Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Phoebe
Wearing a semidecent pissed face, I exit the bathroom and head to the bar. Only a handful of people are here, and three heads instantly twist toward me, then toward Rocky as he trails behind with frustration.
It’s like a court liaison announced our royal arrival. Hear ye, hear ye, here are the messy town divorcés!
As soon as I see who’s at a barstool and drinking a whiskey on ice, I force myself not to stagger back.
The urge to quit the scavenger hunt plows into me.
Maybe I can just watch Wrong Turn in the loft with Rocky. He hasn’t seen that backwoods cannibal horror flick since we were teenagers.
Watching people feast on other people is ten times better than enduring three minutes with Trent Koning Waterford.
I can’t believe he’s here right now.
The thirty-two-year-old jumps up from the barstool with a pompous grin. Arms spread like he’s meeting his long-lost friend. “Grey!”
Puke.
I don’t conceal my true feelings. I don’t need to. Disgust is all over my face as Rocky bro-hugs the spawn of Claudia Waterford.
Which must be worse than the devil’s sperm, because I’d rather hang out with Satan .
Trent is dressed like he just finished playing eighteen holes of golf. A super boring activity he did last week. With Rocky. He’s in a white linen shirt and navy slacks. Oliver Peoples sunglasses are hooked around his neck. His hair is two shades darker than Jake’s. All the Koning boys have a similar athletic build—fit to play polo and to pose for cologne campaigns in Ibiza. He’s handsome in a generic sense.
My body physically shrivels like a prune being ten feet from him, so I seek out a vacant barstool against the wall.
“I heard the auction was wild,” Trent says to Rocky. “They said my little brother was almost out fifty g’s until you stepped in.” He pats him on the bicep in pride, then he cuts his gaze to me. “Admit it, Phoebe, you’re cute, but you’re not worth that much.”
I settle a glare on him. “I think I’m worth more than whatever cheap carbon atoms you’re made of, Trent.”
“Oof.” He grins, then glances at Rocky’s nonreaction and nods toward the bathroom. “You two sounded like cats and dogs in there.” At this, his sleazy gaze drips ever so slowly down my body. “Our Phoebe, always so feisty .”
Rocky is standing behind Trent and doing his best not to have a face full of venom. His jaw tics more than it should.
“Don’t you think, Grey?” Trent asks Rocky, wanting him to pipe in about me.
“She’s not feisty. She’s unpleasant ,” Rocky says, glaring at me.
I glare back. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“Unpleasant little Phoebe,” Trent tsks while appraising me again.
“The only thing unpleasant and little is your…” I swallow the biting retort. Rocky is smearing a hand over his mouth, fighting a look of rage, but it’s not toward me. My stomach is in vicious knots.
Trent is grinning. “Go on. Say what you mean.”
No.
I’m trying so fucking hard not to make this harder for Rocky.
He’s warned me ad nauseam that insulting Trent only provokes him—that Trent gets off on the hunt, on taking whatever he can’t have, and that also includes anything that remotely belongs to his youngest brother.
And to Trent, I’m basically considered Jake’s property.
He wants me .
I want to deck him . But I can’t even try, because Rocky will break character to protect me, and we all need him to maintain this friendship.
Disgruntled, I face the bar and do my best to ignore Trent. It’s safe to say that most of the rumors at VCC about the firstborn Koning heir being a grieving widower are bullshit.
He’s not a tortured, lovesick soul.
He does, in fact, have eyes for other women.
Wintering at the Alps with him, I saw Trent openly checking out ski bunnies on the slopes. Later, he bragged to Rocky about the threesome he had with the girls. It’s not like the holiday trip consisted of any servers or club members who’d pick apart the tender story about the death of Trent’s wife.
It was a Koning family and closest (most-trusted) friends vacay. One I’m pushing so far down, I actually might puke.
While Trent collects his whiskey off the counter, I ask the bartender for a Guinness, and Trent moves toward me, about to approach.
I stiffen.
“I should be the one offended.” Trent speaks to me. “You still haven’t called me TK when it’s the very thing I only allow my nearest and dearest friends.” He raises his whiskey to me. “That’s you, Phoebe.”
“I’m touched,” I mutter.
“I bet,” Rocky interjects, outpacing Trent to reach me. My heart pitter-patters at his sudden closeness, and while I’m smushed against the green paisley wall, Rocky towers and presses a hand to the plaster, high over my head. He traps me with his build.
Hairs rise on my arms. The adrenaline rush—the static electricity of him—dizzies me.
I hear whispering from the bar.
No one tries to protect me from what looks like an uncomfortable situation between me and my ex-husband, but I am…really, really turned on. I cross my legs while my pussy thumps, still sore from the bathroom.
Rocky drops his head down to whisper against my ear. “He’s a little prick.”
I fight off a smile.
Yes, he is.
The bartender clears his throat as he attempts to slide me the Guinness. And Rocky pulls away from me, just to claim the sole barstool at my side.
Trent whistles lowly and takes a seat next to Rocky. “Grey, you are intense, man. Give the girl some space.”
“Long day, TK,” Rocky says with a heavy noise, like he’s blowing off steam.
Trent squeezes his shoulder. “Here, take mine.” He gives him the glass of whiskey, then asks the bartender for another.
Rocky subtly blocks Trent from ogling me. He’s hunched forward, arms on the wooden counter, taking strong sips of the amber liquor.
His quiet, simmering rage isn’t that hidden, but he has reason to be publicly upset. He just had a fight with me. Jake is dating me. I think it’d be worse if he had to conceal these real feelings, too.
I ease some.
And I wonder if it’s been harder on Rocky, not just because we’re truthfully together now, but maybe it’s also because I’m more myself in Victoria. This is my personality with my real, chosen name.
I’m not playing much of a character here.
The fakest thing about me are my ties to Jake.
“Don’t be upset with me, Phoebe,” Trent says, trying to capture my attention from behind Rocky.
“I’m not upset.” I lick beer froth off my lips and take out the envelope from the coat.
“I know you’re soft, though,” Trent says, elbow on the bar and head perched in his palm. “It’s Jake’s type. Soft girls. Little duckling types.” He walks two fingers across the bar counter toward me.
Rocky sets down his glass in Trent’s finger-walking path and acts oblivious to the move. Trent doesn’t notice his new BFF is actively cockblocking him.
I don’t give Trent the pleasure of a retort. His ego is the size of Mount Rainier, and after what happened in the Alps, I really couldn’t care less if he fell five hundred feet off a ski lift and broke every bone in his body.
I remember when we first met, he pulled me into an overly friendly hug and picked me up a foot off the ground to spin me around like we were seeing each other for the thousandth time and not meeting for the first.
He said, “Well if it isn’t my little brother’s skunky girlfriend. Jake’s told me absolutely nothing about you.” His blue eyes were soaked in charisma. “Gotta be honest, we were all shocked he’s even with someone. It’s been so long, Jordan and I were convinced he might have ED.”
First impressions were made, and I absolutely did not give him the benefit of the doubt. Not that I needed to.
He’s a tool. Among other things.
Rocky strikes up a friendly conversation with Trent that I eliminate myself from. I attempt to flag down the bartender again, but he’s busy chatting with a gray-haired woman in a Columbia puffer vest.
She clutches a stout and hovers over a copy of the Weekly .
Beckham North, the wiry bartender in his mid-twenties, gives me a nod of acknowledgement but returns to chatting with her. Wow, I thought we had a slight moment earlier—when he interrupted Rocky being a jerk with a quiet beer slide.
This sudden brush-off feels personal. He’s filled in a handful of times at the country club, and I might have commented on his weak mojitos.
Or maybe he’s just really great friends with Erik.
Ugh. Reputations. Hailey might have one as an easy fling, but I’m getting the feeling I’m the bitchy one. I rub the creases of my eyes.
“You didn’t want to bid on a Clue Girl?” Rocky asks Trent.
“You know me. The town traditions are Jake’s thing.” He sips his new whiskey. “I’m too busy for this trivial shit.”
Translation: I’m more important than my brother.
Maybe it’s fake-girlfriend defense mode, but I lean over the bar to get a good look at Trent. “Jake’s far busier than you, I can assure you.” I hear my rising anger.
Rocky cocks his head at me and sips his whiskey. His sharp, warning look says, You’re digging a fucking hole. Be careful.
I know I’m falling into Trent’s ego trap, but I have decent enough upper-body strength. Trying to pull myself out—worth it.
Trent laughs, spinning on the stool to face me. “What is my brother up to these days? Mopping the floors of the club? Replacing broken lightbulbs in the rentals?”
“I can tell you what he’s not doing,” I retort. “He’s not drinking Macallan in the middle of the afternoon alone like a sad little—”
“Pest?” Rocky says to me.
Why does that almost make me smile? I scrunch my face and battle the bright feeling away with a deep sigh. Do not look smitten by Rocky. Do. Not.
“Let her finish.” Trent waves him off, then rests his chin on his fist, mockingly attentive. “I’m all ears.”
Whatever I say will only fuel his ego engine. Steam leaves me all at once, and I slump back on my stool.
Trent drops his hand back to his liquor. “Can’t volley with the big men, Phoebe?”
When I don’t respond, his interest begins to deplete.
He won’t risk appearing too needy for my attention, so I’m not surprised when he twists to Rocky. “Like I was saying about Hank. He thinks he’s a better doubles partner than you are, but he serves like he’s a ten-year-old wearing drunk goggles. I’d be better off getting Val to play mixed doubles, and she can’t even hit the ball over the net.” He laughs, lifting his drink to his mouth. “But at least she has a better ass to look at.”
Beckham overhears and barks out a laugh. “Girl’s a flirt, but she won’t put out.”
I glare. Okay, he’s not getting a tip from me.
Trent motions his drink toward him. “That’s what you think.”
Rocky takes a stiff swig and smiles when Trent looks at him.
Acid burns my throat, and I wave the envelope at Beckham.
Finally, he notices. “Ah, the first Clue Girl of the day. Hold on a sec. I left the geese in the back.” He wipes his hands on a dishcloth and disappears.
Rocky glances at me. “I’m chilling with TK. Go hunt for the geese without me.”
“Really?” I frown.
“I’m busy.” He holds up his glass and flashes an assholish smile.
Trent slings his arm around Rocky like his best friend just stated, Bros before hoes, bitch .
My scowl hurts my jaw.
I don’t want to leave him here with this insufferable dickhead. Yes, he’s giving me an out to sail far away from Trent’s presence, which is the equivalent of tossing me a life ring in an open ocean. But if Rocky’s drowning, I don’t want saving.
I’m prepared to drown with him as his coconspirator. His partner in crime. His girlfriend. His pretend wife. All the fucking things.
I use the envelope as a coaster under my pint. “I have a beer to finish, too.”
Trent smirks. “Can’t stay away from us, can you?”
Ignore.
I take an angry sip of beer. Rocky shakes his head at me, pissed. Fine. He can be mad, but I’m not ditching him just because Trent nauseates me.
He hasn’t abandoned me when I’ve kissed Jake on the cheek. I won’t abandon him when he kisses Trent’s ass.
Beckham returns, placing a gold-plated goose beside my Guinness. I like the occasional beer, but I’m more of a wine drinker. Still, I find myself taking big gulps to stop myself from telling Trent he’s a douchebag.
Trent switches his conversation with Rocky to the stock market. It reminds me of being teenagers and Addison crash-coursing us through Nasdaq and the S&P 500. I had such a difficult time picking up call options, whereas Hailey breezed through it like she was birthed on Wall Street.
I finish my pint and order another. Rocky is at the bottom of his whiskey glass and in a full-bellied laugh over some inside joke I’m not privy to.
Then the pub door bursts open.
A flurry of platinum-blonde hair follows. Hailey barrels to the bar, landing between me and her brother.
“Whoa,” Trent laughs.
“I’d like a golden goose,” Hailey says to the bartender, half out of breath, like she’s ordering a drink and not a cheap paperweight. Her angelic goth spirit lifts my morale, and I instantly smile.
We side-squeeze hug in greeting.
“Hey, Rocky,” she says quickly to her brother.
He up-nods, acting indifferent to Hailey. He has to in front of Trent.
“No time to talk,” she says in a rush to me. “I have a trophy to win.” She takes the goose from Beckham. Chains jingle on the belt loops of her black cargo pants.
Spinning around, she runs smack into Jake Waterford’s chest. “Umph,” she grunts, and he places his hands on her shoulders, steadying her.
“Sorry,” they say in unison.
It’s no surprise Jake was tailing her, seeing as how he bid for and won Hailey in the auction. She must be outrunning him from clue stop to clue stop.
“I’ll hold that for you.” He’s already football gripping a golden goose, and Hailey is quick to hand him the second one.
“There’s my little brother.” Trent rises with wide-open arms.
Jake freezes in the middle of the pub, fisting the paperweights. The gray-haired woman at the bar deserts the Victoria Weekly for the new drama rolling in.
Hailey is piecing together the puzzle since I keep her freshly up to date on all things Koning boys. Her brown eyebrows lift to me, and she mouths, Backup?
I shake my head. “Go win that trophy, Hails.” This is the brightest, bubbliest I’ve seen her in so very long.
Jake even tells her, “I’ll be a minute. Text me if you need help solving the clues.”
“You sure?” She hesitates.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He’s staking his brother with a deeper glare. “Really, go.” He sounds serious, almost pleading—like he’s a half second from picking her up and carrying her outside because the bar is on fire.
If we’re all going up in flames, Jake is okay with me being singed, but I think he classifies me as someone who is meant to light the bomb and withstand the fire. We’re all a little more protective of Hailey.
I remember, though, how she orchestrated our move here…just to protect me.
She tries to unglue her feet. “Okay…okay, thanks.” At this, she walks backward to the door, ensuring this spaghetti Western won’t end with a shootout.
Then she leaves.
Jake refuses to step into Trent’s arms. “I told you not to talk to Phoebe.” His voice is cold and ice-chipped.
Time to leave. I guzzle the rest of my beer.
Rocky is taking cool, casual sips of whiskey.
Trent lets out a sharp laugh and drops his arms. “That’s what you’re pissed about?”
“Stay away from her,” Jake warns.
I rush to his side and feel the strain of leaving Rocky’s. I wish beyond anything he could just…follow me.
But he stays close to his new friend. His narrowed gaze shoots daggers every which way, but the real target is the one he can’t hit. Not yet, anyway.
Every job has a setup. Because when we pull the rope, we want to ensure the mark will be drawn so close they won’t realize they’re in a vise they can’t get out of. There’s no room for failure.
I won’t screw up.
Trent raises his whiskey glass. “There my baby brother goes again. Jake Koning Waterford. Creating drama out of nothing . His only real talent.”
At least he has one. I bottle the retort and start to leave the pub, forcing Jake to follow me.
Trent waves a couple fingers at me. “See you later, Phoebe.” He says it just to dig under Jake’s skin.
It’s working on him.
And on Rocky.