Page 115 of The Contract

Those massive shoulders loosen. His intimidating posture deflates.

He shrinks. Visibly fucking shrinks.

That threatening, don’t-make-me-snap-you-in-half-and-eat-you-like-a-KitKat energy? Gone.

His voice slips into something almost… respectful.

“Yes, sir. Right this way, Mr. Keenan,” he says, unclipping the velvet rope with a deferential nod.

Wait.

Hold the fuck up.

What name did he just say?

Because I’m pretty sure Dick-curd introduced himself as a Callihan.

You know—of the New England Callihans.

Didn’t he?

CHAPTER 38

Riley

Callihan?

Keenan?

A small alarm bell starts chiming in my head—faint but insistent.

Frat boys and fake names go together like beer pong and bad tattoos. Probably just another rich-boy alias, desperate to keep daddy’s precious rep squeaky-fucking-clean.

Or worse…the asshole is married.

While Mila giggles obliviously as Decker tongue-assaults her ear, I roll my eyes and reach for my phone to conduct an impromptu background check.

And stare, frustrated, at the blank, cracked screen.

Awesome. Just what I need.

I tap it.

Shake it.

Not even the faintest flicker of life.

By the time I glance back up, Mila and Decker are already vanishing through the doors.

I step forward to follow, but the bouncer snaps the velvet rope back in place.

“Invitation?”

Is he kidding me? I’ve been standing here the entire goddamn time. His voice is low, gritty—like he scraped it from the bottom of a whiskey barrel.

“I’m with them,” I say, waving toward the doors and pointing out the obvious.

The bouncer doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even fucking breathe.

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