Chapter 29
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Each of Brad’s hulking strides covers two of mine.
We rush through the grove, passing staff members lighting torches to draw the guys back to Alistair’s beach house for dinner.
Brad stays quiet, but sweat dampens the back of his neck.
I guess we’re both picturing Alistair’s reaction if we get caught.
“At the bookshop,” I hiss. “Dae didn’t fail his second test. He threw it, on purpose. He wants to stay with you, doesn’t he?”
Brad doesn’t respond, but a muscle twitches in his jaw.
“Why did you buy that book? I checked online; it’s not worth a fraction of what you spent.”
“It’s the oldest bookstore in San Francisco,” he says. “It’s practically a donation from Alistair for it to stay afloat. It could have been any fucking book. What do you care?”
So, Dae’s test let Alistair buy an old bookstore a few more years. But The Spy’s Mask wasn’t just any fucking book. How easily Brad is sharing information tells me he’s scared… for his mom.
Christ.
“I won’t tell Alistair about you and Dae,” I say.
He huffs, unimpressed.
“I know he’s helping your mom,” I add, more gently. “I wouldn’t risk that.”
“You don’t think breaking into Alistair’s office risks it? What the fuck do you want in there?”
I almost tell him, but manage to shove the confession down beneath the story I need to believe is worth this.
“Recordings,” I lie.
Brad stops to glare at me over his shoulder. “You think there’s a VHS tape you can just yank out?”
“Fine. I don’t give a shit about the recording. I don’t like it, but that’s not what I’m after. I just need two minutes.”
His eyes narrow, fists still clenched from holding himself back.
We cut off the path and start our way up toward Alistair’s office.
From a distance, the palms rising on either side look like giant security guards waiting to catch someone stupid enough to try something.
We cross sleek black stones still warm from the waning afternoon sun, and every step closer to the door makes the bile in my throat climb higher.
Exposed on the hill, we’re in clear view of any employees on the trail.
“Act confident,” Brad mutters.
I nod like I’m the hero. Like I’m not using his dying mother as my crowbar. Christ, what kind of person does that? The ends justify the means. They have to. I point every ugly thing in me at Alistair and keep walking.
The office door is a monolith of dark metal, punctuated by six horizontal glass windows. I never would’ve been able to bash those in, but Brad punches in the code, and the door clicks open. He waits for my nod before pushing in slowly, like we’re entering a tomb that happens to have Wi-Fi.
Inside, the air is cool and laced with the smell of leather and citrus polish.
Alistair’s office isn’t the den of sin I pictured. Even knowing what he is doesn’t help me see past the immaculate cover, which makes it more insidious.
Books and antiques line the only solid wall of bookshelves with priceless-looking collections.
A polished mahogany desk stretches across the far side of the room, and the windows on every other wall are all so heavily tinted they barely let any sun inside.
That’s the tip-off that this illusion of sophistication is really a blindfold.
The air feels wrong too, stage-still, like it’s waiting for a cue.
“I need Wi-Fi,” I whisper, pulling up my phone’s settings.
Nothing yet. Not even a network name.
Brad’s pacing. “You said two minutes.”
“Even less.”
A faint red light blinks from a corner of the ceiling.
My chest tightens. “There’s a camera.”
“Of course there’s a camera,” Brad snaps, glancing right at it. “You haven’t thought this through.”
My phone buzzes as the Wi-Fi network “AlistairsOffice” appears.
Relief rushes for my chest, then stumbles on the fact that now I have nothing to do but trust Jake. If his password doesn’t work, this was all for nothing.
I paste the password—themasterofthegame—and the room explodes into white light.
The TV behind the desk snaps on.
It’s me, bound and writhing, face twisted into something that looks like ecstasy. My hips buck into Alistair’s hand. Without volume, my shouts could all be begging. My stomach drops to the floor. It looks like I wanted it.
It’s a lie, but it fucking looks true.
“No,” I whisper. “No, no—”
The phone vibrates again: Connected.
“Marcus Philips.” His voice slides out of the dark.
I stumble back.
Alistair emerges from the shadows, and the TV glow catches the lines of his black leather suit. Every inch of him is controlled, deliberate, almost formal, except for the whip hanging loose from his hand.
“You’re in my office.”
He knew.
Of course he fucking knew.
My heart slams against my ribs. My hands go cold, and I fight the urge to run. This is what he does: manipulates everyone, makes everything a test or a trap. He wants me to break.
Not today.
Seeing myself on screen, where he’s with me, almost pulls me under. It might have, if I didn’t have my own lies as defense.
I meet his gaze and lift my phone with a smile that twitches beneath my nose. He’d hate knowing I see us as the same kind of liar. I hate it too—thinking about Jake, about Brad’s mom, about how I’ve never known who I am, and how Alistair’s so fucking sure he does.
Let him choke on that mistake. I hit Send.