Page 9 of House of Cards

I frown at him, sounding not at all defensive when I say, “I’m still working on them.”

“Like you plan to do all morning?” Troy gives me a hard look.

“I’m ahead of schedule.” Now Idefinitelysound defensive.

“Exactly.”

We stare at each other, but Troy could win in a blinking contest with a tree.

“Just a few more?—”

“Boss’s orders, Smith.” Troy’s shrug speaks volumes.

Myles treats work life balance like a religion. Or, as he calls it, workplaybalance.

I don’t have the time or the need to play. Needing downtime is a weakness. Weakness in this business isn’t just frowned upon. It’s an open invitation to ending up in a plastic barrel in some dusty warehouse, what’s left of your bones swimming in acidic organic soup.

“Christ,” I mutter, heading back inside to scoop the ledgers off my table.

I swear Troy looks smug when he takes the stack from me. He falls into line as we head down the hallway, both of us silent until we reach the elevator.

I rub the bridge of my nose again, then glance at the ledgers in his bulky arms, eyes narrowing. “He didn’t actually say?—“

“Oh, you bet he did.” Troy raises his eyebrows, staring straight ahead at the elevator’s steel door, refusing to make eye contact.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Myles isn’t even here, yet somehow he’s still in my way. You’d swear I haven’t cleaned over a billion dollars for him. Withoutme, the Devil’s Luck casino would never have become the money laundering sweetheart it is today.

Without the Devil’s Luck, I’d still be serving time.

My hand clenches before I can force myself to splay it open again.

Not now.

Memories like those I keep locked up tight, where they can’t bleed into the present. Trouble is, some memories have razor-sharp edges that so easily slice through the barriers I put in place.

Michelle’s face flashes behind my eyes—dark hair spilling across white sheets, her throaty laugh. The way her bruised and bloodied face looked right before I discovered what betrayal truly meant.

I adjust my glasses, forcing the image away. Focus on the present. Focus on the job.

“Can I get them back later this afternoon?” I glance at the ledgers. Troy does not.

“Myles says you have other things to focus on.”

I slide my glasses down my nose so I can rub the skin between my brows. There’s definitely a headache brewing. “My scouts are on it. Or is he just expecting someone to fall into my lap?”

Troy makes a non-committal sound.

“Is he expecting me to trawl the casino floor for candidates? Better keep your eyes peeled, Troy. We’re looking for anyone in a feather boa or a corset. And if you even so much assuspectsomeone’s wearing latex?—“

“You sound frustrated,” Troy cuts in calmly.

I realize I’m tapping my foot and slide a finger behind my suspender instead. Finding new Angels for our exclusive sex club isn’t the issue. It’s the selection process I find so distracting. Testing the girls’s limits. Assessing their thresholds for pain andpleasure. Determining whether they can follow instructions with precision, or if they need to be broken of bad habits.

“I’m fine.”

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