Page 17 of Nemesis

“Are you capable of such a thing?”

No. I’m criminally broken when it comes to romance.

I turn away from him and investigate his fridge. If he was polite, he would’ve offered me a drink. But he’s just standing inthe middle of his apartment like he’s the guest, and he watches me make myself at home.

The fridge is mostly stocked with beer.

Typical.

I grab two cans and toss one to him, then jump up to sit on the counter.

He comes forward and cracks his, leaning across from me. We drink for a long moment in relative quiet, and I try to forget that the whole reason I’m here is because I need help.

I do not like asking for help.

I set the beer aside and shift my weight to one hip, pulling the paper from my back pocket. It’s still folded, and I hold it out to him.

He takes it from me.

“I need to find him.”

He scans the page. “You look unconscious, Artemis.”

“I was doing a realistic swoon, remember?”

He scowls. “Right. Who is he?”

Ugh. I bite my lip. “Do I have to tell you?”

“You want me to find him? I need his fucking name.” He refolds the paper and tucks it inhispocket, glaring openly at me. “I think you know it. And, if sources are correct, Antonioandthe sheriff know it, too.”

Fuck.

They scan IDs at the door. Of course Antonio uncovered it—andtold Bradshaw. The asshole sheriff didn’t bother revealing that much. Bradshaw lied to me.

Our security office would’ve been the first place Antonio went, both to get that photo and his name. He wouldn’t go to the sheriff with half-cooked information.

“Reese Avery,” I finally say. “And you’re on a fucking clock, Malik.”

He smirks again. “What will you give me when I find him?”

“A favor.”

“You’re not your brother.”

Because Apollo, with his friends, gift favors to those who win at Olympus. Anything within their long-reaching power.

“No,” I allow. I hop off the counter and saunter closer, until he’s stiffening up in front of me. “I’m not Apollo. I’m better. So find Reese before the sheriff and Antonio.Andmy brother.”

“You’re asking a lot.” His voice is low. “One favor might not cut it.”

“Either you find him,” I murmur. “Or I do, and you get nothing.”

I step back.

“My phone’s on.” And then I head out the way I came, slipping through the window. My boots hit the gravel, and I stride away from Malik Barlow with a smile etched in place.

Even if I feel a bit like throwing up.

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