Page 98 of Silver Elite

We both spin around to see a figure appear in the doorway, the lightbulb above him casting harsh shadows on his already harsh features. Roe’s expression is unreadable as he steps onto the roof, boots crunching on gravel.

I tense when I notice Anson trailing him. No Kess, though. I don’t know if that’s a good omen or a bad one.

“What do you want?” I ask the guys, suspicious of their sudden appearance.

Roe shrugs. “Saw you coming up here and thought it would be the perfect time to have a little chat.”

Betima drops the joint and crushes it under the toe of her boot. She glances at me. I nod.

“Yeah, we were just finishing up,” she says.

We head for the door. Anson moves in front of it. Smiling.

My muscles tighten when Roe approaches with his insolent stride, but he simply walks past us, wandering toward the spot where Betima dropped the joint.

“Now why waste good euca?” he tsks. He bends to retrieve it, brushing the dirt and gravel off. He reshapes the joint a little as he stands.

That’s when I notice the sleek butt of a gun sticking out of his waistband.

Warning bells go off in my head, loud and persistent. My gaze shifts to Anson. “Move,” I order.

He crosses his arms. Doesn’t budge.

“Light?” Roe prompts, holding up the joint.

Betima frowns at him.

“I could get Anson to strip-search you for it,” he offers.

She narrows her eyes. After a beat, she tosses him the lighter.

He catches it easily, then flips it open to light the joint. It glows orange at the tip as he inhales deeply. With a contented sound, he exhales a huge plume into the night sky.

“Tell your guard dog to move,” I snap at Roe. “I’m not in the mood for your games tonight.”

“Games, huh?” He pinches the joint between his thumb and forefinger. Takes another drag.

I step toward the bulky guy who’s blocking our exit.

Anson’s smile widens.

I could take him. Or at least push him aside so Betima and I can throw the door open. But I don’t trust Roe with that handgun.

“Where did you get the gun?” I ask.

Roe ignores the question. “My father is fond of games—did you know that? There’s this one party game in particular that he can’t get enough of.” He chuckles at my skeptical expression. “Can you believe it? General Merrick Redden hosting dinner parties and making his guests play games. Sadly, I don’t get invited to his dinners anymore. Not after the last one.”

Despite the tension thickening the air, I turn away from the door and slowly walk toward Roe. Betima follows. We haven’t given up. We’re both still on guard. But it’s clear we’re not going anywhere until Roe is finished with…whatever this is.

“Anyway, his favorite game is a murder mystery. Everyone draws a card, but only one is the murderer card. The rest of the players are supposed to guess who the killer is, while he methodically moves around the room killing their asses.”

He offers the joint to Betima, who hesitates before accepting it.

“I was sixteen the first time the General issued me an invitation. His precious Cross and perfect Travis had been attending since they were kids. But not me. Took sixteen years before his little bastard got to come to dinner.” He chortles to himself.

Betima tries to hand him the joint back, but he shakes his head.

“So I sit through that mind-numbing meal, pretending not to notice all the wives whispering about me, about who my mother was. Nosy little quats. Afterward, we’re all ushered into the parlor. The guest of honor that night was this big-shot capitalist. I hate those assholes.”

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