Page 51 of Sinful Like Us
For all I know, this could be tarot and Beckett is about to read my future. Rich, poor—I don’t care. I just wanther.
Jane steeples her fingers to her lips in focused thought.
“What are these?” I ask them.
Charlie flashes a half-smile. “It’s a game calledWhat Would You Do for Jane Cobalt?”
I cross my arms and nod. I’m Oscar Mike. Ready to move out in whatever direction they point to. But honestly, this isn’t my normal.
Where I come from, we’d throw some punches then crack a beer and laugh about the old rift. Or we’d just never talk again. Grudges have detached friends and family like broken 1000-piece puzzles. Pieces missing or edges too worn to fit back.
At least they’re offering me a shot.
Jane screeches her chair forward. “I request a modification.” She folds her arms on the table. “I’d like it to be called: What WouldWeDo for Each Other?”
She wants in.
I almost smile. I’m not stepping on her toes or holding her back. Not unless this spins into a place that scares her to death.
“It won’t be easy, sis,” Beckett warns.
“I’m prepared.” She waves to the cards. “How do we play?”
Eliot slides down onto the seat. “Pick a card and complete the instruction.”
Sounds too simple.“That’s it?” I ask.
“You won’t flip all the cards tonight,” Charlie explains. “Whenever we tell you to turn over one or two or five, you’ll do it. Until you’ve gone through the entire deck.”
I get it. I finish the game and I gain their respect or trust or both, and without wavering, I turn to Jane. “You pick.”
She drums her lips, then slides out a left-center card. She flips it over, and I narrow my gaze on the gold script.
Tell us the number of people you’ve had intercourse with.
Unholy fuck.
I rub my mouth.
She intakes a sharp breath.
I haven’t even told Jane my number, and she hasn’t told me hers. Now we’re about to announce this shit in front of security, her cousins, and brothers.
But based on the NDAs her sexual partners had to sign, I can estimate her number. Which is probably why this task exists.
To put me on the same footing.
Eliot squints at the card.He has trouble reading—it’s one of the first things I had to tell new bodyguards on his detail. His dyslexia screws with how he sees letters. In the booth, he whispers in Tom’s ear, and Tom whispers back.
“Really?” Jane snaps at Charlie and Beckett, the two oldest.
Charlie taps the card with his cane. “If Thatcher can’t completethis, then he’ll drown every time he’s with our family.”
“Around forty,” I announce my number. Suddenly. Just like that.
“Aroundforty?” Ben glares. “You can’t remember the exact number of girls you’ve slept with?”
“People.” Beckett calmly corrects his brother and lights another cigarette. He’s being inclusive.
