Page 20 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
BECK
It’s Friday. I’ve already been to the gym and had an early morning jog and it’s not even seven a.m. Mornings are the only time the city feels quiet, like the chaos hasn’t quite stretched its claws into the day yet. It goes a long way to calm me. Sometimes I can’t shut off my brain. Business is usually the culprit, but with Horner in my crosshairs, I’ve got other things on my mind.
I take my coffee black, scroll through the reports stacked on my desk, and wait for the clock to hit nine.
Cade’s intel is still fresh in my head: Jules Horner, broke, barely hanging on, funneling every dollar she makes toward keeping her brother alive. No cushion. No safety net. The kind of desperation that makes people easy to control if you know how to pull the right strings.
And today, I’m going to start pulling.
I hit her number, leaning back in my chair as the phone rings. She answers on the third ring, her voice soft and tentative. “Hello?”
“Jules,” I say, my tone smooth and even. “Beck.”
There’s a faint pause, like she wasn’t expecting me to call. “Good morning, um Beck, I mean, Sir. Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. I need you to come in early tonight—six sharp. You won’t be on the main floor. You’ll be working upstairs in my suite.” I smile at the thought and lean back in my chair.
Another pause. I can almost hear her hesitation over the line. “Your suite?”
“I host a private poker game on the last Friday of every month,” I explain, keeping my voice casual. “Small circle. Myself and a few friends. You’ll serve drinks and food, keep the room tidy.” I lean back some more. “I promise to make it worth your while.”
“I… okay. I can do that,” she says finally, though there’s a faint thread of uncertainty in her voice.
“Good. Wear black. Nothing flashy. And be on time.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call without another word, setting the phone aside as I stand and glance out the floor-to-ceiling window. The city’s alive now, traffic threading through the streets, people spilling onto sidewalks with their coffees and their deadlines.
I think of Jules sitting in her apartment. Wondering about tonight. Wondering why the newbie gets a coveted serving slot. Generally I leave the schedule to Brent and he tries to rotate through the staff because they know how well they’ll be compensated.
The boys tip large because they can.
I sit straight and look over the newspaper article from the day before. Harold Horner is trying to raise capital. At the moment he’s talking to a venture capital firm and has no idea it’s mine.
Amazing really. How the pieces are all falling into place and I had nothing to do with it. I’d like to gloat all day, but if I want to enjoy tonight I need to get through this shit on my desk. I settle in and work my way through and as usual, lose myself in work.
The suite is already being prepped by the time I head downstairs later in the afternoon. The long walnut table hasbeen set with fresh felt, the bar stocked with the usual—Clase Azul, Macallan, a few bottles of red for the ones who pretend they care about tannins. The kitchen sends up a tray of wagyu sliders, charcuterie, and enough finger food to keep a table full of billionaires happy between hands.
I step inside just as Abel strolls in, still dressed like he stepped out of a GQ spread, hair slicked back, a tailored jacket draped over his shoulder.
“Looks good,” he says, eyeing the spread. “You’d think we were hosting royalty, not a bunch of assholes who can’t fold a hand to save their lives.”
I chuckle, shrugging out of my coat. “Last time I checked, you were one of those assholes.”
“True,” he admits easily, dropping into one of the leather chairs. “But at least I’m good-looking enough to distract people from my terrible bluff.”
He pours himself a drink without asking, lounging like he owns the place. His eyes flick toward me, sharp despite the lazy posture. “So… you’re pulling the new girl into the lion’s den tonight, huh?”
I don’t answer right away, straightening the deck of cards on the table.
Abel grins like a wolf. “Don’t give me that look. Cade told me you called her in. Jules Harper. The little mystery server who showed up out of nowhere and somehow ended up on your radar faster than anyone else ever has.”
“She’s working the room. That’s all,” I say, voice even, unbothered.
“Sure,” Abel drawls, taking a sip of his drink. “And I only go to Italy for the wine, not the redheaded pianist I banged in Florence last year. Don’t bullshit me, Beck. I’ve known you too long.”
I lean against the bar, meeting his gaze without blinking. “She’s Harold Horner’s daughter. That’s why she’s here. Nothing more.”
