Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
“Fine.” He shrugs. “You’ll do me after Frizz.”
“I’m not cheap. It’s going to cost you an arm and a leg.”
Another glare. My insides shrivel.
“But for you?” I lift a finger, adjusting. “Just the arm. Maybe a toe.”
The corner of his mouth tips into an almost smile.
“The last thing.” He drops his voice to a velvet rumble. “I like how you handled Crowe. The bomb. The razor blade.”
My heart skips.
“I was running surveillance at the nightclub that night. Had a dozen operatives on standby, a mole buried behind enemy lines, and we were still days, maybe weeks out from making a clean grab for Jag.” His eyes bore into mine. “You made us all look slow.”
“I get impatient when people I love are taken from me.”
“You thought outside the box, kid. And you didn’t flinch. We need a mind like yours on the team.”
“You offering me a job?”
“I’m offering you a life. Right here. At the table. With Jag.”
“What about Dove?”
“She’s already in. Making friends, getting grease under her nails while working on Luke’s cars, rolling through the halls on her skates, and painting her toes with the ladies. She’s not going anywhere.”
I feel the yes line up in my chest, but I don’t say it. Not without Jag and Dove weighing in.
“I mean…” I motion between us, the grove, the citadel, the general state of my existence. “That’s a hell of a pitch. Let me… Sit with the vibe. Consult the council. Scream into a pillow. I’ll circle back.”
“You do that.”
“Leave him alone, Van.”
I turn toward the musical voice, and Holy Mother of all, Liv Reed steps out of the shadows.
Long black hair spills down her back in glossy sheets. Her black mini dress leaves little to the imagination, the arrangement of straps looking edgy and severe without trying.
She’s the incarnate of Kate Beckinsale, Death Dealer of the Underworld, and Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
Hard to believe she was Van’s first slave.
Dominatrix energy blasts from her, shaking my legs with the urge to kneel for her and press my lips to her stilettos.
And the scar on her face? Same line. Same angle. An exact mirror of Van’s.
“Pay up.” She holds out a palm to Van.
He exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket. A Colombian paper bill appears. The big one. He stabs it with his toothpick and holds it out like an offering.
“Gross.” She pinches it by the corner and finally looks at me.
I’m openly staring.
“We had a bet.” She stuffs the money between her breasts. “On how long it would take your boy to hack the security system. I knew it wouldn’t be today. He’s too busy being in love.”
Van grunts, accepting the loss.
My skin itches with nerves and restlessness. I reach for my smokes, and her eyes narrow the second the flame flares.
“Are you the smoke police?” I take a drag.
“Hardly.” She gives a feminine snort. Then continues to glare.
“Want one?” I hold out the pack.
She accepts it without hesitation.
My hands shake as I strike the lighter again, cupping the flame for her. I hate that she notices.
She leans in, inhales, and tips her head back through a long, slow exhale like she’s been waiting years for it. Her shoulders loosen. Her spine eases. The entire jungle sighs with her.
Then she pins me with a stare that could peel paint off steel. “If you tell my husband I smoke, I’ll crush your precious little jewels under my boot.”
My balls recoil into my body, running for cover.
I can’t tell her I’ve memorized the portfolio for every member of the inner circle. So I slap on my dumbest face.
“Which one is he?” I tilt my head, squinting a little. “Tall, dark, and handsome? Big, bronze, and scary?”
“Don’t fuck with me, boy.” She steps into my space, leans in, and exhales a slow, intimidating stream of smoke.
Her dark eyes imprison mine, daring me to shrink.
I don’t move. Don’t cough. I blink through the haze and let it wash over me, because flinching would be a mistake.
“Your poker face isn’t bad.” She straightens and returns to the railing. “But no one wears a mask as well as I do.”
“She’s not wrong,” Van says unhelpfully.
“My husband…” She prompts, waiting for me to fess up.
“Joshua Carter.” I wipe my palms on my shorts. “Retired linebacker with pale green eyes and black hair.”
“He will not find out about this.” She waves the cigarette.
“Your secret. Buried. Unmarked grave.”
Van chuckles and ruffles my hair.
Then something wild happens.
They pull up chairs. Casual. Like this is a patio in the suburbs and not the nerve center of a criminal mythos.
Liv crosses her legs, stiletto hooked on the rung, cigarette balanced just so. Van pours tequila. Time loosens its grip. And we… Hang out.
They gossip about inner-circle nonsense, who’s having the most sex, who’s pretending not to care, which spouse grovels the most, which one never uses the gym, which Gomez sister can kick Van’s ass. Liv razzes Van about leaving toothpicks everywhere. Van fires back about her reorganizing the kitchen like it’s a crime scene.