Page 26 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
Back in the kitchen, Bob’s finished eating and is now sprawled on the window ledge like he owns the city. I pour a glass of water and sit on the couch, one leg curled beneath me, scrolling through my phone like it might distract me.
Shells has sent a series of gifs—one with a hippo wielding a glass of wine, another with a dancing cat in a glittery outfit. She has a weird and insane fear of hippos. I smile despite myself.
Then I type:
“I have stories. Call you in the morning.”
I set my phone aside and lean back, staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet and late and I’m tired and should be asleep but inside me, everything’s buzzing—tangled memories, adrenaline still bleeding out of my system, and the weight of Beck’s voice in my ear.
"Who is Bob?”
Why would he want to know who Bob was? Why does he look at me like I am a puzzle he’s decided to solve? It makes mewonder if I’ve just stepped into something far more complicated than I realize. All I want to do is keep my head down and work. Try to get through things and hope for a better day.
Bob hops down and curls beside me, warm and familiar, his half-tail thumping gently against my leg. I scoop him up and make my way to the bedroom, where I climb on the bed and lay back. I rest my hand on his back. And for just a few minutes, I let myself breathe.
I try to sleep.
I really do.
The sheets are soft from a hundred washes. There is no noise save for the knocking from the old water pipes in the apartment below me. Bob has curled up at the foot of the bed, a warm, purring weight that usually helps me shut the world out. I should be asleep.
But not tonight.
Not after what happened. Not with Beck’s voice still echoing through my thoughts like a low note that won’t fade.
You work for me.And I protect what’s mine.
The words should have reassured me. And maybe part of me was reassured, in the moment. But now, lying in the dark, I can’t stop replaying how he looked at me when the suite emptied. Not angry. Not concerned. Something else entirely.
Cold. Calculating.
I know how to read people. Growing up the way I did with an absent father and a mother who cared more about going to a spa in Switzerland than looking after her kids, I was left alone a lot. I became self-reliant, which I guess helped me out when we lost everything. But the thing is, I was good a reading people. Like I know Braedon is a dick, but I also know that he’s spiraling somehow. I can tell that Huxley is hiding something, most likely a relationship. I caught him on his phone more than once when he thought no one was paying attention. Abel is quiet, but hiswaters run deep and Cade uses humor to mask something…pain or maybe regret.
I’m good at reading the room. Good at anticipating what comes next.
But Beck? I can’t read him. Not even a little. And that’s what makes it worse.
I don’t even know his full name. I’ve only heard other people call him Beck, and I haven’t exactly seen his name on a uniform tag or anything. The guys wears five thousand dollar suits. I don’t know where he came from, how he owns a club like this, or why men like Braedon and Huxley and Abel and Cane listen when he talks. I don’t know what his story is—or why I get the feeling he’s already figured out mine.
That’s not okay.
I’ve walked into his world with my head down, just trying to survive. But tonight made one thing clear: I don’t have the luxury of just floating on the surface anymore. If I want to keep this job… if I want to protect myself, and more importantly, my brother…
I need to know who I’m working for.
I sit up in bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up with that familiar dull blue glow, and Bob stirs, grumbling as he stretches out.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
I open a search tab and start typing:Beck. Nightclub. New York. Private club Central Park.
The results are vague. Rumors. Grainy photos from gossip blogs. Some whispers about a mysterious club near the park with an invite-only policy. No address. No name. Just words likediscreet,powerful clientele,anonymous ownership.
Then I try:Owner of exclusive NYC club Beck
Still nothing concrete.
I try reverse image searches, anonymous reddit threads, scrolling through guest lists from galas and charity events hoping to spot his face. But he’s not the kind of man who leaves a trail.
