It went down the wrong hole, and the resulting coughing fit lasted quite some time. At one point he thought he wasn’t going to be able to breathe, and he smacked the side of his fist on his chest, mentally cursing for swallowing wrong and showing a weaker side of himself. It was never a good thing to let your guard down in front of your employees, to have them know you were in any way vulnerable, but there was nothing he could do about that now. What was done was done, so to speak, and he’d have to deal with it. The coughing eased, and he looked ahead through watery eyes. Kemp stood in front of Waterman’s desk, and Frankie lounged in a chair beside him, seemingly unperturbed. Neither offered their services of a pat on the back. Waterman didn’t like fuss, and, unless he was dying, those two could stay the fuck back and they knew it. Once suitably composed, Waterman wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and took another sip of tea to ease his now-sore throat. He placed the white bone china cup on the matching saucer and eyed the men opposite.
