Page 9 of A Game of Deception
3
XANDER
I hadn’t slept.Not even close.
I’d spent the entire night on the penthouse balcony, watching the city’s lights flicker and fade as dawn crept over the Atlantic. My hand throbbed under the bandage—a tiny, persistent drumbeat.She’s here. She’s here. She’s here.
I knocked back another gulp of whisky. The bottle was nearly empty now. I should’ve felt something—drunk, numb, anything—but my body had long ago built up a tolerance that would impress medical students. The alcohol just sat there, burning my throat, doing jack shit for the chaos in my head.
Last night played on an endless loop: Hank’s smug welcome, the champagne glass shattering in my grip, the crowd’s murmurs. But mostly Tara’s eyes. Those weren’t the eyes of a girl anymore. They were assured. Determined. Hungry.
I flexed my bandaged hand, feeling the cut beneath the gauze stretch and burn. Her fingers had been so careful wrapping it. But I’d felt it—the tiny hesitations, the barely noticeable pressure changes. She’d enjoyed it. Enjoyed touching me.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I muttered, tipping my head back against the lounge chair. The sky turned that peculiar pre-dawn gray, the color of indecision.
Jimmy was six months older than me and would have been thirty by now. Would have had a career, maybe a family. Instead, he was dust and memory, and his sister—his baby sister—was all grown up and armed with medical credentials.
The sliding door behind me whispered open. Leo. Always Leo.
“You look like absolute shite,” he said, settling into the chair beside me. He was already dressed in pressed chinos and a polo, looking every inch the professional assistant, despite the early hour. “Didn’t sleep?”
I raised the nearly empty whisky bottle in silent answer.
Leo sighed. “Give me that.” He plucked it from my hand and set it on the small table between us. “We’ve got the facility tour in an hour. You need to shower and look less like you’re auditioning for ‘Intervention.’”
“Cancel the tour.”
“Can’t. Owner’s orders.” Leo’s voice was casual, but I caught the slight edge. He’d been watching me like a hawk since the party, his usual easygoing front slipping to reveal something more urgent. “Apparently, Hank Swanson is very excited to show off his new toy.”
“Me or the facility?” My laugh was brittle.
“Both, probably.” Leo stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Come on. Shower. Coffee. Advil. In that order.”
I didn’t move. “She’s his daughter.”
Leo paused mid-stretch. “Aye, I gathered that from the matching surnames and the whole ‘let me introduce my daughter’ carry on.”
“Not just his daughter. She’s Jimmy’s sister.”
Leo’s arms lowered slowly. In the years we’d been friends, I’d mentioned Jimmy’s name exactly twice. Once, blackout drunk in Glasgow, sobbing on a bathroom floor. The second time, in London, after I’d gotten the tattoo: his initials and the date.
“Jimmy,” Leo repeated carefully. “Your friend from California. The one who died.”
I nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first golden rays of sun were spilling over the ocean. “Car accident.”
Leo was quiet for a long moment as he connected the dots. “And the lass—Dr. Swanson—she was his sister.”
“Yeah, Tara.” Her name felt strange in my mouth after so long. “She was sixteen when it happened.”
Leo’s expression shifted. “When what happened, exactly?”
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the balcony floor. “I need that shower.”
I brushed past him, ignoring the question. Leo knew the broad strokes of my past—driving accident, best friend dead, guilt and exile—but not the details.
Some shame cuts too deep to share, even with the person who’s seen you at your worst.
The hot waterhammered my shoulders without mercy, but my brain kept right on playing the greatest hits of my fucked-up past. I slapped my palms against the fancy slate tile, dropping my head under the spray like I might drown the thoughts if I tried hard enough. My bandaged hand was turning into soggy gauze origami—perfect ammunition for Dr. Tara’s next round of “how to take care of yourself, dumbass.”
