2. Ford
FORD
When we make it home, Jagger heads upstairs for a nap despite drinking two shots of espresso. Seems his fight last night took him out more than he’d like to admit.
He reappears hours later, with his dark hair sticking out in all directions and his hand covering a yawn.
Standing from the couch, I slap Jagger’s shoulder. “How you feeling, slugger?”
The bastard winces but recovers quickly. “Doing fine.”
Fine, my ass. Last night, the guy starred in an underground brawl.
We thought it was an easy win, but we didn’t know what was happening behind the scenes.
Thankfully, Violet caught on before it was too late.
Instead of throwing the fight, Jagger beat the shit out of Ethan, and damn, was it a sight to behold.
If only we didn’t have to deal with the fallout.
Apple in hand, Roman enters from the kitchen.
Sometimes I forget Rome is from The Drift.
He’s basically our brother in every way except for blood.
Hell, after his real brother was arrested for pushing drugs, Roman even moved into one of the spare bedrooms and has been living with us ever since.
Taking a bite of apple, Roman lifts his chin at Jagger in greeting, then sits next to Hawke on the couch. “You look like shit.”
“Feel like shit,” Jagger confirms.
Hawke eyes us. “Ready to tell us what the game plan is?”
Not going to lie. I think we’ve all been procrastinating on the whole what the hell are we going to do now that Ethan screwed us over reveal.
You see, not only did Ethan lose a shit-ton of money last night thanks to the fight, but he informed his uncle, Gus, about the wager.
And Gus—who happens to be our very shady business partner and the uncrowned king of The Drift—put down a decent chunk of change, thinking his nephew would win.
Fast forward to Violet intervening, and here we are.
On Gus’s shit list. And how did Gus respond to said beating of his nephew?
By accusing us of manipulating our underground betting system.
His solution? Open up the playing field to let Ethan Morgan take bets for Drifters and Harden folks alike, while simultaneously fucking us over in the process.
Yeah, to say I’m not very happy with Gus or his nephew would be a massive understatement. Which brings us back to Hawke’s question.
“Ready to tell us what the game plan is?” he asks.
Jagger gingerly wipes at the corner of his good eye. “Pretty sure this is more of a brainstorming session than announcing a game plan.”
“Well, at least catch me up,” Hawke pushes. He was mysteriously absent last night, though I have a theory as to where he was.
Swallowing his bite, Roman explains, “After our meeting with Gus, Jagger suggested we take a smaller cut from our bets for the time being. We have the market, and we’ll make sure we have the better odds. Once Ethan figures out how tight shit can be, we’re hoping he’ll give up and leave.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I challenge.
All eyes turn to me.
Jagger might be the head of our underground gambling operation, at least on some level, but everyone in this room knows I’m the person who runs the numbers.
The person who studies the data and the variables, then calculates and analyzes and predicts and everything in between.
It’s not that they can’t. But when it’s second nature for my brain to do all of that almost without thinking, why not let me do the heavy lifting?
And after sleeping like shit, I landed on the conclusion that our situation is a lot more precarious than any of us would like to admit.
“Look, I agree with you, Jag,” I start. “Right now, we have the market, and we’ll make sure we maintain better odds than Morgan offers. But if we get lazy, or if we fuck up, whatever edge we have will be swallowed in an instant. Morgan’s not messing around, and neither is Gus.”
“So what do we do?” Hawke asks.
It’s the same question that’s been marinating since the moment we showed up at Gus’s strip club to meet. What to do, what to do. That is the question.
“Personally?” I mutter. “I say we utilize our name. Sure, anyone can take a bet, but can they throw a party like we do? I think we all agree the haunted house was one for the books,” I add, mentioning the time we created a tournament for all the ladies to participate in.
Not only did they make a decent chunk of change, but so did everyone who placed bets that night.
“What if we do something similar?” I ask.
“Remind everyone that they might be able to place a bet with more than one person now, but the parties aren’t parties unless they’re organized by Hardens. ”
“Question is, how do we capitalize on it?” Roman wonders aloud.
“We throw another tournament,” Jagger decides.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Something bigger. Better. More memorable.”
“Not sure how you’re gonna beat your house of horrors, Ford,” Roman says.
He’s right. The haunted house was pretty damn incredible. At one point, we even had pig’s blood raining down from the rafters. It was insane. I scrub my hand over my face, considering my options. “What if…”
“What?” Jagger pushes.
“What if we do the haunted house again, but this time…” I push to my feet and begin pacing in front of the fireplace.
How can we make it better? How can we make it more epic?
What would take the event to the next level?
“Let’s see,” I mumble. “What sells? What sells?” I let the question ruminate as my footsteps echo off the hardwood floor, mingling with the crackling of the fire.
“What if…what if this time, we invite girls and guys to sign up,” I say.
“The girls who play get money for their time, and the guys who pay get…get a prize.”
Hawke frowns. “What kind of prize?”
I shake my head, both disgusted and a little impressed.
“I’m just brainstorming here, but what sells, you know?
Sex sells. And if we give the people a safe word or something, and can make sure everything stays…
I don’t know…that it stays consensual,” I clarify.
“You can watch or you can participate or you can make a bet to see who ends up with who or…”
“So a sex club.” Jagger scoffs. “You want to start a sex club.”
I look around the room, gauging my brothers’ expressions. “What? Too far?”
“I mean…maybe a little,” Roman laughs.
“Not sure I’m ready to cross into prostitution, Ford,” Jagger decides. “Any other ideas?”
He’s right. What was I thinking?
“I’ll keep brainstorming,” I tell him.
“Good,” Hawke mutters. He clears his throat. “And, uh, speaking of bad news…”
My head falls forward. “There’s more?”
“Maybe give them a day,” Roman suggests.
Hawke shakes his head. “Jag.”
Jagger goes to pinch the bridge of his nose before flinching, as if he’d forgotten he had the shit kicked out of him last night. Dropping his hand back to his lap, he mutters, “Yeah?”
“You know the footage from the haunted house? When you snuck in and helped Violet win?”
Jagger’s body locks. “What about it?”
Hawke has the decency to look apologetic as he eyes our big brother. “I was doing some surveillance and, uh, I’m pretty sure Ethan has the footage.”
“He has video evidence?” Jagger demands. “Proof we rigged the bet?”
Hawke’s head bobs as if he doesn’t have the heart to confirm the truth out loud.
Yeah, that’ll do it. I clench my hands into fists, fighting the urge to strangle my oldest brother with my own two hands.
Don’t get me wrong. I like Vi, really, I do, but I fucking told him.
I knew this would happen. I knew him riding in and saving the day was gonna bite us—and our business—in the ass.
I just never figured we’d be screwed so thoroughly and so soon after our business already took a major hit.
Hell, it’s like I’m taking it up the ass with no lube. Not exactly a pleasant experience.
What the hell are we supposed to do?
“Fuck.” Jagger’s chin falls to his chest. Hell, it’s as if Hawke threw the final punch, and Jagger’s out for the count. “Any idea how he got it?”
“Checked our encryptions. We had a strange power surge I couldn’t account for. Guessing that’s when he grabbed it. Either that, or he snuck in his own phone and recorded the footage during the livestream. And before you ask, yes, I already hacked into his computer, but nothing was there.”
Nothing? Why would nothing be on Ethan’s laptop?
“Maybe he’s lying,” I say.
“Or maybe he’s keeping it on an external hard drive.” Hawke shrugs. “It’s what I would do.”
“Morgan’s not smart enough to hack our system,” Jagger points out. “He had to have snuck in a phone.”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t write him off completely,” Roman interjects. “I asked Rafe about it,” he adds, mentioning his brother, who has as many connections in The Drift as we do in Harden Heights. “He says Morgan has been busy making friends since he came back.”
Fantastic. So now, not only do we have competition in the underground betting market, but our rival has evidence of us rigging a bet, and in turn, the power to upend our business entirely before swooping in and claiming every single penny for himself.
I need a drink. A stiff fucking drink.
“Well, speaking of shit hitting the fan, has anyone heard from Daddy Dearest?” I ask, mentioning our father, Titas Harden.
“Nothing,” Hawke returns.
Jagger shakes his head. “Me neither.”
“Do you think he knows?” Roman asks.
“If he does, I’m sure he’s celebrating,” Jagger mutters.
I believe it. Our father’s been trying to cut off our ties to Gus Toro for months. As soon as he found out we were dealing with Gus, he brought in our Uncle Judge to try to rein us in. Unfortunately for both of them, it didn’t work.
“If Tight Ass has a mole like we think he does, then he definitely knows,” Hawke points out. “But for now, I say we keep quiet and see if he reveals anything.”
“Good idea,” I agree. “I’ll keep brainstorming options for an event.”
“No sex,” Hawke mumbles.
I smirk back at him. “Not all of us believe in celibacy, but I’ll take your feelings into account.”
Hawke flinches toward me as if he’s about to hit me upside the head, but I stand my ground, showcasing my grin.
I guess that’s that.