Chapter 40 Knox #2
"Ruby first. She's got that playlist she runs at the bar. The one she guards with her whole personality. We get into her phone and replace every song with the same track. 'What's New Pussycat' by Tom Jones. All forty-seven songs. Every single one is 'What's New Pussycat.'"
Nash blinks. "She'll burn the building down."
East smirks. "She'll have to listen to it for at least three songs before she figures out it's not shuffling. That's seven minutes of Tom Jones at full volume."
James rubs his jaw. "That's cruel."
"That's Tuesday."
I lean forward. "Candace?"
East's grin sharpens. "Candace runs a tight ship.
Clean locker. Labeled gear. Everything in its place.
So we add things. One new item a day. Day one, a small rubber duck in her gym bag.
Day two, another rubber duck in her locker.
Day three, one on her water bottle. Day four, her car.
Day five, she opens the war room and three hundred rubber ducks fall out. "
"Where are we getting three hundred rubber ducks?" Nash asks.
"Internet. Next-day delivery. I already looked."
"You already looked," Malachi repeats.
East shrugs. "I've been sitting on this. Waiting for the right moment."
Malachi stares at him. "You've been stockpiling rubber duck intel."
"A good soldier is always prepared."
Malachi's mouth twitches. It's the first sign of life since the Boss Babe mug. "Frankie?"
East hesitates. "Frankie's harder. She's got the shop, but she'll hex us."
"She doesn't hex people," James says. Everyone looks at him. "Probably," he adds.
"We don't touch the shop," East says. "We touch her car. Get one of those massive car magnets made. 'Frankie's Mobile Petting Zoo. Ask Me About My Cats.' With a QR code that links to a ten-hour loop of cat purring."
Nash almost smiles. "She'll peel that off in thirty seconds."
"She has to find it first. We put it on the side she never checks when she's parallel parking."
I crack my neck. "Darla?"
East's jaw tightens. Loosens. Tightens again. The man is at war with himself. "She's pregnant," he says. "So nothing that spikes her blood pressure."
"But?" Nash prompts.
"But last time I replaced her entire closet with Broadway costumes and she wore them. Every single one. To the grocery store. To brunch. She wore the Phantom cape to pick up dry cleaning and three strangers complimented her." He drags a hand down his face. "She won. By enjoying it."
"So you escalate," I say.
East settles back against the wall. "We don't touch her closet this time.
We touch her car. Full wrap. Not permanent, vinyl.
'East's #1 Fan' across the hood. A blown-up photo of my face on the driver's side door.
'Honk if you love East' on the bumper. And one of those dashboard bobbleheads, custom made, of me. Shirtless."
Dead silence.
"You want to prank your own woman," Nash says, "by putting your face all over her car."
"My shirtless face."
"That's not a prank. That's a shrine."
"It's a shrine she has to drive to work. Through town. Past the school zone." East folds his arms. "She'll either love it, which means I win, or she'll be mortified, which means I also win."
James pinches the bridge of his nose. "You've thought about this."
"I think about it every day."
"What about Sloane?" James asks, glancing at me.
East's grin dies fast enough to be smart. "Knox's wife. Knox's call."
I think about it. "Her scrubs. She's got a whole drawer of them, rotates by color. We replace every single set with dinosaur print. Bright ones. Cartoon T-rexes in little nurse hats. She won't notice until she's already getting dressed for a shift, and by then it's too late."
East's face lights up. "Dinosaur scrubs."
"She'll kill me."
"She'll try to kill you. There's a difference. And she'll look adorable doing it, which will make her angrier."
"That's the best one," Nash says.
Malachi drums his fingers on the pastel tablecloth. "Maggie?"
James goes quiet. His jaw works once.
"She planned this," East says, gesturing at the peonies. "She made the muffins. She's not a civilian, James."
James exhales. "I know."
"So?"
A long beat. James leans forward, hands clasped, looking more serious than the situation warrants. "Her kitchen. She's got every spice labeled. Alphabetical. Color-coded lids. It's her system and she'll fight God over it."
"You want to rearrange her spices?" East sounds almost disappointed.
"I want to swap the labels. Not the jars. Just the labels. Cumin says paprika. Oregano says cinnamon. Garlic powder says nutmeg. Every single one." The room goes still.
"James," East says. "That's the most evil thing anyone's said today."
"She'll reach for garlic and get nutmeg," Nash says. "Mid-recipe. In front of people."
"She'll think she's losing her mind," I add.
James nods. Calm. Measured. A man who has studied his target and found the surgical point. "She'll figure it out after the second ruined dish. But those two dishes will haunt her."
East grins. "Welcome to the war, old man."
"I've been in wars," James says. "I just prefer to win quietly."
East claps once. "So we've got forty-seven Tom Joneses, a rubber duck invasion, a petting zoo magnet, a rolling shrine to my body, dinosaur scrubs, sabotaged spices, and Kyle running logistics because that kid will do anything if you hand him a clipboard.
All on the same day. No staggering. We hit them all at once and let the chaos overlap. "
"And we don't take credit," I add. "They confessed through laughter. We deny everything."
Nash nods. "Deny with sincerity."
"With commitment," East corrects.
Malachi surveys the room one more time. Peonies. Lace. The golden retriever on the vision board stares back at him with unconditional optimism.
"Fine," he says. "But if this goes wrong, I'm blaming all of you."
"Noted," East says. "But before we celebrate our genius, Knox has something."
The room shifts. Chairs scrape as we settle in, lace bows pressing into our backs. Hard to talk strategy surrounded by peonies, but we do it.
East flicks a tea light. The flame wobbles. "Psychological warfare. I feel mocked."
"You are mocked," Malachi says. "Stay focused."
"I found something." I was up half the night pulling threads, and the screen glow is still sitting behind my eyes. "Paper trail. Shell accounts tied to municipal development grants. Mercer's name isn't on them directly, but the signatures trace back to his office."
"How recent?"
"Active. And sloppy."
James nods. "That tracks."
Malachi drums his fingers once, sharp against the pastel plastic. "Phoenix is in. Quietly. Amelia and Felix too. Already shifting things."
East straightens off the wall. "Shifting how?"
"Changing the structure. Who gets bought. Why. What happens after. Cutting the rot piece by piece. But men in Mercer's position?" His mouth tightens. "They don't bend."
"They resist," James says.
"They sabotage. Keep operating in the dark and pretend the rules don't apply."
"Which means Phoenix won't protect him," I say.
"No. He'll help end him. However that needs to happen."
Silence. Understanding.
"So this isn't about reform," East says. "It's about control."
"It's about survival," Malachi says. "For the women. The system. For anyone who wants it burned down instead of polished."
I nod. "We don't rush. Don't spook anyone. Let Phoenix tighten the net."
Malachi's gaze flicks to the Boss Babe mug with visible contempt. "Pranks aside. We keep our heads on Mercer."
East smirks. "Even if it means sitting through this."
"I'll endure," Malachi grunts.
Nash reaches for the mini muffins. Everyone watches. He unwraps one, takes a bite. Chews.
"They're good," he says, flat as concrete.
East grabs one. James. I take one and break it in half. Malachi stares at the basket for a long beat, takes the last one without comment.
Five men eating muffins surrounded by fake flowers, lace, and a vision board that says MANIFEST YOUR BEST LIFE. Nobody acknowledges it.
Only we push back and head for the gym.
It smells of rubber mats and sweat. Candace is in the center, calm and steady, voice carrying without shouting. She corrects stances with precision, a touch to a shoulder here, a tap to realign a hip there, coaching firmness without fear.
Sloane is sweaty, breathing hard, hairline damp. Her movements are a fraction behind, frustration tightening her mouth, but she's still on her feet and still throwing. She wants to quit. I see it in the brief defiance when her foot slips. She resets. Tries again.
"Again," Candace calls. "Controlled."
"You've got this," Darla murmurs near Sloane, low enough just for her. A quiet anchor.
Sloane nods, absorbs it, and keeps going.
"Scared is fine," Candace says. "Quitting isn't. Again."
Sloane straightens. Breath pulling deeper.
East leans toward me. "You look two seconds from dragging her into a corner."
Malachi snorts. "Please. You've been staring at Darla as though she's oxygen."
"I blink. That's restraint."
"And yet," James adds, "you've adjusted your stance three times to keep her in view."
"Unfair analysis."
I catch Malachi's eyes tracking Candace as she moves through the line. Expression locked, jaw set, hands braced on his hips, holding himself in place.
"Careful, President. You're not as subtle as you think," I say with a smirk.
He doesn't look away. "I'm supervising."
"That's what we're calling it?" East says. "Your head's tilted."
Malachi drags his gaze back, mouth curling, unapologetic. "I've had her in almost every place in this club. I've been neglecting the gym. I'll fix that."
East glances between us. "So we're all feral today. Just checking."
Ruby laughs from the sidelines, breathless between drills. "You men are exhausting."
No one argues.
East nudges Nash. "Planning to blink anytime soon, or should we bolt a chair down facing the mats?"
Nash doesn't move. Shoulders angled fully toward Ruby, attention so obvious it's defiant. "I'm monitoring."
"Monitoring," Malachi echoes. "With your entire chest turned."
James glances at Nash's feet. "You repositioned to keep her in your peripheral. That's commitment."
Nash cuts his eyes sideways, glare sharp, ears red. "You want to keep talking, or keep breathing?"
East grins. "There it is."
I don't pile on. Nash being rattled is entertainment enough, and the fact that he never denies it says everything.
My attention stays where it belongs. Sloane. Sweat-slicked, breathing hard, shoulders squared even when her form slips. She wipes her face, shakes out her hands, and goes again.
Everything else fades.
"Last round," Candace calls.
Sloane moves through the final drill with grit more than grace, breath ragged, form imperfect, but she stays on her feet. Candace claps once. "That's it."
I'm moving before the sound fades. Hand at her waist, firm, claiming. I put my forehead to her temple, mouth close enough that my words are hers alone.
"You stayed in it." After yesterday, after her father, I half expected her to shut down. She didn't.
She leans into me, sweat-slick and solid. "So did you."
Ruby laughs nearby. "This is my favorite day."
I don't look away from Sloane. The clubhouse hums around us. Laughter, tension, plans stacking, tea lights still flickering down the hall. Peonies stand guard over the war room nobody had the nerve to dismantle.
Sloane tilts her head up, a small smile breaking through exhaustion.
"Later," I murmur, because if I kiss her now, in front of everyone, I'm not stopping. "You and me. After this is done."
Her smile deepens. Her eyes flick past me toward the war room, where the pastel tablecloths are still spread and my laptop is still open.
"How bad is it?" she asks. "What you found on him."
My hand tightens at her waist. "Bad enough that Phoenix is already moving."
Her smile dies. But she doesn't look away.