch-man's eyes bulged at him. He then indicated again toward the bathroom. “Go!” He shouted this time. “He will do!”

Now, Sherman understood. This Dutch-man – one that was pointed out to him by a random in the club – wasn’t going to do the exchange here, out in the open. Instead, Sherman would have to wander into the bathroom and buy in there, hidden from prying eyes. It was a gross, derogatory way to have to buy drugs, and one that Sherman was not at all used to. But fuck, he had no choice.

Sherman offered the Dutch-man a tight-lipped smile that spoke to how frustrated he was, then turned and moved across the busy club toward the bathroom. At least... well, at least he tried to. The bathroom was on the other side of the dance floor which at the moment was thriving. It was a mass of heaving, drunk, sweaty, handsy bodies that made moving through them almost impossible. After a few moments of trying to spy a way through the mass, Sherman gave up and opted instead for the long way round.

And as he did, he had to ask himself again – and again – what the heck was he even doing here? Not at the club, but in Amsterdam, Europe, this part of the world.

It started with that darn Single’s Through Europe travel bundle. What had begun as an almost sarcastic suggestion from his friend and work colleague, Nick, had somehow morphed into a reality. The more that Sherman had thought about it, the more he had realized that he may as well go. There was a lot of money riding on the success of this travel package and if anyone could figure out why it wasn’t hitting the way it was supposed to, it was Sherman.

It didn’t help either that he came to this conclusion when he was wasted off a bottle of very expensive vodka, emailing his boss in the heat of the moment. It was the next morning when he remembered what he had done and by then, it was too late.

And then a problem arose that almost saved Sherman.

Sherman was a little too rich. This trip was aimed at the ‘every man’ that wanted to go on a budgeted vacation through Europe without spending thousands and thousands of dollars. That just wasn’t Sherman. Sherman dressed in fine suits, and drove expensive cars and ate at restaurants that even he was embarrassed to tell people about. The idea