Chapter Twenty-Four
TWENTY-FOUR
Rocky
Two Months Ago
The Alps
Northwestern Italy
On the foothills of the Matterhorn, overlooking a prestigious Italian ski town, the Konings’ chalet stands like a beacon of wealth. It screams look at me! with its six floors, three-sixty-degree views of the snow-peaked mountain, an indoor pool, spa and sauna, fully outfitted gym, and state-of-the-art wine cellar.
Oliver was the one who looked around and casually said to me, “Some people have too much.”
I know this is why he’s a grifter. Not for the power, like me.
He does it because he truly believes there should be a limit to wealth. That billionaires shouldn’t be able to hoard more than they need and create generations of lazy, entitled spawn. So he takes from them.
Being here, under the guise of Trent Waterford’s best friend, I’ve never felt more of a hunger to take . And it has nothing to do with the fucking Ferrari in his garage.
As Trent’s plus-one, I’m silently expected to stay by his side like a Pomeranian. Be engaging enough to be a good time without overstepping and taking the spotlight for myself. Never be too boring or dull as that will get my plus-one invite revoked on the spot.
Never say no .
I am a yes-man in his presence.
Yes , I will surely take the shot ski with you.
Yes , I think that snowboarder looks hot.
Yes , we can go on the black diamond again…and again.
Yes , you should definitely ask out the ski-lift operator and her friend.
Yes , I’ll watch the threesome.
My brain is on fire. Trent’s head only has room for three thoughts. Drinking. Fucking. Money. And let’s be clear, it’s not how to make money. He’s just finding new and creative ways to spend it.
My muscles ache from the slopes as I shed my winter coat and toss it on the king-sized bed. Clock on the bedside table reads one a.m., and my brain thumps from the Macallan that Trent likes to drink before lights-out. Yes , I’ll have a nightcap with you.
I groan as I kick off my boots. I’ve barely seen Phoebe since we arrived five days ago. Trent took a different private jet, stating he needed some peace and quiet for the ride to concentrate on “work,” but he invited only me.
He slept the whole flight.
Customs was a breeze. It always is, but I still hated that Phoebe had to go through it without me.
Oliver was there, though. Along with Collin Falcone—Trent’s former best friend who would’ve been invited on his jet, had I not taken his place. Collin is still living his frat-house glory days, which Trent thinks is both amusing and pathetic.
Collin is too coked up most of the time to really give a shit.
When I told Oliver to look out for Phoebe, he said, “She’s my sister. What else would I do?” I was still holding my breath.
He saw and said, “I’ll be careful.” Oliver’s go-to phrase holds about as much weight as a paper airplane.
He makes me nervous when we fly. He’s a showman, and you don’t want to be anything but invisible in a fucking international terminal.
Even if we’re led to a private jet on a private runway.
At least she was with Jake. I grimace at my own thoughts. Does he count as part of the team?
Maybe.
I roll my eyes and take out my phone, wondering if she’s even awake. Jake and Phoebe spend most of their time hanging around the chalet and reading books like this is a rest-and-relaxation retreat.
I’m not lying to myself—I am jealous.
I’d rather be doing anything else on my holiday than entertaining Trent Waterford, but I’d also be kicking myself if I brushed off his invite. I have to be here. Close enough to protect Phoebe and close enough to keep myself in Trent’s good graces. I have to do the hard fucking thing.
It’s Christmas Eve.
This can’t be all bad. Maybe I can sneak into Phoebe’s room. Kick Jake out. It all makes sense in my head as I send her a text. You awake?
She’s quick to reply.
Phoebe: Outside. Hot tub.
I want to ask if she’s alone. But I don’t. It wouldn’t matter. Every ounce of my body wants to go to her. Be with her.
I put my boots back on, quickly tying the laces, and when I’m down on the first floor, I realize I forgot my coat. The cold winter air chills my exposed flesh, and I follow the gray slated walkway to the back of the chalet.
Lights twinkle in the distance, down the ridgeline where hundreds of smaller chalets nestle close together by the village. Up here, we’re alone. Wind howls through the foothills, and I avoid deep breaths, not wanting to wake tomorrow with a sandpapered throat from the dry, frigid air.
Three more steps, and I hear soft, muffled voices.
My disposition plummets down the fucking mountain. Great. She’s not alone. Another night third wheeling to Phoebe and her fake boyfriend. Love this for me.
Two more steps, and I stop suddenly, her voice now crystal clear.
“You should really go inside,” Phoebe snaps. “Your brother will hate that you’re out here.”
Laughter. He’s laughing. And I know it’s not Jake. I know it before I even hear Trent’s smarmy voice. “See, Phoebe, brothers are a special breed. Jake knows what’s his is mine. It’s been that way since we were kids playing with Hot Wheels.”
Razor-sharp adrenaline slices through my veins as I hightail it around the corner. I stumble into view like I’m tipsy from the Macallan just as Phoebe says, “I’m not a fucking toy .”
Heat gathers in her brown eyes. Heat that smolders like a furnace inside me. Stoking my frustrations and anger.
Trent swings his head in my direction, and I push it all down…and down…and down.
I’m drunk. So it appears. I hang on to the nearest object, which happens to be a gas-lantern lamppost. “Grey.” Trent smiles, but it’s tighter than usual. He’s annoyed at me.
I haven’t been invited into this moment. I am unwelcome .
That gnaws at me in a deeper way, especially as I see Phoebe’s back glued to the edge of the hot tub, like she’s physically repulsed by him.
“TK, that whiskey, man…” I let out a chortle. “I can’t find my room. This place is a fucking maze.”
Trent laughs, and this time it’s more genuine. “It really is.” He props his arms on the stone edge. “Second floor. Third door on the right.”
I narrow my gaze at him like I’m just piecing together where he is. “Why—why are you in a hot tub with Phoebe?” I ask.
“That’s a fantastic question,” Phoebe snaps at him. “What are you doing here, Trent? And why are you naked?”
“Naked?” My brows cinch together, and I try to smother my fury. Confusion. I’m confused , I tell myself. Definitely shouldn’t look like I want to snap his fucking neck.
Trent glances between us. “This is a Jacuzzi. What—are you both prudes?” He laughs at that. I don’t say anything. My blood is on fire.
He stepped into a hot tub with her.
Naked.
Nude.
His dick out?
Does he have an erection?
I want to break his cock in half.
He’s cornering her. To make her feel small. To do something to her? Phoebe was alone. Even I know that’s not right. Not okay. Not in a million fucking years.
Trent’s gauging my reaction. Even though we’re “friends,” Phoebe is still my ex-wife. “She’s not like that,” I tell him. “She won’t even take her clothes off for a massage.”
Her cheeks are red. Flushed at the lie.
She’d go naked for a lot less. Hell, she’s been nearly naked, sometimes fully nude, during cons before. I think back to the job Phoebe never names. Where we simulated having sex. She had no clothes on at one point. It would’ve been better if our parents weren’t behind it. If it really felt like her choice.
Trent looks Phoebe over again like I gave him permission to appraise her. “I doubt that.”
“Fuck off,” Phoebe growls.
He smiles, and I can tell her resistance is a game to him. It turns him on. But he must also know this isn’t a good time. Maybe it was before I showed up, but now, now he’s standing up and letting the water drip off his body.
Phoebe was right. He’s naked .
His semihard dick hangs at her eye level, and I watch Phoebe crane her neck to stare at me. “Collect your friend, Rocky,” she says.
He’s not my friend.
“No need,” Trent says, hopping out of the hot tub. He grabs a towel and throws it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Phoebe,” he calls out. He passes me and gives me a sly wink like we’re in on a secret. The game.
He wants to fuck her.
Three seconds go by as he passes my body. Three seconds of opportunity to slam him against the wall, break his fucking nose, and bury his head in the snow.
I let those three seconds slip between my fingers.
I can’t. I can’t.
Being his friend is more important than defending her. Even thinking those words sends brittle air into my lungs. When he’s inside, I make my way to the hot tub, housing regret in my core with each step.
Phoebe shoots a glare at the shadow he left behind. “He’s vile,” she says softly. Too softly.
I sit on the stone ridge of the hot tub and shed my boots. “Are you okay?” I ask her.
Her jaw sets. “He wanted…” Her voice drifts off.
“I know what he wanted, Phebs.” I dip my bare feet into the bubbling water as her eyes shift to mine.
Fear. She’s scared. “He would have taken it, if you hadn’t shown up.”
My stomach roils. I want to tell her, He’s not going to get away with this . But we’re not fleecing Trent yet. Tonight isn’t about pulling the rope, and so he doesn’t get punished. He doesn’t get broken. He gets to walk away.
Nova would say we’re just surviving at this point.
“I should’ve filmed him, or at least gotten an audio recording,” she says, cringing like she failed to bubble in an answer on a Scantron sheet.
“He’s in his own private hot tub naked. People would say you could’ve gotten out. They’d say he was just being charming. What that was”—I point back to the chalet—“it wasn’t enough dirt to bury him, let alone make him cough. You know that, Phebs. It wouldn’t have been worth the risk to do it.”
She’s blinking a lot. “Yeah…yeah.”
“That’s not the plan either. He’s not your mark,” I remind her under my breath. “You shouldn’t be alone around him.”
She lets out a hotter breath. “Jake told me the same thing. It’s not like I invited him to the hot tub.”
“Where is Jake?” I ask.
“In bed,” she mutters. “We spent all night at the clinic. Even after he asked, there were still peanuts in his salad dressing. I had to inject him with his EpiPen.”
Trent must’ve known that. It’s why he took the opportunity to corner her tonight. I let out a long sigh and run a hand through my hair, the wind tousling it. My skin feels colder with my feet in the scalding-hot water. Phoebe dips her chin under the liquid, and she stares off.
She’s always been a hard book to read.
Closed off.
It’s what we’re taught to do. It’s hard to open up, even to the people you trust, when you spend most of your life hiding not just your secrets but your truths.
“You’re really okay?” I ask her. After Carlsbad, this can’t be an easy situation to brush aside. If she thinks I’m the only reason she was able to be safe from Trent tonight, that’s not an uplifting thought. She usually has all the confidence in herself to get out of bad situations.
She tilts her head side to side before she shakes it in a no . Her face breaks for a split second, and I jump into the hot tub with my clothes on, grabbing her just as she starts to cry. She buries her face in my chest, and my fingers tangle in the back of her blue hair.
I tell myself I’m her ex-husband.
I can talk this away if any of the staff see. If any of Jake’s family comes out.
She needs me, and I’m not pulling away. Not for anything. I hold her, cupping the back of her head for another few seconds before she gathers herself like she’s a windup doll and being spun into the upright position. It’s a trained move. Something I recognize.
Her tears are gone. Dry.
Her shuddering has stopped. She pulls away, and her eyes flit to my lips. Christ, I want to kiss her. To reassure her.
“We can’t,” she whispers and rubs at her eyes. “Rocky.” She looks me over, realizing I’m drenched in my clothes. “We can’t.”
The pain grips my muscles, and I release her from my arms. She floats back to the edge of the tub. The strap of her pale pink bikini slipped off her shoulder, and I stare at her bare skin. Her eyes graze my chest, my shirt suctioned against my muscles.
Attraction teems around us with a longing ache, billowing with the steam from the water. Emotion tunnels from her to me. Our eyes meet, and in the dead of night on Christmas Eve in the Italian Alps, I make her a promise. “If he tries that again, Phoebe, I’ll kill him.”