Page 21 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced.
I see his look. “But then you already knew that. Fucking, Cade. The guy can’t keep a secret to save his skin.”
Abel ignores me. “And hosting her inyoursuite for poker night withourcrew is just about revenge? Not because you’re curious, not because she’s… different?”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t bite. “She’s leverage, Abel. The last thing Harold’s got left. Tonight, she sees the world he thrived in—the one I own now. That’s all this is.”
Abel studies me for a long moment, then frowns. “If you say so. Just remember… sometimes the pieces you think are just leverage? Sometimes they start moving on their own. That’s when problems happen.”
“Since when did you get so goddamn philosophical?”
He lifts his glass in a mock toast before leaning back in the chair, his grin infuriatingly knowing.
I ignore him, turning my focus to the window as the city darkens, the first of the suite lights reflecting off the glass.
Jules will be here soon. And once she’s inside this room, surrounded by my people, all bets are off.
“I’m going to change.”
I disappear back up to my bedroom and toss my suit. I hop in the shower then pull on a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. By the time I’m back the suite hums with low music and the scent of cigars as the others start to roll in. Braedon is first, of course—he’s never late for anything that involves booze or cards. He steps in with that easy swagger, sunglasses still on despite the hour, a grin already plastered across his face.
“Beckett,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Got the good tequila out, I hope. Or am I supposed to drink the cheap stuff like a pleb tonight?”
I gesture toward the bar, where the Clase Azul is already lined up. “Help yourself. Try not to scare off the staff this time.”
He smirks. “Depends on the staff. Who’s working tonight? Cass?” He’s always had a thing for her and she’s always managed to put the guy in his place. I don’t need to worry about Cassidy getting too friendly with any of my friends.
“Cassidy’s on the floor,” I reply, deliberately casual. “I’ve got the new girl covering the suite.”
Braedon freezes mid-pour, then slowly turns, eyebrows raised. “The one from the other night?”
Before I can answer, Cade strolls in, his dark suit sharp, his phone still in his hand as he fires off a text. “That would be the one,” Cade says without looking up.
Braedon whistles low. “Interesting.”
Huxley arrives a moment later, slipping his coat off and draping it over a chair. He gives me a pointed look. “So, Harold Horner’s girl is working poker night?”
“Cade, is there anyone you didn’t tell?”
Cade shrugs, a sly grin on his face.
I ignore them all, shuffling the deck of cards with steady hands. “She’s staff. That’s all this is.”
Braedon leans against the bar, swirling his drink. “Sure. Because calling the brand-new girl into your private suite for a closed-door game with your inner circle isdefinitelystandard operating procedure.”
Cade finally pockets his phone and fixes me with a sharp look. “What’s the actual play here, Beck? You planning to keep her close until Harold catches wind? Or are you just trying to figure out what kind of leverage she’ll be?”
“She’s Horner’s blood,” I say simply. “That’s reason enough.”
He grins like he knows better and I fight the urge to slam my fist into his perfect fucking nose. “You keep telling yourself that, man. But don’t act surprised if the game stops being about Harold and starts being about her.”
I don’t bother answering. The truth is, I don’t need their approval—or their warnings. I’ve already made up my mind.
The suite settles into its usual rhythm as the night deepens. The lights are low, warm; the smell of good whiskey and cigars clings to the air, the kind of atmosphere that makes men like Braedon and Cade loosen their ties and lean back like kings.
Braedon’s telling a story about some oil deal that went sideways, gesturing with his glass as if the whole world should hang on his every word. Abel sits quietly, as always, stacking his chips into perfect towers, listening but not offering much. Huxley leans in his chair, his smirk as sharp as the watch glinting on his wrist, occasionally cutting in with a dry jab that keeps Braedon from getting too comfortable.
“Beck,” Braedon says, breaking mid-story, “you’re quiet tonight. What’s the deal? You lose money somewhere or are you just waiting for your girl to show up?”
