Page 145 of Reckless Hearts

Fuck me, I love the way she blushes.

* * *

I look for patterns.Patterns help me narrow thoughts down. Finding them helps me focus and see the truth in things.

There were three of them—three kings of the Para Bellum club that year. I killed Brad and Chase the night of the Halloween Ball—the night Dahlia left school and never came back, under my dire threats.

But one of those kings remains: Chase’s third-in-command, Spencer.

He was always the least shitty of the three of them. And these days, he’s gone out of his way to show just what a good man he is. I’m aware that acting good doesn’t make himactuallygood, because bad men often cloak their badness in everything he has—a beautiful wife, children, the charity he runs, blah blah fucking blah.

But when the bad ones cover it with goodness, it’s usually painfully obvious. It’s too perfect and symmetrical, like tiles covering the marks and imperfections of the bare wood floor beneath.

There’s no pattern with him, though. His life is simply that: a life, not a cover.

Just the same, it’s time I had a little chat with Spencer Campbell.

Luckily, he’s not far. He lives in New York City now.

…Where he’s about to announce his candidacy for mayor.

* * *

“Uh, sir?Sir!”The flustered secretary flaps after me down the hallway of Campbell and Dunn. The law firm bears Spencer’s name because his uncle is one of the founding partners; he himself is now a senior partner.

Partner at a top law firm, running for mayor, has a nice little charity foundation, and enjoys a happy, beautiful family. Yep, Spencer’s done well for himself.

It also means he’s gotso muchto lose.

“Sir!” The secretary continues to squawk. “Sir, do you have an appointment?”

“Nope.”

I barge into his office. Spencer starts, looking up from his desk in confusion before suddenly he freezes.

“Mr. Campbell, sir, I’m sorry, he wouldn’t stop—”

“It’s fine, Christine,” Spencer says quietly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Hold my calls, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

When the door closes, I smile icily at him.

“Hello, Spencer.”

His throat works as he sits back in his chair. “Yes…ahh… I heard you were back in the city, Deimos.”

“I’ll bet you did.”

He’s scared. But it’s not pathetic or abject. It’s a natural fear, quite to be expected, and he’s not cowering, either.

“I’ve never spoken a word about any of it to anyone, Deimos,” he growls quietly.

I arch a brow. “I’m very curious why it is you jumped right to that.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “I doubt you’re here to tell me you’re going to make a campaign contribution.”

Spencer and I bumped into each other a week after the night of the Halloween Ball, at the school-sponsored memorial to poor Brad Hathaway and Chase Cavendish, who’d died in a tragic fire where alcohol was presumed to have played a factor.

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