Page 17 of Double Down
"Atticus," I say, trying to pull him off the screens.
He doesn't respond—just keeps muttering about “fucking code” under his breath.
I grab the edge of the desk and pull his chair back an inch, just enough to break the trance and force his eyes to me instead of the screen.
"What?"
"How many?"
His brows knit. "How the fuck am I supposed to know how many it took to break my?—”
"Not what I mean." I nod at the bottle. "How many did you take?"
He blinks, then rolls his eyes. "One," he says, voice low. "For now."
I stare him down for five full seconds, watching for the lie.
Nothing. No shift, no twitch, no dodge. His eyes are bloodshot and his pupils wide, but his gaze holds mine steadily.
He's telling the truth, and I feel like an ass for doubting him. He doesn't lie about control—not after the bullshit and accusations that came when his parents found out that he was taking Adderall without a prescription. We kept ourselves away from scandal, but we weren’t able to keep it from his parents. The manipulation that followed—the drama and the guilt—we all agreed to keep ourselves under control.
"Good." I nod.
"When this is over, I say we spend like a month just sailing away from the bullshit" he says, turning back to the keyboard.
“You want to be trapped on a boat with Phoenix for a month?”
“I’ll need something to do without wifi.” He offers with a shrug.
"Deal." I spin his chair to face me, needing him to hear me instead of stare at the screen. "We have a call with the parents. Back to code after."
"Fuck," he says, standing and stretching. "Because today wasn't enough of a shitstorm."
By the time we make it into the other room, the body is gone. Somehow, the dining table looks the same—mahogany rich and spotless and blameless.
It seems wrong. Wood shouldn't be able to look innocent.
Twenty-four hours ago, we spread Phoenix on that table and shared her. It was supposed to be a punishment, proof that she wasn't enough. We were supposed to break her. I wanted to show her that she wasn't strong enough to take everything we could give.
Everything we are.
The only thing anyone proved is that Phoenix is stronger than we expected, and it was going to take something more to leave her fractured and in pieces.
I was looking forward to the challenge. Her broken heart in my hands was the one prize I coveted above all others.
None of us were expecting the girl. The pretty blonde who stripped down—probably willingly if the price was right—who was then killed and used as a message that we’re not as untouchable as we like to think.
And now the table looks the same as it always has.
I open my mouth to ask Maverick where the body is, and then shut it. Ignorance might be safer for the next five minutes. At least until we get done with the call.
"Sit over here," Maverick says, guiding Phoenix toward the corner. I'm still floored by how perfect she is, just sitting there, hair in a long braid that leaves a wet stain on the oversized shirt she borrowed from Storm.
How dare she look so unphased when she brought all this bullshit to our doorstep.
She looks at me, and my breath burns in my chest. I can still see her as she was last night—spread out on the table, her hair spilled like bourbon over the polished wood, her face caught somewhere between pain and bliss.
When she was mine.
