Jameson slumped down into a chair, wondering if she meant her place or his. He needed to wit for Tristan and the boss was taking his time getting here.
Jameson was glancing around at the blood and broken furniture when Tristan came in the room. "What the fuck went on in here?" He asked, pointedly at Jameson. "You're upposed to escort problems out of the club not beat their skulls in, Mr. Davis."
Jameson groaned. He didn't like being called Mr. Davis in work environments. It usually meant something bad was about to happen. "So send me a bill for the repairs and I'll work it off." He said flatly, not in a mood for bullshit.
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes. "Yeah. How does a suspension sound?" He asked sternly. The damage to the club was the least of his concern right now.