Page 27 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
Not one that’s easy to follow anyway.
Shit, I mutter.
I set the phone aside and rub at my temples, frustration prickling beneath my skin. It’s like he’s carved out this whole empire while staying just far enough in the shadows that no one can pin anything on him.
Which, honestly, just makes me more determined. Maybe more than a little intrigued. Scared even. Who the fuck is this guy?
Because if Beck is the one holding the keys to my future—if he’s the gatekeeper to the money I desperately need to keep paying my brother’s bills—then I can’t afford not to know who he really is.
I lie back down, mind racing, staring up at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, I’ll keep digging. Quietly. Carefully.
I’ll ask around. Watch more closely. Listen harder.
Because I have a feeling Beck is the kind of man who only shows you what he wants you to see.
And I definitely don’t trust men like that. After what happened with Alexander, I never will.
CHAPTER 9
BECK
Saturday night in New York City, and I’m bored out of my fucking mind.
It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with. My life is usually motion. Noise. Strategy. Control. Fucking. Drinking. Smoking. Fucking.
Hell, most of the time I’m not even here because the club runs like a well-oiled machine without me. The staff are smooth, the members are predictable, and Jules—the only wildcard I can’t quite shake—is off.
I should be relaxed but instead I’m restless as fuck.
The suite feels too still. No music. No conversation. No friends. Just the muted hum of traffic below and the occasional knock of wind against the high-rise windows. The poker table’s been cleared. The bar is stocked. The lights are low.
And I’m pacing. There are a number of women I can call to ease this tension. Fucking goes a long way in solving my issues. I consider it for all of five seconds as I stare at my contacts and then toss the phone. No one interests me. Not even Eden. And that woman will do anything to get a guy off.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My buddies are all gone. Huxley’s back in Berlin. Cade’s off with his latest model-slash-muse somewhere in Italy. Abel’s disappeared into one of his signature retreats—cabin, no phones, no people. Crew never made it back to this side of the Atlantic. And Braedon…
Braedon came by earlier.
Unannounced. Still smelling like top-shelf whiskey but sober enough to look ashamed.
“I crossed a line,” he said, standing just inside the doorway with none of his usual swagger. “I acted like an asshole and I don’t have an excuse other than...” He shrugged. “I was fucked up.”
I didn’t say much. Just poured him water on the rocks and let him sit for a while. Let him talk around what was really bothering him—the company, the pressure, the family legacy bearing down on him like a goddamn avalanche.
He didn’t say it out loud, but I know his father’s slipping, his mind isn’t what it should be. There will be a war there. His uncle is starting to circle and Livingston Oil might not survive the fallout. The thing is, Braedon, for all his swagger andI don’t give a shit attitude, actually does give a damn. He just doesn’t know how to show it without burning down everything in his path.
He left an hour later with a stiff nod and more silence than usual. I couldn’t convince him to stay for dinner prepared by the best chef in the city. Hell, I’d extended the invite just as much for myself as him, but he’d turned me down.
And now here I am.
Alone.
I walk to the window, drink in hand, and stare out at the glittering city. As always, the view blows me away. Lord knows I paid enough for it and fuck me, but it used to give me pleasure. Not the cityscape exactly but knowing it used to belong to him. I should feel happier than I do, because I’m standing here and he’sstill holed up in LA trying his best to convince my firm to lend him money to rebuild.
I’ve got Harold where I want him. But all I can think about is the way Jules looked last night—tense but composed. Brave, in a room full of wolves. She has no fucking idea and I tell myself to stop feeling sorry for her.
