Page 23 of Undertow

4

CONSCIOUS DECAY

I perch on the edge of a pull-out bed in the den of Julia’s brother’s house.

Adrian,the oldest.I don’t know for sure if he was the one she spoke to in the restroom on our walk, but I’m making that assumption based on the fact that I’m here. Throwing yourself at someone you met an hour ago is strange. Offering them a room in your house, dangerous—unlessyou’rethe predator.

I’ve probed enough since that secret rendezvous to be confident they don’t know I’m a plant from McArthur. If I had to guess, they plan to extract as much information about the rival operation as they can from me. Maybe use me for something more nefarious. But I have no evidence of that. I don’t thinktheyknow what to do with me yet. Julia just saw an opportunity and pounced.

Literally.

My heart beats rapidly as I will my phone screen to light up with a text. Merrick hasn’t responded to my S.O.S. and I’m running out of time. How long should it take me to “change and clean up”? Six minutes. I’ve spent ten more waiting for my contact to answer.

I cast a nervous look at the entryway leading to the rest of the house. So far they haven’t come to check on me, but I’m prepared for footsteps at any second. If Julia is going to play the lovesick teenager, then she’ll be a constant shadow at my side. Once I leave this room, I won’t be able to check my McArthur phone again until tonight. By then it might be too late.

Come on, man. Message me back.

While I’m waiting, I check my other phone. The real one even the McArthurs don’t know about. As usual, I skim the terse, formal messages, and linger on the few from Gramps. In one, he’s at the edge of the pool, grinning at the camera while holding up some fruity umbrella drink. I smile and squint at the screen, trying to guess what it is.

What would I have ordered if I were there with him? I’d like to say it’d be something badass like shots of tequila or whiskey. But fuck, if I were free, I’d be all over that fruity shit too. I can’t even remember the last time I consumed alcohol by choice.

My McArthur phone buzzes, and I stash Gramps and his cocktail back into hiding.

Chocolate or vanilla,waits for me in our text stream.

Thank god.

I open the message and writevanilla.

Merrick:Blue sprinkles?

Me:Sounds good.

Vanilla and blue sprinkles.Call him at 2 AM. Shouldn’t be hard to be discreet since everyone else will be on the other side of the house sleeping at that time. With the cameras and alarm system, meeting up in person isn’t an option, but a quick bathroom call shouldn’t be a problem.

What the volatile man does when I drop the bombshell about the change of plans might be, however.

I tuck the phone into the hidden compartment of my suitcase with the other one, and my gaze gets caught on the compositionbook. The words have been torturing me all day, loud and violent in a head being ripped apart over the last twenty-four hours. But they’ll have to wait, maybe longer than normal depending on how the next few hours play out.

When the old floorboards whine with approaching footsteps, I force away the pinch in my chest, shove my suitcase under the bed, and push to my feet.

Swiping my shirt off the mattress, I face away from the door so I can act surprised.

“You okay?” Julia asks a second later.

I pretend to flinch at her voice and turn with the sleeves tucked around my wrists like she caught me mid-dress.

“Sorry. Yeah. Almost done.”

There’s nothing accidental about the way I stretch to show off as much of my body as possible while I pull my shirt over my head. My low-hanging shorts slip further down my hips in the adjustment, exposing everything I want her to see in this moment.

Her intense stare scorches my skin as I take my time covering up, and she does very little to hide her fascination in the scalding seconds that follow. It’s doubtful she’s acting. She doesn’t think she has to, and I know from experience that once I get my clothes off, the game isn’t even fair. McArthur made it clear from the beginning what my role in his organization would be, and looking the part was never optional. The challenge is getting them to this point.

Well, it’s supposed to be. This cat-and-mouse subtext we have going has changed the rules.

“Geez,” she mumbles. Her hungry eyes are stripping off the shirt I’m carefully molding into place.

“What?” I laugh out.

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