Page 68 of Break the Ice
I pass through the corridor where Beringer’s office is located. The door’s still closed. Detective Gomez must still be interviewing him. Is it possible the Seattle PD are so incompetent they’re looking at Beringer as a prime suspect?
As if sensing what’s on my mind, Mr. Blackman comes up on my right. He’s walked out of the lobby area leading into Hawk’s old office and spotted me looking at Beringer’s. He flattens a hand over the lapels of his business suit jacket and watches the same door I am.
“Danny’s never learned to play chess. He doesn’t even know how to play checkers.”
I cut Blackman a glance. “He’s acting in Hawk’s stead ’til the board vote on how to proceed.”
“He is,” admits Blackman with a slight smirk. “For now. Beringer’s days are numbered. Don’t be like Beringer, Alpha.”
Blackman walks away first, but I’m gone not long after. If I didn’t give a fuck about Dad and Colt showing concern about my innocence in the Hawk situation, I sure as hell don’t give a fuck about Beringer or Blackman.
Whatever power struggle those two are locked into after Hawk’s death doesn’t concern me.
So long as the Seattle PD is off mine and Marisse’s backs, I can’t be bothered to care.
I hop into my Corvette and head home. Night falls by the time I’m able to make it through traffic. I pull up in the driveway of my condo and twist off my headlights.
I sense it a second before it happens—someone rushing at me from the bushes. I dodge the unknown man and then ram my elbow into his face. He’s collapsed on the ground, probably seeing shooting stars.
I rip the ski mask off him and recognize his freckled face as one of my attackers from Axis. He’s been sent by whoever’s hired him on another attempt to fuck me up. I pick up his iPhone that’s fallen onto the asphalt in our scuffle and use his face to unlock the screen.
Scrolling through his settings information, I discover his name’s Chris Andover. He’s twenty-three and has fifteen unread messages. One of them pops up on the screen as I scroll through.
Then I go still once it dawns on me what I’m looking at.
I recognize the ten digits that’ve sent the text. Marisse’s number.
Did you get it done yet? Text me back to confirm.
18. Marisse
Rafe requests round three halfway through the evening on Wednesday. I’m settling on the sofa with my TV remote and a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch when my phone vibrates. The screen lights up with a message from him.
I’m downstairs. Put on something nice. We’re going to dinner. You have ten minutes.
“What?” I choke out, sitting up. Surprise beats fast in my heart as I move to peek out the window.
Sure enough, Rafe’s sleek black Corvette is idled at the curb several stories below. He sits in the front seat puffing away on a cigarette. The pang of hunger I’d had moments ago dissipates, only to be replaced by shaky nerves.
Why would he possibly want to waste a round on an evening that’s already half over?
And on a Wednesday of all nights…
Usually, there’s been some kind of preluding event leading up to our games. A clear reasoning behind the when and why. But what could’ve possibly made him decide to play another tonight?
I don’t have much time to ponder.
Ten minutes!
I shrug off the comfy fleece shawl I’d been snuggling with on my sofa and beeline for my bedroom closet. Ten minutes isn’t a lot of time to get ready for a dinner at an upscale establishment—he’d mentioned I needed to put on something nice.
I quickly slip into a metallic mini dress that has some swing to the skirt and strappy heels that aren’t too grating on the feet. It might not be the most thoughtful outfit, but it’s fun and flirty enough for dinner.
I stop by the mirror and spend half a second deciding what to do with my cloud of curls.
“Fuck it,” I say, popping on some lipstick and mascara. I grab a spray bottle of my favorite conditioner and water and spritz to refresh my mane. Some finger twisting and fluffing later, I’m moving on. “As good as it gets on short notice.”
Riding the elevator to the ground floor, I spend another moment wondering what tonight could have in store.
