18+ Donald Ressler/Henry Prescott
An unpleasant turn of events, but one never knew what could work in that kind of situation. If Prescott was here somewhere, in that case, so...
“Actually, yes, my friend recommended this place to me,” Ressler raised his hand, his thumb pointing vaguely over his shoulder, either on the wall or into space. “He’s already here, I’ve seen his car in the parking lot.”
For a fraction of a second, panic tightened his throat—Name, name, what’s his fucking name?!—but then it popped out from his memory.
“Henry,” Ressler said, trying to calm his heartbeat. “Henry Prescott. Like this high, dark hair...” He lifted his hand slightly above his head, looking for a trace of recognition on the musclehead’s face.
“Oh, you are a friend of Mr. Prescott,” the musclehead droned and suddenly stretched his big lips in a smile. “Please, come in.”