Page 67 of The Demons We Hide

“We do?”

Lex turns me around and urges me in G’s direction. “Go on now, baby,” he says. “We’ll catch you later.”

I blow out a long breath, but dutifully make my way to the Firebird, rounding the vehicle until I’m at the passenger door. Gio gives me a big ol’ grin as I pop it open and slide inside.

“Where are we going?” I ask as soon as we’re both situated in the car and Nolan’s bike revs as it flies past us on the way out of the parking lot.

“Your favorite place,” Gio tells me, his grin growing. “Cory’s.”

Just like that, I’m smiling too. It’s been forever since I’ve been back to Cory’s gym, and Gio’s right—it’s become my favorite place, practically the only place where I feel like a person and not a character in some fucked up play that I somehow don’t have lines to. If anything, Cory’s gym is the one place I can get some of my anger out in healthy bouts of sparring.

I eye the man sitting next to me. “Are you working out with me today?” I ask.

G shoves his tongue into the side of his cheek as he tries not to smile quite as hard as he is. The act fails, but it’s still adorable.

Adorable? What the fuck?I jolt at the realization that I’m sitting here and thinking of one of the Scorpion Kings as “adorable.” That is so not what I need to be focused on.

“Practices are shorter on game weeks,” Gio says, reminding me of what Mads had said. “I’ve got more than enough energy to spar with you if you want.”

“I want,” I say quickly and that drives a laugh out of him.

Glittering earth rich eyes glance at me from the driver’s side. “Then consider this a rematch, Prep Girl. Best me if you can.”

“I’m going to wipe the fucking floor with you,” I inform him, and from the return of his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, I know he doesn’t believe me. That’s alright. I have every intention of proving it to him—over and over again until they finally get the hint.

I’m not some damsel in distress that they need to fawn over. I can be just as deadly as any scorpion.

27

LEX

Numbers and code never lie. People do. They lie, cheat, and steal—borrowing stories and pain from others to prop themselves up. My father taught me that. I used to hate the man, but if it wasn’t for him, I never would have gotten close to Juliet. If it wasn’t for him, I would never have found my power in the numbers.

They fly across the multiple screens of my secret room, throwing various colors onto the edge of my desk and the pictures on the wall. Pictures ofher. Clicking a button, I set the next algorithm into attack mode and watch the scan. Multi-millionaires always have so many accounts. Personal. Business. Domestic. International. Hidden. Public.

If there’s any sign of Allen Donovan’s innocence, I’ll find it, and if he is innocent, therewillbe evidence. The numbers can be manipulated, the code can be corrupted, but at the end of the day, they’re all just strings twisted together by human hands. I’ll unravel them and find the truth. Not for him, but for her.

My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up and distracting me from the monitors. Swiping the green button to answer, I hit the speaker.

“Talk.”

“Have you found anything yet?” The man on the other end of the line hisses into the receiver as if he doesn’t want to be overheard. He likely doesn’t. Allen Donovan isn’t supposed to have a cell phone in prison.

“I’m working on it.” I use the mouse to move the code scanner to one side as it deep dives through all of his current and past financials. When the government came in, they really took him to the cleaners. What’s interesting, though, are the accounts attached to the business that don’t have his name on them. Did Morpheus Calloway know what Donovan was doing? If he is guilty, that is.

“Well, work faster,” Donovan snaps. “I can’t be here for much longer. My trial date was moved up, and if I don’t have anything to show to the court, I’m?—”

“What’s the new date?” I cut him off, frowning as I move into a new tab and pull up a list of all the court sessions planned for the next several months. I never got a ping that his trial was moved up. That shouldn’t be right.

“What?” Donovan sounds shaky.

I grit my teeth. “What is the new date for your trial?” I bite out the question. He gives it to me in panting breaths and I type it in.

Nothing. I try again. Again, there’s nothing.

“You’re wrong,” I tell him even as I type in his name to see if there’s another way to find it.

“No, they just told me this morning,” he insists. It’s possible they haven’t updated his date online, but if they’ve already told him, then it should be here, especially since the date he’s given me is weeks ahead of what the original trial should have been.

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