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)
Somewhere between this is unfair and never stop, I drag him toward the bedroom by the hem of his sweatshirt, because the door is fun but my spine would like to keep its cartilage. He lets me lead. He always lets me lead when I pick a direction.
We fall onto the bed in a tangle that somehow doesn’t feel clumsy at all. It’s a blur and it isn’t. He doesn’t rush. He layers patience and want until my breathing is a metronome for something that doesn’t exist outside of this room.
We remove all our clothing in a flash, and he climbs back onto me.
“I love you,” he whispers as he slides into me. “I love you so fucking much.”
I cup his face. “I love you too.”
He slams into me harder, pinning my wrists above my head. “I’ll never tire of owning this pussy.”
“It’s yours,” I sing in a chorus of heartbeats. “All yours.”
This makes him smile. Not in a cheesy, goofy grin-type of way, but in a possession-type of grin, like he finally knows he’s got me.
We find a rhythm, and my orgasm hits me like a ton of bricks. It’s relentless. It’s all-consuming. His tumbles us to the floor.
When we finally break, my room looks like a tornado ripped through it. My hair is a crime. His sweatshirt is halfway to the floor. The coffee’s sitting on the entry table out there getting cold.
I roll onto my side and nest myself into his chest, one leg slung over his hips, his palm at the small of my back like it belongs there. His heartbeat is ridiculous, rabbit-fast, and mine answers like an echo.
He kisses my hair once, not strategic, just because. “Truth?” he says, voice low.
“Truth,” I say, and prop my chin on his sternum so I can watch his face.
“We went to see Paul last night,” he says with no preamble. “Me, Ozzy, Gage.”
I go still for a second, not because I’m shocked—because I’m not, not really—but because I need a moment to process the information.
“We didn’t tell you,” he continues, steady, “because I knew you’d want to come. And I didn’t want you to get made by a man who has seen you at Bob’s barbecues and is three degrees from the Five. I also didn’t want you arrested if it went sideways. You asked for truth. This is all of it.”
“How sideways?” I ask.
“Oh, you know, typical sideways,” he says with a cute smile. “We grabbed him at the door. Sat him in his own dining chair. Tied him off with nylon that won’t leave marks. We wore the idiot presidents.”
A laugh escapes me, sharp as a hiccup. “You interrogated Paul Felder as Hoover? I miss him.”
“Hoover now knows where the mints are in Paul’s foyer,” he says, deadpan.
I bark another laugh that turns into tears at the edges, because everything does. He sees it and cups my jaw gently with that big, careful hand. “He sang, Juno,” he says softly. “We didn’t lay a hand on him. He just… spilled. And now, we have names.”
My pulse ticks up. “Say them.”
“Stanley Coleman,” he says first, and the room goes a shade darker. “The onyx ring. Gracewood’s fixer-in-chief.”
I nod once, jaw tight.
“Rook Salazar,” he continues. “Ex-something. Anchor ink under the collar.”
“Rook,” I repeat, tasting the weight of it. “Of course.”
“Beau Latham,” he says, and I can hear the contempt. “Hedge fund. Pinky ring with a B—or a thirteen.”
“Tassel loafers,” I say, and Arrow’s mouth curves in a humorless little line.
“Merritt Voss,” he adds. “Fixer with a smile like a paper cut.”
“And the last one?” I ask.
“Devin Pike,” Arrow confirms. “Old money, new problems. Wants to be Coleman when he grows up.” Arrow pauses, and then says, “He’s got a YouTube channel.”
I let the names march through my head and sit down in a row. Coleman. Rook. Beau. Merritt. Devin. The Five. I shiver at the thought of how close we’re getting.
“And Gray’s orbiting,” he says, because the sun exists even when it hides. “Julian Gray is above it, which is worse. Nico is the ferry. I’m not sure if anyone else is involved.”
I close my eyes. The matchbooks. The marina slip. The ring in all our pictures, compass rose over waves. “I want to see them again,” I say, opening my eyes. “In person. Tonight.”
He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches when I aim at something. He thinks for a beat. I can see him running through the map. “Stonehouse,” he says. “Or there’s also a warehouse we could go.”
“I think we need witnesses.” I smile. “So, it’s Stonehouse.”
“Stonehouse,” he agrees. “I’ll have Gage get a reservation. Render will sit on the alley cams. Knight will nurse a drink at the bar and pretend to watch soccer. Ozzy will fall in love with a bartender and extract the POS system with charm alone.”