Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
“Hey,” a voice says gently, and we blink apart as if we’re teenagers caught on a church pew. A woman stands near our table, green band, kind smile, and her hair in tight curls. A man stands a respectful few feet behind her, hands in his pockets like he knows where they’ve been invited to go and is willing to wait. “You two are beautiful,” she says, no hunger in it, only admiration. “If you want to watch, we’re over there.” She nods toward a blank frame that will not be blank if viewed at the right angle. “Or if you want company…?” She gestures to her own wrist, green band bright. “We’re good with yellow, too.”
Arrow’s thumb presses once to the side of my knee: your call. My heart does a weird, grateful thing.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it because she asked instead of assumed. “We’re… first-timers.”
Her eyes soften. “Then you’re doing great. Yellow is a good first night. If you change your minds, my name’s Desire. That’s Brad. We’ll be around.”
“Have fun,” Brad adds, giving us a quick nod.
They drift. I exhale a breath I didn’t know I’d been bracing. Arrow’s mouth is so close to my hair that if he were anyone else, I’d be mad. Because he’s him, I lean. The room’s heat has nothing on the line of his thigh fitted to mine.
“We can leave,” he says, not because he wants to, but because he’ll walk me out even if I’m the one who dragged us in.
“We can’t,” I say, because we came here to hunt, not to hide. “But if you keep drawing circles I am going to—”
He stops drawing circles. His hand slides closer to the hem of my dress, warm through the fabric, not crossing—because yes, but also because we have a job.
I try to watch like a detective and not like a girl whose pulse is trying to tap out Morse code for please. Pride’s frames flick to reveal a tableau: a couple in masks, kissing slow. Another flick shows nothing and everything: my reflection and, beyond it, a man I know from boring cookouts with store-bought potato salad and Bob’s jokes about cholesterol.
“Arrow.” I don’t say it out loud. I breathe it, and his posture shifts by a molecule. “Look over there.”
He follows my gaze. Three couches down, under a painting of a laurel-wreathed mirror, sits Paul Felder. He’s out of his navy polo and into a suit that fits too well to be new. His green band glows like an invitation. He works with Bob—city contracts, I think, Procurement or Utilities, the office with bad ceiling tiles and pep talks about fiscal responsibility. He’s not doing anything illegal—talking to a woman with a sequined mask, her hand light on his forearm as she laughs —but the last place I expected to see Bob’s favorite second-in-command was at Club Greed.
I lift my hand without thinking, a reflex wave from a thousand barbecues. Arrow’s fingers close around mine, and he presses our hands back into my lap. I glare at him. He tips his head a fraction.
He whispers, so soft I feel it more than I hear it. “Do you want Bob to get an ‘I saw Juno’ text from Paul?”
Accepted. I turn my head just enough to see Paul without staring. He looks… not happy. Not unhappy, either.
The door at the far end opens and the room tilts. You can tell a shift in power the way you can feel a weather front—pressure drops and everyone’s hair learns a new trick.
Five men waltz into Pride like they’re cutting a ribbon. Not literally—no choreography, no parade—but their arrival organizes the air.
I know them before I know them. Not their faces, not their names, not their scent. I know them because the shape of the space around them is wrong. Because the murder in my sister’s live feed had a rhythm, and this is the percussion section walking in with sticks.
Man One is the kind of handsome that looks good as a logo: mid-forties, all angles and rested ego, suit charcoal with a silk sheen like he came here straight from a boardroom that keeps a decanter for him. A small scar tracks over the knuckle of his index finger—white and smooth, like old paper. Watch: black ceramic. Ring: glossy onyx set low. His smile looks expensive.
Man Two is tall enough to change light bulbs without a ladder. Shaved head, a dark line of ink just above his collar that disappears into money. Shoulders like a linebacker and posture that says “former something.” His band is… red. No approach. A statement as strategic as a chess move.
Man Three is pretty and knows it—collar open, gold chain fine as spider silk. He wears loafers with tassels (which should be a crime) and a pinky ring that glints when he gestures. The staff glance at him too long; I can’t tell if it’s caution or credit.