Page 146 of The Wild Charge

“If I were to join you, I’d want to make sure Jean-Jacque was comfortable with the arrangement.”

Nikola’s smile deepened and sharpened, gaze sliding Ian’s way. “Of course,” she repeated in an entirely different tone, almost purring.

Ian was sitting with his legs spread wide, slouching in the chair in a way he never would as himself. He dragged in a reluctant-sounding breath and said, “Who is your backer?”

Nikola blinked. “My what?”

“My agency started very small,” Raven said, “as an offshoot of my mother’s. I took what I’d earned walking the runway and opened up a little one-room office, to start. I eventually took a loan from my mother until I could pay her back. But you didn’t have any family connections in the industry,” she said, smiling sweetly. “And you opened up thisincredibleagency your second month off the runway. Surely you had a financial backer. One who perhaps is a part-owner still?”

Nikola, Raven knew from old gossip, had been born plain old Nikki Howe, naturally dirty-blonde, the daughter of a Nebraska corn farmer who eventually went to prison for beating his wife half to death. She hadn’t come from money; she’d been stunning on the runway, but had been plucked from obscurity. She’d had a backer then, and doubtless still did. New hair, new name, always waxed, and glossed, and dressed to kill, no one ever associated her with those old, forgotten Nebraska headlines about Hank Howe.

Raven knew, though, and Nikola’s resultant look was downright venomous.

“If we’re going to do business,” Ian said, “we need to share our financial information, no? To ensure it’s a smart decision?”

Nikola ground her teeth a long moment, looking between them, hesitant in a way that no one should have been had this been a normal meeting. She was as dodgy as anyone part of a smuggling ring could hope to prove.

“Nikola?” Raven prodded. “Problem?”

She took a slow breath and exhaled, nostrils flaring. “My silent partner is Jack Waverly.”

~*~

Lucky for the Dogs, Jensen Waverly was addicted to Instagram, had a public account, and postedeverything. He tagged his location in nearly every photo, which was how Evan knew to find him at Crew, a place that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a pub, a club, or a burlesque dinner house.

There was a bouncer at the door, and a twenty-dollar cover fee; dim as nighttime inside, it was styled like an old-fashioned pub, with touches of glamour: crystal chandeliers on low settings; ornate wall sconces and paintings illuminated with art lights. A stage occupied the wall opposite the bar, and on it, a woman in complicated lingerie was doing something equally complicated with a stool and a series of scarves to the low throb of dated music.

The tables and couches were full of day drinkers, but Jensen Waverly was easy to spot. He had the couch with the best view, seated in the center of it, arms draped across the back, sunglasses pushed up on top of his head. He wore cargo shorts and a t-shirt, was utterly unremarkable in every way…save for the fact he was surrounded by sycophants. He slouched like a king, taking up more space than he needed, glancing lazily between the stage and whichever of the ten young men grouped around him was speaking at the moment. He never leaned toward any of them to hear better;theyleaned intohim. He was sipping something clear out of a tall glass, and he smiled rarely, looked bored more than anything.

A spoiled little prince holding court.

Doubt gripped Evan, sudden and tight. His orders were simple: get in good with Jensen and see what he could learn. The idea was to mimic what Luis had (supposedly) done, and get tucked under Jensen’s wing. But he’d never worked a job like this, and he had no idea if his acting skills were up to snuff. For the most part, Tenny’s constant beratement didn’t bother him. That was just Tenny, and he was an asshole to everyone. But now, standing here in the low light, sweat beading up between his shoulder blades, he felt like the useless idiot he’d been called so many times.

Oh God, he was going to fuck this up.

No. Focus.

Fox had told him not to get drunk – “God knows what’ll fall out of your stupid mouth if you get sloppy” – but he headed to the bar because a little liquid courage might be the only thing standing between him and nervous embarrassment.

He sipped his rum and coke at the bar for a few minutes before he finally worked up the courage to walk over.

Act casual, Fox had said.Like you just happened to run into him.

But don’t act like a stupid tit, Tenny had added.

He took a deep breath that was far too unsteady, tried to think of the last good joke he’d heard – something Deacon had said about a donkey – and plastered an easy smile on his face.Just act natural, dude, he told himself.You’re always smiling.Easy peasy.

He started past Jensen’s couch, then paused, and did a double-take. Here went nothing. “Whoa! Hey, dude!”

Several heads turned his way, the entourage regarding him with a blend of curiosity and immediate judgment. Jensen sipped his drink, gaze still fixed on the stage.

Shit.

The music wasn’t that loud, but Evan raised his voice anyway. “Hey, Jensen, right?” The man in question finally turned his head a fraction Evan’s way, gaze flicking up bored and flat. “Yeah, it is you! I’m Kyle.” He thrust his hand out for a fist bump. “We met at Steve-o’s party last week.” Thank you, Instagram. “You did that keg stand. Bro, it was sick!” Said keg stand had been part of a multi-pic post showing the before, during, and after; Jensen hadn’t looked like he would remember much of that party.

Reluctant understanding dawned on Jensen’s face. It wasn’t a particularly good face. His shirt cost five-hundred bucks, his shades two-grand, and his haircut was sharp…but he had his dad’s nose, chin, and heavy brows. When he got older and heavier, it wouldn’t be pretty.

“Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Kyle. Right.” He didn’t return the fist bump, so Evan let his arm drop.

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