Page 33 of Double Down
“Weak fucking play,” I spit. “If they wanted to make a move, they would’ve. This? This is a warning. A test.”
“Or a setup,” Storm says with a shrug.
I glance at him. “You think they wanted us to dispose of it?”
“Are we ready?” Atticus asks before Storm answers.
He looks like shit.
That’s how I know things are really bad—Atticus is usually precise to the edge of OCD. Tonight, his shirt is wrinkled, his collar’s unbuttoned, and his bow tie is untied. His hair’s ruffled like he’s been clawing at it, and his glasses are smudged.
That’s not the Atticus I know. His left eyelid ticks.
He doesn’t wait for us to ask, but I see it, and I know Storm does, too.
“Still no trace,” Atticus says. “Whoever did this scrubbed the logs clean. All access footage of this suite, the hallway, the docks—wiped. I’ve got a backup redundancy, but even that’s corrupted. Let’s get down there so I can come back up and keep working.”
I don’t think he slept at all. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s flirting with abusing his meds.
“Inside job?” I ask.
He nods once. “Or someone who knows me very well. And there are only four people on the planet that know me that well.”
Fuck.
The casino floor is packed—women in sequins, men in tuxedos. Champagne and laughter flow almost as fast as the money. I outdid myself again, but none of the glitz and old-world glam compares to her.
I see her the second we walk in and my breath catches. My actual chest aches, and I remember my half-formed promise to become a man worthy of her.
Or to bring her down to my level.
But the absolute vision of a woman that I’m staring at? She’s not lowering herself for anyone. Not even me.
She’s worth all of it and more.
Phoenix stands at Conrad’s side, his hand low on her waist—possessive—and I don’t blame him. My little firebird burns brighter than any woman in the room. Her honey-hued hair falls in loose waves, and her black dress is banded in gold and silver beads with fringe kissing her thighs, giving teasing peeks. Unlike the other women in dresses around the room, hers isn’t a sack with sequins. The V-neck frames her cleavage, and the cut hugs her curves in a way that makes my mouth water.
She’s stunning. And she’s mine.
Well—all of ours.
But she’s mine to take, to break. I could bend her over a poker table and claim her as mine in front of everyone here if I so chose, dictated by the terms of our agreement and more, by the terms of this thing…thisattractionthat sparks between us. That doesn’t lie.
That thought alone will get me through the next few hours. I run a thumb across my bottom lip. Later tonight that pretty red lipstick is going to be smeared over my cock, and the memories of body disposal will fade.
I slide a smile into place and step into the light—time to work the room and win us a future so I can claim my prize.
8
Storm
I’d just as soon stabthese people in the eye as speak to them, but Atticus wouldn't fucking let me bring my knives with me.
"You don’t need your knives at a goddamn party. If you brought them, the next thing you know, you’ll be throwing them at the ice sculpture because you’re ready to murder an actual guest. We have to show we’re mature and can actually handle this. I don't want to have to deal with the police when you stab some dirty old man for looking at Phoenix the wrong way."
Atticus needs to get some fucking sleep. When he’s tired, his nagging ramps up to a ten, and I don't remember making him my wife.
But, he has a point, so I play the part I was born into. I talk, I laugh, and I drink—but every bit of it’s a hollow performance. We aren't having fun. We're mastering the roles we’re expected to play. The parts expected of men of our age and status. Ice clinks in our glasses, the jokes land two beats late, our smiles are just a fraction too polished. Yet none of the idiots around us see through the facade.
