Page 138 of Double Down
He was some skeevy old fucker here for a charity weekend. He had leaned too close, tried to make his move, and caught a fist to the nose for his trouble.
Phoenix handled it herself—like she always did back then—before she lost some of her spark, a spark I am determined to relight—but I never forgot the incident.
Hell, I still have the video. The CCTV caught it. It was the first time Atticus got into the security footage, and I got him to send it to me afterward.
For years it was my favorite clip to watch alone at night while thinking about her. Though I’d never admit that part out loud. I stopped watching once I was older and the difference in our ages—mine then and hers at the time of the video—felt…wrong.
But I never deleted it. Sometimes you keep your bullets polished, just in case you need them.
Maverick’s vibrating with rage, and Phoenix looks like she’s seconds from blowing as Conrad walks away with the senator.
Perfect timing. I’ll give them a few minutes’ head start.
I slip in, in the meantime, and clap a hand on Mav’s shoulder.
“Not here,” I murmur. Then, I loop my other arm through Phoenix’s, pulling her tight against me. “Trust me,” I whisper in her ear, letting my lips brush close enough to feel her shiver. “This is going to be fun.”
I steer us toward Conrad’s office, dragging a trail of tension in our wake.
“Why—” Mav starts, and Atticus follows, with a similar confused look on his face.
“Because you’re going to want to see this.”
The conference room Con takes Langford to is all polished marble and panoramic windows looking out over the casino boat, its lights glittering off the river below. The AC hums a quiet threat; the glass holds our reflections like alibis.
Conrad is in his seat at the head of the table; the senator is on his feet ranting.
Atticus stays lurking near the corner, eyes dark with calculations. Maverick takes a standing position, arms crossed, jaw ticking. And me? I guide Phoenix to the table, and then I sit right beside her, stretch out, and drop my hand casually onto her thigh under the table.
At first, it’s just to keep her grounded, to keep her from exploding at the wrong second. But once I feel her warmth, I decide to leave it there.
Langford launches into his performance. “This establishment is a den of inequity,” he bellows. “A whorehouse masquerading as a resort. Drugs, corruption, my wife nearly killed?—”
I flick through my phone with my free hand, bored.
Tap, scroll, swipe. Tap.
Phoenix’s leg tenses under my palm, but I just squeeze, a lazy, silent command.
Not yet.
He keeps going. “I’ll shut this place down. Every board in the state will hear of this filth. Your so-called luxury palace is nothing more than?—”
Finally, he stops to breathe. I seize the pause.
“Tell me, Senator,” I drawl, tilting my head. “Why was your wife buying discount Botox from strangers in the first place? Why would she risk her pretty face with garage-grade knockoffs?” I let my gaze cut to Phoenix, then back to him. “And how long has she had that fentanyl problem? Because from where I’m sitting,none of our drug issues started until she checked in. Could be correlation, sure. Or coincidence. But I doubt it.”
Langford sputters, blotchy red crawling up his neck. His mouth opens, ready to spit venom. That’s when I press play.
The video fills the silence.
Fifteen-year-old Phoenix, fists up, eyes blazing. Langford’s greasy smile leaning in. And then—bam—her small fist connects with his jaw, sending him stumbling back with all the dignity of a clown slipping on a banana peel.
His eyes widen like I just dug up his coffin. He looks at Phoenix, and his face goes slack; he hadn’t even remembered her.
“I already paid for that,” he hisses, his voice low and panicked.
“Funny,” Phoenix mutters beside me, sharp as a tack. “I never got a check.”
