Page 77 of Roulette Rodeo
This view cost us fifteen million.
Not the office—the entire building. The only high-rise in this part of our carefully crafted oasis, rising eight stories above a town that pretends industrial complexes and logging operations are its only claims to fame. From the outside, it looks like any other corporate building: glass and steel and aggressive modernism that says 'serious business happens here.'
Which it does…just not always the kind that gets reported to the IRS.
This building houses a dozen different companies, all legitimate on paper, all ultimately owned by us through shell corporations so complex even I sometimes lose track. Tech startups that launder money. Import/export businesses thatactually import and export, just not always what the manifests say. Consulting firms that provide very specific kinds of consultation to very specific kinds of clients.
It's ideal for those hiding from the past, for those who need new identities, for those who understand that sometimes disappearing doesn't mean running—it means building something new where no one thinks to look.
The storm builds on the horizon, dark clouds rolling in like an invading army. That's the thing about Jackknife Ridge—when it rains, there are only two kinds: light, beautiful rain that makes everything smell like pine and possibility, or merciless, storming drops that remind you nature doesn't give a fuck about your plans.
Looking at those clouds, this is definitely going to be the second kind.
I take another sip of whisky, letting it burn down my throat while I watch the trees in the distance start to sway. Thirty minutes. Maybe less before it hits. The drive from here to the house takes twenty on a good day, but I'm in no hurry to go back.
Not with her there.
Red.
Even thinking her name makes something twist in my chest—anger, resentment, and underneath it all, something I refuse to acknowledge.
It's been three days since we brought her home. Three days of carefully orchestrated avoidance on my part, though the others seem content to orbit around her like she's their new sun. She’s been sleeping for the most part, as if all that captivity in Crimson Roulette’s playground finally caught up and smacked her in the face in the form of endless sleep. That only encouraged the others to make her existence their world. Corwin is checking her vitals every few hours, even though she's clearly recovered. Talon is making sure the nurse who comes on and off theproperty gives the right liquids and medications, hovering in doorways like a lovesick teenager. And Shiloh...
Shiloh's been the worst. Or best, depending on your perspective.
He tries to maintain his usual stoic distance, but I see the way his nostrils flare when he passes by her room. The way his eyes track her slightest movement in bed is
COLORS OF FREEDOM
~RED~
"I've got sunshine on a cloudy day..."
My voice echoes off the bathroom tiles, probably off-key, but who's here to judge? The bubbles come up to my chin, smelling like vanilla and something floral I can't identify—fancy shit that probably costs more than I made in a week at the casino.
"When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May..."
Duke looks up from where he's destroying what was once a stuffed rabbit, his ears perked at my singing. The toy squeaks pathetically as he shakes it, and I can't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. He's claimed the bathroom rug as his territory, apparently deciding that wherever I am is where he needs to be.
"Well, I guess you'd say, what can make me feel this way..."
The nail polish bottles are lined up on the tub's edge like soldiers awaiting inspection. Twelve different shades of red, because apparently when Corwin said "pick up some nail polish for Red," Talon interpreted that as "buy every red in the store."
I've been staring at them for twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes of freedom to choose something as simple as nail polish, and I'm paralyzed by the options.
At the Crimson Roulette, we didn't get choices.
Marnay had a staff of beta women who did our hair, makeup, nails—everything designed to his specifications. Blood red for the fingernails, always. Clear or nude for the toes unless specifically requested otherwise by high-paying clients. I'd sit there like a doll being painted, not even allowed to pick the fucking color of my own toenails.
Now I have twelve choices, and I don't know what to do with them.
There's "Crimson Tide"—too close to the casino's signature color, makes my stomach turn.
"Cherry Bomb"—Briar's nickname for me, and thinking about her still locked in that velvet prison makes my chest ache.
"Scarlet Letter"—a bit too on the nose for a former sex worker, thanks.
