Page 24 of Double Down
The under-cabinet lights glow low, making the granite countertops gleam. Maverick is there, perched on the counter in sweats and a hoodie, a stack of black chips at his side. He's rolling one over his knuckles, then palming it, making it disappear and reappear like it's shy.
I hesitate on the threshold.
"You should be asleep," I say.
"So should you." He flicks the chip; it lands upright, spinning. "Sleep is for people without bullshit made-up quarterly targets and dead bodies to think about."
I huff a laugh before I can stop it. He grins like he's been fishing for that sound. The grin is his usual lacquered charm, but his eyes aren't smiling.
His eyes are real.
“I’d bet more money than most people make in a year that you didn’t drink enough water today,” he says suddenly. He hops off the counter, opens the fridge, pulls two waters, and passes me one. "You okay?"
I twist the cap and take a long pull, oddly charmed by the gesture. “Define okay."
"Let’s see. You’re not bleeding. Not bolting. Not ghosting me when I try to make you laugh." His mouth tilts. "Two out of three isn't bad."
My phone buzzes in my palm. I flip it face-down on the island without looking at it. "Spam. I’m fine, yeah. You?"
"Sure."
He doesn't press. Maverick never presses—he invites chaos and truth like they’re wild animals he’s trying to tame. He’s an open palm where everyone else is a closed fist.
He taps the chip against the glossy surface of the counter and changes the subject easily. "Parents are more or less splitting the pot at the end of the quarter. You hear that bullshit?"
"I heard 'fifteen percent or starve.'"
"Yup." He spins the chip again, casts his gaze down thoughtfully before speaking again. "I also heard, 'break the set.' I think they’re going to send us to different corners with pretty keys to pretty kingdoms and see who forgets to call home. To break the merry band of misfits that they created."
He says it lightly, but something threads through the words that isn't light at all. "Would you forget?" I ask. “To call home?”
His smile softens. "No, Trouble. That's the problem. I don't forget." He pauses. "I just…collect."
"Collect?"
"People. Stories. Messes." He gestures at the room around us with the chip. "Whales, hosts, dancers, dealers. Half our revenue comes down to who feels seen and who feels like a number. I'm good at making people feel like the only one in the room." He looks at me then, something way too serious beneath the lightness of his words. "I’m just not good at being the only one in the room."
"Maverick…you're enough, all on your own,” I say, because I can hear the shape of the fear he won't name. “You know that, right?”
"I do know." He doesn't, though. He blinks too slow; the meaning doesn't catch. “But if they carve us up—each of us with our own kingdom, they will find out how much I can’t do. I don’t know the contracts like Con, the security like Storm or the systems like Atticus. Without them, what do I have left?" He lifts a shoulder. "I'm not asking you to answer."
I swallow. The split sits in my mouth like a coin. Tails I stay, heads I break something I can't fix. “What if they do?" I ask. "Split you. Where do I go? Or…do I go with any of you?”
Would I still get paid, if there is a Titan in every corner of the country would any place be safe for me to start over? I can’t be near any of them and pretend to be someone else.
He taps the chip once, quiet. "That’s up to you princess, and how much torment your heart can take.”
"That's not an answer."
"It's the truth" His eyes cut toward the hall where Conrad sleeps. "Pick any single Titan, and the others get smaller. Pick all of us, and people start wanting to divide you into shares that never quite equal a whole."
I rub the bridge of my nose. "I'm not a fucking portfolio, Maverick."
"Exactly." He hops off the counter and comes around to stand in front of me. "So let's say we refuse the terms that aren't in writing."
I rub my forefinger over my forehead. He’s speaking in riddles. “I don’t…what does…I don’t know what that means."
He catches my left wrist gently, flips it palm-up. From his hoodie pocket he pulls a thin cord of black silk—like a ribbon, exceptthinner, sleeker. He ties it twice around my wrist, leaving just enough room for it to move freely but not slide off, and tugs the knot snug.
