Page 6 of Undertow

I tuck my phone away with a scowl. Could this guy be more intrusive?

“No. How much longer until we’re at the resort?”

“What’s the rush?” He lifts his hands at my hard look. “Okay, geez. I thought you were supposed to be Prince Charming or something. You’re as cranky as the boss.”

Fuck, he’s right. My entire survival depends on hiding who I am and making people like me. I have to get my shit together.

You’re the elite performer, remember? And you play the game better than anyone.

So well thatIcan barely tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.

“Yeah, man, sorry. Been a long day.”

His brow lifts as he scans me, and I offer my best smile. The good one that can be cashed in for anything. Dinner, information, money, sex—whatever needs to be done. Right now, it’s a pass for being a dick over the last three hours.

Looks like it worked when he settles back in his seat and focuses through the windshield. Perfect timing, as we pull up to another gate straight out of a fairytale. Ornate metalwork blooms from post to post and towers at least twelve feet above us.

Who knew the Gates of Hell would be so impressive?

Through the opening gap, I see a magnificent fountain that resembles the Italian Fontana di Trevi. In fact, most of the aesthetic since entering Palmetto Acres has been old world Italian. Under other circumstances, I would have appreciated the nod to ancient beauty. Instead, I feel like a prisoner of warbeing marched back to Rome. The irony of the ties to my name is not lost on me.

We circle around the fountain and pass the huge columns and intricate stonework of the main entrance.

“Always go in through the back,” Abe explains as we follow the decorative driveway around the outside of the massive complex. There, the expensive stone gives way to asphalt, and the building’s façade becomes much less remarkable. The sandy color is the same, but beyond that, there’s nothing to distinguish it from any other hospitality operation. Loading docks, service doors, and, yes, a cluster of walled-off dumpsters attest to the fact that even palaces require deliveries and produce plenty of garbage.

Abe stops at what looks like a garage door and types a code into a panel on a post several yards from the entrance. When the door opens, he continues to an indoor ground-level parking area.

“We’ll get you a code, although I doubt you’ll have your own car while you’re here,” Abe tells me as he pulls into a space marked 108.

I look around after we step out, mentally tabulating the fortune’s worth of vehicles parked within view. I’ve been surrounded by luxury during my time on the McArthur payroll, but this is a whole new level of excess.

“Is that a Vitale AX12?” I ask, eyeing the unicorn I was pretty sure only existed in theory.

“Nice, huh?” he says with a smirk as he beeps the lock of his SUV. “You don’t even want to know what that cost.”

“Probably not.” I take a wider than necessary path around it, as if my inferior essence might damage the precious exterior. It looks like it’s never been driven. Maybe it hasn’t. Maybe that’s part of the fun of owning a car that shouldn’t exist.

I follow Abe into an elevator and watch as he punches in another code to set it in motion. “I’m sure you’ll get the full tour later, but the boss is anxious to see you.”

“Yeah, I got that. You have any idea why I’m here?”

My stomach drops when he looks away and stares at the elevator panel.

“No idea,” he lies.

I don’t call him on it. It would just force another one.

My pulse pounds with each frantic second, eachdingcloser to my fate. Even Abe’s jovial persona has mellowed into somber silence. Is he escorting me to my boss or my execution? In my world, it could be both. I shudder at memories of the last time I stood in front of Montgomery McArthur.

Bloody.

Broken.

The moment I stared death in the face.

The moment I finally learned to breathe underwater.

But I’m steel now. Nothing like the naïve kid who thought he knew pain.

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