Page 60 of The Wrong Play

There was a lot of scoffing happening in this conversation on my end. Because it was frankly insulting that he assumed I wouldn’t have his passwords. All of them. If he were a better bestie, he’d have all of mine as well.

“Why are we doing this? I’m okay with not knowing where you are at all times,” he said pointedly, finally giving up his fruitless endeavor to get his phone back.

“This is in case I disappear,” I told him vaguely, ignoring the part where he pretended he didn’t care about my whereabouts because it was rude to call your besties liars.

That explanation finally got his attention. “Why are you going to disappear, exactly?”

I grinned at him. “The Sphinx has called.”

Matty straightened up, a piece of beef jerky falling into his lap. “Oh cool, I get to track your lifeless body. Love that for me,” he tried to joke, but his eyes were doing that wild, shifty thing that they did when he was nervous.

“Wish me luck,” I said, tossing him his phone and heading toward the door.

“Don’t die,” he called out behind me, and I gave him a thumbs up. “Wait, how do I use this app?” he added, a little panic in his voice as I walked out of the house.

“I have faith in you, Matthew,” I told him, hoping that the use of his full name would inspire him to reach new heights.

Of the three of us, Matty was the worst at technology, so if I really had to depend on him not to die…it could get tricky. Parker was probably balls deep in Casey, though—or he had her in that basement again. So, I really needed Matty to come through.

I hopped into my Jeep Gladiator, plugged in the address, and blasted Olivia Rodrigo as I drove. Because if that didn’t get you amped up to conquer your first trial, I didn't know what would.

As Parker would say—or as I first said to Parker, and now he copies it, and everyone thinks it’s his saying, even though I got it from a certain NFL G.O.A.T.—LFG.

The warehouse sat at the edge of the city, surrounded by crumbling brick buildings and chain link fences topped with razor wire. The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. Someone was going to steal my tires. Or my Jeep.

I glanced at the few cars parked haphazardly along the broken curb. Judging by the thick layer of dirt on them, their owners had not been in them for a long time.

Kind of made you wonder if the owners were still alive.

The street was silent except for the occasional rustle of wind through broken glass. My steps echoed as I walked, like an ominous drumbeat. Matty better be tracking me right fucking now. This was definitely the kind of place where people died. And he and Parker definitely couldn’t live without me.

The building itself looked like it had once been something legitimate—maybe a shipping hub or an old factory—but now rust crawled up its sides, and the windows were covered in thick grime. A dented metal door stood beneath a single buzzing light, where a man that was a cross between a linebacker and a brick shithouse leaned against the wall, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. Oh, was that a tattoo of a man eating someone’s heart?

Lovely.

The guy had the kind of face that looked like it had been broken and put together a few too many times. And the barely concealed holster under his jacket told me he wasn’t here to hand out welcome drinks.

Although, that would be delicious right now. If the Sphinx had a survey after this, I would definitely be recommending something like that. It would really help offset the “you’re going to die” ambience this place had going on if they served me one of those drinks with the pink umbrellas.

Ugh,don’t think about pink umbrellas,Jace. That will make you think about Riley.

As I stepped up, his eyes dragged over me with the warmth of a dead fish. We both stood there until I realized he seemed to be waiting for something. The Sphinx really needed to come with some sort of instruction manual. I pulled the black card from my pocket and held it up between two fingers, hoping thatwas what he was waiting for. His gaze flicked to it, then back to me, and with a grunt, he took it from my hand. “Weapons?” he demanded.

Hmm, should I joke about my fists? Decisions, decisions.

Better not.

“Spread ’em,” he growled impatiently when I didn’t answer right away, his voice like gravel underfoot. I complied, and he began frisking me with the gentleness of a gorilla looking for lice.

“Hey, hey,” I told him, when he got a little close to the family jewels. I was a shower, not a grower, so lil’ Jace, aka The Anaconda, aka Sir-Humps-A-Lot, hung down low.

The guy snorted like I’d said something funny, obviously not realizing he’d been an inch away from being traumatized for the rest of his life with insecurity about the size of his dick compared to mine. I’m just saying…it was a close call.

“Clean,” he muttered, stepping aside to reveal a steel door that looked like it belonged to a fucking vault.

I wiped imaginary dust off my shirt and pushed the door open, the smell of oil and metal assaulting my nostrils. Lights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete floor, and my pulse kicked up, because this was exactly the kind of place where people died.

I was pretty sure that was a bloodstain on the floor over there.

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