Page 23 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
And by the time the last hand is played, I’ll know whether she’s just a girl desperate for a paycheck… or a Horner with a spine I can break.
We settle in and in some ways it’s just like old times. Back before we became the men we are. We drink too much. Swear more than we should, laugh at off color inappropriate jokes. But the entire time I’m aware of her.
Poker night is winding down. The room smells like cigars and weed, expensive bourbon, and the men who’ve had just enough to forget the masks they usually wear in public.
Braedon has had more than enough. He’s been drinking too much lately. Abel has mentioned it and so has Hux.
He’s been on a losing streak all night, his stack whittled down to nothing. Two fingers of whiskey left in his glass and a chip on his shoulder. A dangerous combination for a guy who doesn’t like to lose—especially not in front of people who matter.
Jules is clearing glasses near his chair when it happens.
“Hey,” Braedon says, voice slurred just enough to sound wrong. “You missed a spot.”
She turns, polite mask in place. “I’ll get it?—”
Before she can reach, he grabs her wrist. Not hard, but not soft either. His smile is lazy. Predatory.
“You ever dealt cards, sweetheart? Bet you’ve got the hands for it.” He glances at us. “Let’s play one last hand. Give me a chance to get my winnings back.”
She tries to step back, but he doesn’t let go. His fingers slide up her forearm, and something cold settles low in my gut.
She’s frozen. Not panicking—but stiff. Controlled. I can tell she’s not sure how to handle things. Maybe she’s thinking that if she does what she should—kick the guy in his balls—she’ll be fired. I’m an asshole and I want her uncomfortable, but I don’t like this.
I’ve seen enough.
I rise from my chair and cross the room in three long strides, the quiet finality in my steps silencing the conversation at the table.
“Let go of her,” I say, voice calm, quiet.
Braedon looks up, still grinning like this is a joke.
“Relax, Beck. We’re just talking.”
I don’t raise my voice. I don’t have to. “Now.”
Something in my tone finally cuts through the liquor. Braedon lets go of her wrist, leaning back like it was nothing.
“Jesus fuck, Beck. You’re wound tight tonight.”
I ignore him and turn to Jules. “Are you alright?”
She nods quickly, eyes still wide. “I’m fine.”
“She’s fine,” Braedon mutters, reaching for his glass. “God, you act like I tried to slip my hand down her pants, which, fuck me, but she’s got a nice ass.”
I step between them, fully facing him now. “If you touch her again, this becomes personal. Understood?”
Braedon blinks, then frowns, some of the arrogance draining from his face. “Come on, Beck, what the fuck?”
I don’t repeat myself.
Huxley watches from the other side of the room, quiet but alert. Abel says nothing, though his gaze flicks from Braedon to me with something like approval.
Braedon stands, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair. “Guess I’ll take the hint.”
He moves toward the door but pauses just before he exits. He nails me with a look that says some things. Things I might not want to hear. Then nods at Jules. “Sorry for that. Too much whiskey makes me an asshole.”
The door closes behind him with a final thud.
