Page 28 of Why Cruise

It was like the world stopped on a dime. Everything but Justice Twill and his chocolate eyes fell away. And I knew that in that second, I would do anything this man asked me.

Shit.

Ren

“Stop breathing down my neck,” I growled, working the tension wrench with practiced fingers. Tommy shifted his weight from foot to foot behind me. I looked at the seasick bracelet on my wrist. It was much better now, but Tommy playing dead ringer for a perpetual motion machine was going to make me barf.

Fucking liar. It was Justice. It was always Justice. It would always be Justice. And two omegas keeping my sanity from cracking apart.

“You have one fucking job, Tommy. Look out, not in. This is how we get pinched.” Snapping at Tommy was at least satisfying.

“Sooooryyyy,” he whined.

The storage level had that liminal space feeling, all identical gray doors and harsh fluorescent lighting that made my skin crawl.

My wallet lay open beside my knee, the false backing pulled away to reveal my picks nestled in worn velvet. They were goodquality, expensive. The kind you invested in when your life might depend on the quality of your tools.

Focus. Breathe.I clenched my fists and released them.

“I lied,” I said, feeling the first pin set with a satisfying click. “We’re going to do a sixty-forty split just to put up with you and your lack of dedication to the job.”

“You better hope it’s a big cache of Disco and there are enough party boys on this ship to buy it.” Tommy bounced on his toes, still not watching the hallway like he was supposed to. “This crowd seems pretty middle-aged.”

I worked the second pin, gentler this time. “Old folks like Disco, too. More maybe.” The lock was better quality than I expected. “Keeps old alphas going strong.”

The third pin fought me. I cracked my neck and blew out a breath. “Helps them keep up with their trophy omegas during heat.”

The lock gave with a soft snick that was almost anticlimactic, like I deserved trumpets and heralds or some shit. I tucked my picks back into my wallet with more care than the moment probably warranted. Some tools you just respected.

“Finally,” Tommy said.

“Finally,” I mocked him back. I pointed at the handle and let him do the honors.

The storage room was like a retail store had vomited all over itself. Suitcases stacked three deep against one wall, random beach chairs, and what looked like an entire rack of designer resort wear someone had definitely reported “stolen” for the insurance money.

“Red hard shell carry-on, you said?” I hauled Tommy back by the collar as he made a B-line for a battered metal cabinet labeled ‘electronics’. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But…”

“First rule of being a thief? Don’t steal anything you can’t fence.”

“You wouldn’t have to fence anything if you’d just take the easy way out.” Tommy kicked at a guitar case. “I mean, your name alone…”

“For fuck’s sake.” With a knuckle I nudged a promising red case that turned out to be hot pink under the shitty fluorescent lighting. “The Delano name doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

“But your family…”

“My family?” I snorted. “Up in flames years ago.”

Tommy blinked at me. “But Star Knightbridge…”

“Do you have a learning disability or something? And I’m asking sincerely,” I put my hand to my chest. “Or do you completely lack listening comprehension? Beg Knightbridge is dead or gone, doesn’t matter. Star with his pretty face and his pretty new pack are going to make Mired District as legit looking as possible. The only wiggle room to social climb for the degenerates will be with the darker shit.” I pushed another suitcase out of the way with my toe.

“But Gaston promised…”

“Gaston can scheme all he wants, but he’s not going to win this game.”

“But…”

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