Page 81 of House Rules
More likely? Storm would stare me down with those cold, calculating eyes and ask why the fuck I brought my baggage into their house. Maverick would crack some cruel joke about loyalty. Atticus wouldn’t say a word—he’d just watch, weigh, and judge.
And Con? Con would be the worst. Not because he’d mock me, but because he mightnot. Because I don’t think I could handle him looking at me with pity.
If they knew I signed a deal with the devil just to stay afloat, that I agreed to watch them in exchange for safety, they’d never see me the same. If they saw it as betrayal—and how could they not?—then what happens to me?
Best-case scenario? They fire me. From the minder job. From my housekeeper job. From every thread I’ve managed to stitch into this fragile life. And I’mleft out in the cold, with no protection, no paycheck, and a target on my back.
Worst case? If they really are involved in what I think they are—if they really did have something to do with Rachel’s death—then maybe I don’t get fired.
Maybe I just disappear.
A soft shiver runs through me despite the heat. Not from fear, exactly, but from the overwhelming impossibility of choice. I’m caught in a maze where every exit is a trap.
Eventually, the water cools again. I rise from the bath slowly, every movement sore, the ache between my thighs a sharp, delicious reminder of what I did this morning. Of who I did it with.
I towel off and pad into the adjoining bathroom, fingers fumbling for the bottle of painkillers tucked behind a row of half-used serums. I dry-swallow two before moving toward the closet.
Business as usual. That’s all I can do. That’s all Ihaveright now.
Because until something shifts—until one of thepieces on this board makes a move—I can’t risk revealing mine.
When I get out to the living room, Maverick is sprawled across one of the velvet armchairs, playing blackjack with a few hostesses and the female dealer he was chatting up yesterday. The girls are giggling, drinks in hand, and chips scattered across the table in front of them. The whole room feels like a party I wasn’t invited to.
“Firebird,” he calls, lifting his glass. “Come be my lucky charm.”
“I thought I was your lucky charm,” one of the girls pouts, leaning into him with a sugary whine.
Maverick rolls his eyes. “Yeah? Well, I’m losing, so you’re a shit lucky charm.” He waves her off with the flick of a wrist.
The girl makes a dramatic huff and stomps off, hips swaying in frustration. He doesn’t even blink.
I hesitate, but then walk over and slide into her vacant seat. The dealer glances at me and asks if I want in.
Maverick tosses a pile of chips in front of me—atleast fifteen thousand dollars by my quick mental math.
“I guess so,” I murmur, flashing a smile. My fingers brush the chips, trying not to feel the weight of what they represent.
I know how to play cards. I learned from my father during one of the rare quiet spells between his yelling fits. Blackjack was his favorite. He said it taught discipline. The only quality time we had was spent at the kitchen table, a deck of cards between us and too many unspoken things in the air.
But I don’t play for money.
I saw how gambling rotted his insides, how it made him reckless and desperate. I promised myself I’d never follow that path. Still, I let my fingers dance over the chips like they’re nothing more than tokens in a game I’m not truly part of. They aren’t money. They’re just decoration. Distractions.
We play for a while, laughter and flirtation circling the table. Then one of the girls—tiny dress riding up to reveal a flash of ass—stretches and slinks back into her seat.
“Don’t you work downstairs?” she asks, giving me a sideways look.
“I did,” I say, tapping the table for another card. “Now I work up here.”
“Oh.” Her voice lilts. “Did you hear about Gary?”
“Who the fuck is Gary?” Maverick asks, uninterested.
“The dealer we had yesterday,” I say before he can scowl at her for interrupting his game. Of course he didn’t remember his name—he barely sees people he can’t screw or command.
The girl nods, sipping her drink. “Well, apparently he didn’t show up for his shift today. His wife keeps calling the office. He never came home.”
A chill creeps down my spine. “Really?”
