Page 54 of The Contract

I shove Mateo off, scowling, though amusement claws dangerously at the corners of my mouth. “Fuck off, both of you. At least I have something worth mourning.”

Mateo chuckles, tapping my shoulder. “Barely, brother. Barely.”

“So,” Dillon whispers, quiet as a sharp blade across my neck, “Riley.”

“What about her?”

“Funny, I don’t recall her audition, and I audition all dancers.”

I narrow my eyes. The fucker has no limits, and the thrill of swapping identities wore off around the time my mugshot became his phone wallpaper.

I take a quick glance around, making sure Enzo is still out of earshot. “It’s alarmingly easy to murder you and assume your identity. Our only differences are our ink and IQ scores.”

“And our dicks.” He grabs his crotch confidently. “Mine’s at least six inches bigger.”

“Sorry to crush your dreams, anaconda, but the overinflated girth of that Neanderthal skull of yours doesn’t count.”

He sighs dramatically, utterly unfazed. “Should I check in with the concierge, or just swagger in pretending to be you? You know—for the lap dance.”

“If you so much as breathe near Pom?—”

“Pom?” Dillon presses his fingers theatrically to his temples, eyes fluttering closed. “Give me a second. Channeling your brainwaves.”

“We’re identical, asshole. Not conjoined.”

“Shh.” He scolds me like a psychic in deep concentration.

God, I hate when he does this. Mostly because the jackass is usually right.

“Pom…” he hums, drawing out the syllable, and my patience. I start to leave, but he catches my arm. “Pomegranate!” He practically shouts the word, eyes snapping open.

“Shut up!”

“As in forbidden fruit?” Mateo snickers.

Dillon chuckles. “Is that supposed to remind me or you?”

“It’s a reminder that if you even breathe in her direction, I will end you.”

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “I’m not the one you should be worried about. Does Kennedy know you have a thing for her baby sister? What about Enzo?”

“I do not have a thing.”

Mateo snickers, smacking Dillon squarely in the chest. “Ha! Told you Dante had no thing. Zero in his pants. Now pay up.”

Kennedy sweeps into the room and makes a bee-line right for us. And fuck—her resemblance to Riley hits me square in the chest.

If I’d hoped to get a reprieve from Pom for at least a few goddamn hours and straight-razor her from the deepest recesses of my brain, today is definitely not the day.

Kennedy’s pure sunshine wrapped in an effervescent glow, but even that can’t mask the sadness lurking beneath her smile.

“I took tons of pics for Riley,” she says softly as Enzo joins us, blinking back tears. Photos meant to bridge a gap that Riley’s not ready to close.

Kennedy flips through enough images to fill a yearbook. And since Riley’s absence gnaws at me like fingertips tracing fresh ink, the next several dozen she scrolls through are, technically, from me.

The way Enzo’s hand gently smoothes over her belly, paired with the idiotic gaze they share, makes it painfully obvious Kennedy’s pregnant—even though Enzo practically lied straight to my face about it.

Then again, I’m basically lying to him about my fixation with Kennedy’s baby sister—to the point I still haven’t bothered to clean her come stain from my pants, so there’s that.

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