Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Alistair’s white linen outfit taunts the truth right out of me.
I’m not some trapped kid fumbling through childhood anymore. After all this practice, lying’s what I do best. That’s my only truth. The boy from my father’s funeral is gone. I reached for him, and the room took him back.
As dinner ticks closer, I need to get ready. The book, the limo, the outfit, that fucking kink list… it’s all thrown me off my game.
So I drop to the floor, place my palms flat on cool wood, and begin recentering with as many pushups as it will take. One rep at a time, I let the repetition clear the noise and sort my thoughts.
Alistair wants control of my schedule? I’ll pretend to play while hunting for his cameras.
He wants a collection of hot guys orbiting him? I’ll turn them against him.
He wants me in this outfit? Fine. But I’ll wear it my way.
At one hundred pushups, sweat stings my eyes.
At one fifty, my arms are screaming, and my muscles start to shake.
Good. When the fire in my shoulders finally smothers the memory’s echo, I keep going until pain fills every inch of me, until there’s nothing left but the sound I claw out to get off the floor. One. More. Time.
I collapse in a puddle of my own sweat and breathe until I’ve wrestled back control.
Then I’m up and holding the toiletry kit I’ve kept packed for years and never needed. It’s almost comical, realizing my dad’s obsessiveness will help me with this. Shower. Shave. Pluck the brows. Mouthwash. Cologne. Moisturize. Tame the unruly mane.
Marcus Wilder is back… more convincing than ever.
In the mirror, the white linen outfit’s billowy sleeves and loose pants make me look composed and serene. Nothing like the person who nearly came apart a few minutes ago. This man looks calm, dangerously so.
It’s one hell of a lie.
I dig through my bag for one last touch and find my father’s old West Point cadet pin. I hate the tiny silver helmet, but it’s small enough to disappear against my collar, tucked just above the open buttons.
Alistair can dress me for his game, but this part is mine.
The tiny act of resistance sparks the thrill.
“Ohhh, boys!” a voice calls from outside the bungalow.
Laughter follows, and I imagine the guys streaming out of our identical bungalows in our identical outfits.
Showtime.
I grab the unopened champagne and step into the fading sunlight. The group’s already meandering down the path, following torches the staff lit while we got ready.
Linus turns back and waves. “Ooh la la!”
“New guy!” someone echoes.
The group slows to let me catch up, and I can feel their eyes while they make their assessments about this new competitor.
We’re wearing the same thing, which accentuates whatever features make us each a prize in Alistair’s collection; the pin feels heavier on my collar.
It might be a mistake, but the thrill certainly isn’t.
“New guy cleans up real good,” someone says.
“It’s Marcus,” Brad barks. His is the only outfit without sleeves. “Or we’re calling you Cuckboy. And yes, you look good.”
“You guys are making me hungry,” I say. “And before I forget, I wanted to say thanks for being so welcoming.”
Dae titters and wraps me in a hug. When he lets go, Brad’s eyes try telling him something he misses and I can’t decipher.
“Champagne?” I ask, popping the cork to take a swig, then pass the bottle off.
We walk at a pace that’s either reluctant or relaxed, passing champagne and talking over the low pulse of music drifting through the trees. The others move like they’ve done this before, which means looser shoulders than mine and laughter pitched much higher than I feel.
Jake falls into step beside me after the bottle makes its way down the line.
He’s dressed in the same white linen as the rest of us, but somehow makes the outfit belong to him. No resistance required.
“Real subtle,” he says.
His thumb brushes just below the tiny silver helmet with the lightest pressure, his mouth pressing into a line before it remembers to smile.
“Is that fashion advice?”
His gaze flicks toward the front of the group, then back to me. “More like admiration. Takes confidence to wear a dare that small.”
The words land too close to the truth, so I take the champagne when it comes back and drink.
“Maybe I like being mysterious.”
“You don’t have to work that hard.” His shoulder brushes mine. “You’re new. You’ll be watched either way.”
Before I can assign the stomach flip to what he’s said or how he looks, Linus spins around ahead of us and points at the bottle. “If you two are done whispering about how pretty you are, please share.”
Jake steals the champagne from me and passes it forward. “I was actually telling Marcus to be careful. He looks very comfortable making people look.”
Dae looks back. “That a crime now?”
Jake’s mouth barely moves. “Not if he knows what to do with it.”
The beach house glows through the grove like a temple at dusk.
Torches and lamps throw shadows across the lawn and the thatched overhangs.
The pool is filled with floating candles.
A bonfire pops, sending sparks into the salt air as the group drifts out of the illusion of safety and into Alistair’s next act.
I need to lie low.
Whatever Alistair called “playtime” is scheduled for after dinner, and my goal is to be one of the guys watching from the sidelines instead of in the middle. Nine guys plus Alistair. Bad odds, but better than last night. I just had a turn in the spotlight. Surely that buys me a night off.
Jake slows half a step as we start up the stairs, letting me take the lead.
“Whatever you’re hiding, tuck it away before we get upstairs,” he whispers, his smile bright and harmless for everyone but me. “Alistair doesn’t need cameras at dinner. Here, everyone’s watching everyone else.”
My foot catches on the next step. Cover blown? Already?
“What do you—”
He nudges me up the stairs. “Just trying to make myself useful.”
The table waits beneath the open sky, set with AB-monogrammed plates, crystal glassware, and an ocean view that fits the billionaire theme.
“Gather ’round!” Alistair says, with open arms and a smile up to his eyes.
He’s at the head of the table, having left us alone as long as I’d guess he can stand not being the center of attention. As everyone drifts toward seemingly familiar places, Jake finds us seats as far from Alistair as possible, a move so graceful it looks like happenstance.
“Welcome to our first supper,” Alistair says.
“Hear! Hear!” Jake lifts his glass, and the rest of us follow.
Alistair lets the silence settle, savoring our attention.
“Examine your life as a chess master examines the board,” he begins.
Jesus, he needs a monologue? “Analyze your relationships. Your resources. Your position. All of this—everything you can see—this is your life.” He taps his temple with his glass. “Everything up here is noise.”
Everyone leans in, watching intently as if we give a damn.
But Linus played fucking Pokémon on the flight over.
Brad’s mom is dying of cancer. Jake’s running a startup that needs funding.
The last thing anyone here cares about is a billionaire more than thirty years their senior waxing poetic about the meaning of life.
“After the accident,” Alistair says, “I realized I was losing my own game. I hated how I spent my time, who I spent it with, and how I’d become a machine optimized for work.”
He smacks the table, and Dae jumps in his seat with a yelp. Brad keeps him from toppling backward with one hand.
“No more!” Alistair says and closes his eyes.
The crash was all over the news. His limousine was T-boned by some protester who didn’t like Query’s algorithm changes. The protester survived but probably wished he hadn’t after Alistair’s wrath made its own kind of headlines.
“I will not waste one more minute hiding,” Alistair says, voice shaking. “Speak your mind. Live boldly. Keep no reservations.”
Alistair sighs, and I pinch my thigh to keep from laughing. I mean, I’m not cheering for another car crash here, but it’s sort of hard to see this guy as the victim when he’s the only one not bound in white linen.
Jake’s the first one to act in the silence, lifting his glass again, reverent as ever. “To living boldly.”
Unhinged billionaire’s kickoff completed, we turn away from Alistair. But he stands, unable to leave us alone for more than two seconds.
“One more thing before we start,” he says, meeting my gaze with eyes so cold they chill all my snark out through the back of my neck. “Marcus.”
I brace.
“It’s so good to have you here for your first trip.”
“Thanks for having me,” I say. “It’s… more than I imagined. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“Are you?”
The table falls silent, and bodies twist from Alistair to me. What the fuck did I do to fail so quickly at not being the center of attention?
“I noticed you’ve refused the outfit I provided.” His voice tightens along with my stomach. “I wondered if that meant something wasn’t to your liking.”
Yes, I do have a few quibbles—starting with all the guys you abuse for your personal enjoyment. But that isn’t it, and my heart reacts to the attention by speeding up and thumping louder. My chin lowers toward my collar and the small pin that’s now big enough to interrupt dinner.
“The pin?” I ask.
“Take it off.”
It’s not a suggestion.
“This pin honors someone I admire very much,” I lie.
“Off.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. I think of that cereal bowl. That morning. My father’s voice sounded so much like his.
I lie again. “My father taught me the importance of living boldly. Like you.”
There’s a flicker in Alistair’s eye. He’s listening now.
“When he died, this was all he left. I promised to keep it with me, and it seems fitting for what we’re all going through. Together.”
From the opposite side of the table, his frustration is the only thing I can sense, but I keep my gaze steady.
I guess he doesn’t care about my stupid lie or my dead father.
He’s weighing the cost of perception in the eyes of the others, and I hope my lie’s enough to convince him.
The standoff is brief, our eyes locked, as Alistair makes his decision and breaks to look inside the beach house.
“Appetizers,” he calls, finally taking his seat.
His staff floods out of the house onto the deck, carrying plates and bottles in silence.
Jake’s leg brushes mine under the table, grounding me, or telling me I’m an idiot. I’ll be the one who makes that decision.
I press my lips flat and hold still, determined again not to let the victory show while I dance on the ropes strung by my own form of control. I just lied to a man who owns islands and empires—and won.
Dinner is served.