Page 71 of Hell Breaks Loose

Along with several other spots that worked to maintain appearances.

Rachelle’s house, which survived the flood unscathed. Not that it didn’t bring up a whole slew of mixed feelings.

I would have been pretty wrecked if it were gone. So many memories there.

Even if she did turn out to be a flag waving member of the Sinful in the worst way. I wonder how she’s doing. Maybe I’ll have Sing check on her in Severance.

Then I made a show of stripping Evan’s clandestine event center in the canyon. The place where my life changed forever, first on stage with him, giving myself to him completely. Then later, when Rachelle made to sell me off to the highest bidder.

Plans within plans.

The only benefit to all of that is that I learned the method well. And I’ve got plans stacked on plans, stuffed inside other plans, disguised as different plans. Garnished with plan seasoning.

Am I in over my head?

Probably.

I hear the bikes roar onto the property below, circling up the drive. Peeking out the window, I count the crew, the veritable motorcade of Hummers and choppers.

Leave it to the Clives to stockpile a full-on military cache of weapons and gear.

Settling back in my chair, I forcibly remove my fingers from their vise grip on the arms.

School my features.

Breathe.

The doors to my office sit open, leaving me a clear view of the lounge couches in the vestibule. When the far door swings open, Sing steps in, pinning me with a stare.

He stays there for a moment, locking eyes with me.

As if to make sure I am ready.

To make sure I am okay.

Pressing my lips together in a grim line, I nod once.

Go figure, I’m caught off guard when Gavin, as broad, rugged, and ripped as ever, steps through that door. He glances at me once before scanning the room, checking for threats.

The only indication that he felt anything at all is a flare in his nostrils as he mutters the all clear over his shoulder. Taking his spot across from Sing, they frame the way for the rest of the entourage.

Ora.

Tell.

Alaya.

I’m stiff as a board. A damn mannequin, sitting there. Freaking. Out.

My friends. My best friends.

Two of my men, my lovers, my protectors, my partners.

Avoiding their eyes, I rise, gesturing Ora forward. Seems like she’s taking the lead.

“Look at that, it’s like they carbon copied a page out of Marco Vice’s becoming a criminal underworld piece of shit and how to dress the part.”

“What catalog did you get that getup from? Wasteland Weekly? Mad Max Magazine?”

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