Page 78 of Double Down
He doesn’t give a fuck if I’m innocent or not.
“I told you to release him.” Phoenix mutters indignantly. “No one is going to say a word to you for two reasons. One, you assaulted a man in his home, which you’ve entered without a fucking warrant. He’s not under arrest. Which means what you’ve done is assault. And number two? Their fucking lawyers are not present. Do you think that you can enter the private residence of the heirs to the Masterson, Vale, Carrow, and Locke dynasties. To Titan-fucking-Wynn? Are you a fucking idiot?”
18
Phoenix
From:Phoenix Jones
To: Mr. Masterson
RE:We had a brief disturbance tied to two impaired guests; the Titans cooperated, moved fast, and kept the floor calm while PR and security smoothed the edges. Everyone remained professional and the resort’s exposure stayed minimal.
Sarah.
Her name hangs in the air like smoke, choking me, making it hard to breathe. The cops have said it three times now, each repetition slower, heavier—as if the syllables alone will drive one of us mad with guilt and make someone confess.
They aren’t looking at Conrad or Atticus. They aren’t even looking at Storm, who stands in the corner, arms crossed, glaring at the uniforms.
They aren’t looking at me.
Their focus is entirely on Maverick. They watch him like they already know he’s guilty. Like they think he’s dangerous.
A killer.
It’s breaking my heart.
Maverick still kneels, wrists bound behind his back, the thin shine of the cuffs biting into his skin. From where I stand, I catch the angry flush creeping over his cheekbones, the faint tick in his jaw each time the shorter cop opens his mouth.
He’s beyond pissed, but his chest rises in a slow, steady count that I recognize, one that reminds me of an echoing, stainless steel kitchen and enough cheesecake to make my stomach hurt.
“I told you that you need to release him.” I may not be able to physically get to Maverick right now, but I’ll be damned if these idiots keep me from protecting him any way I can. “Conrad. Get the lawyers here now.”
The carpet under him is thick, plush, and expensive, but he holds himself so rigidly it might as well be concrete. His fingers curl against the small of his back, slow and deliberate, like he’s keeping track of each one so he doesn’t accidentally misplace them.
It takes me a moment, but I recognize that technique, too. It’s the same tapping one I use when the nightmares wake me and I don’t want to wake anyone.
He’s on the edge, and it’s my fault. Again.
Every few seconds, his gaze flicks to the hallway behind me. He wants to make sure I’m here, and okay, without drawing attention to me, while the rest of him eases into a quiet that can only last so long before it shatters.
I know, because I recognize it.
Atticus catches my arm and keeps me at his side before I can go to Maverick. I understand why, but I hate him a little for it.
The shorter cop crouches a little in front of Maverick, closing the distance to make it personal. His voice drops too low for me to hear, but I see the cruelty in his smile, and I see the way Maverick answers with nothing more than a grinding of his teeth, his fingers tightening behind him, his biceps flexing—eyes forward, mouth shut.
I don’t know if the cop is trying to make Maverick break or to make one of the others charge in, but it won’t work.
My heart hammers, and my mouth dries, but I can’t look away.
Maverick doesn’t answer. The others don’t move.
That stillness is what scares me most.
Maverick isn’t the kind to hide what he’s feeling. He’s all big gestures and easy grins…until he isn’t. He wears irritation and anger as easily as joy. But now—nothing. Even his face has gone neutral in a way that doesn’t look like him. If not for the red creeping up his neck and into the tops of his ears, I’d think he hasn’t heard a word.
I want to move. I want to step between them. But I’ve learned enough from Atticus and Conrad to know when putting myself in the middle only makes it worse. Even if I forget, Atticus’s hand on my arm reminds me—maybe warns me.
