Chapter 17 Maverick
Maverick
This entire fucked-up day needs to be over.
The paramedics are in and out, but the fucking cops insist on grilling me for hours, and Mrs. Langford—a senator’s wife, apparently—decides it’s her civic duty to tell the police everything.
The cops were already on edge before I walked into the room—one of those situations where, no matter what I say, they’re convinced I’m leaving something out.
I give them the facts they need, but it doesn’t matter.
They keep asking the same questions over and over, like I’m going to trip over my story and confess to… I don’t even know what.
Dealing? Planning to whore out those two women until they OD on dick? God only knows what stories they’re concocting in their heads. That’s for the lawyers to deal with.
The resulting search couldn’t be more thorough if they had bent me over the goddamn table for a cavity check. Thank fuck Storm manages to clear a considerable amount of shit from their room before the cops check it out.
Finally, the police leave—with the promise to come back with a warrant.
Good fucking luck. I make the calls to the lawyers, give Con the cliff notes, and clock the fuck out even though we never really clock out since it’s our fucking resort.
By the time everything is done, a headache has begun to throb between my eyes. I need a meal and my girl bouncing on my dick, and then I’ll deal with all this shit again tomorrow—with a fresh head, a full stomach, and empty balls.
The elevator ride feels longer than it should. I stand with my arms crossed, watch the floors tick by, every muscle in my body tight.
The elevator dings. I step out and head down the hall, already picturing her in my bed. When we decided we were going to share her, I promised myself—and her—I’d be in that tight little ass every fucking day. I’m finally about to make good on that.
I’m halfway to my room when I hear her stifled moans, Atticus’s voice threading through them. He’s using that calm, precise tone he only uses on Phoenix. The door to his dungeon is shut, but soundproofing only works so well.
I pause outside, gritting my teeth against the ache in my balls.
It’s not that I mind sharing. I don’t. I actually like to watch, so there’s that.
Conrad doesn’t usually care, although this thing with Phoenix has him wound a little tighter than he normally is.
Storm is situational. Sometimes he cares, other times he wants to show off what he’s capable of making our girl feel.
Atticus, though…Atticus demands control. He can’t control the other Titans, so when he’s in what I lovingly call his “anal-retentive dom-daddy mode,” he exists within the confines of his own little control-freak bubble.
Popping that bubble would make me the asshole—especially when it sounds like Phoenix is into every bit of what he’s doing to her.
And just like that, I’m back at the end of the fucking line and the bottom of the goddamn pecking order.
I lean against the wall, jaw working, wondering if interrupting them is worth it. I could knock. I could force my way in. I could take one look at her and decide I don’t care about Atticus’s rules tonight.
It’s tempting.
If it were anyone but a Titan in there, I’d take what I want. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a girl from a man mid-fuck.
Before I can make up my mind, Conrad appears at the far end of the hall, his expression already telling me I’m not going to like whatever comes next.
Jesus Christ—now what?
“We’ve got a problem,” he says. “Two cops are sitting in our living room. The lawyers say to humor them until they can get here. Cops want to talk to all of us.”
“Who the fuck let them up?”
“I don’t know, but when I do, I’m siccing Storm on them.”
I huff a laugh. “I’m on board with that.”
We step into the main living room. They’re already making themselves at home.
Two uniforms—one tall, scanning everything like he’s memorizing the layout, cataloging every single item.
The other shorter, stockier, with the kind of posture that says he’s been waiting for a chance to throw his weight around.
The shorter man reeks of small-dick energy.
He’s the kind of guy who picks a fight with a bigger man and then fights dirty just to feel important.
My gut tightens when his predatory smile tracks up and down my body. This isn’t a casual visit; this fucker is spoiling for a fight, and I’m the biggest opponent in the goddamn room.
Conrad steps forward. “Gentlemen. You’re in our private suite and have refused to wait for our counsel, which means you’ve already overstepped because there’s not an arrest being made. What exactly do you need?”
The tall one doesn’t answer directly but tugs at his sleeves. “We need everyone present.”
“Everyone?” I echo.
“Everyone,” his partner repeats. “All of your little boy band—and the girl.”
“The girl?” Conrad’s voice takes on a hard edge.
“Yes. Phoenix Jones. She’s been seen with you for the last few weeks. We have a source that says she lives here.”
That hits my gut wrong. All of this feels wrong. “A source, huh? Who might that be, and why do you need to speak with Phoenix?”
“We’ll ask the questions, and we’ll talk when she’s here,” the shorter one says. “Assuming she’s still alive. Or maybe you’ve gotten tired of her body already?”
The line stings with a snap like a too-taut rubberband as he crosses right over it. “What the actual fuck is that supposed to mean?” I take a step before I register it.
“Calm down—”
His hand lands on his gun. “It means we need to see all of you—and the girl. Get her. Now.”
His eyes flick to my hands, then back to my face. “I would take a step back if I were you.”
Neither me or Conrad shift an inch. “We’re perfectly calm, and not the one with our hands on our gun in a private citizen’s residence,” Conrad says, his tone biting.
The officers share a look; the thinner one’s is definitely a warning to the shorter man.
The short one reluctantly pulls his hand back.
“That’s right. Now, I’d like an explanation before my lawyer gets here and turns your ass into my new vacation home. ”
They keep it up—circling, hinting, refusing to actually answer anything or ask any sort of real goddamn question.
Every time I think they’ll get to the point, they redirect.
My patience erodes. Conrad texts our lawyers, who are still dealing with the mess downstairs.
Storm joins us, but we’re still waiting on Atticus and Phoenix.
Conrad pretends to play diplomat, voice steady and measured.
“You want to question us. Fine. That doesn’t mean you get to waste our time.
Ask whatever questions you like. We have other obligations.
But know that if you cross a line, I’m going to sic my fucking lawyers on you and you’ll have a civil suit slapped on your ass so hard that you’ll be calling me sir for the rest of your goddamn lives. ”
The short one scoffs something about rich pricks under his breath, then turns to me instead. “You seem tense.”
I let out a short, unfriendly laugh. “Genuine talent for observation. It’s been a long day. I’d like to get this over with so that I can get to fucking bed. But you insist on wasting our time.”
“Back up a step,” he says, stepping forward—little man trying to feel important.
I don’t move. “I’m standing still.”
“Nah. You’re too close. Like you might take a swing at me. You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“You came into my space,” I say evenly. He glances at his partner, and they share a look before both body cams blink off.
“Gentlemen—” Con starts, but it doesn’t matter.
The little fucker moves fast. He yanks my arm and uses my weight to lock my wrists behind my back, his voice in my ear telling me to get on the floor.
It would be so easy to shove back, snap the cuffs, and watch him panic. But Conrad’s eyes meet mine across the room, and his message is clear: don’t make this worse.
He’s right. This fucker wants a reason to pull his gun.
So I sink to my knees, the carpet rough beneath them, every muscle in my back coiled. I focus on my breathing and think of cheesecake.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. In. Hold. Out.
The short cop plants himself just behind me, like he expects me to lunge. The tall one leans on the wall, arms folded, pretending he’s above it. Like it’s all routine.
Hell, for them it might be. We aren’t just any fucking college-age kids they can fuck with, though. They’re both going to learn a hard lesson before this is over.
Rage simmers in my gut—fueled by the smug asshole getting off on putting me down and every other piece of bullshit from the last few days.
It’s fine, though. I’ll deal with them later. I draw in air through my nose and draw boxes in the space before me…store the rage away where it can’t hurt me or anyone else.
Breathe in—two, three, four.
Hold—two, three, four.
Breathe out—two, three, four.
Hold—two, three, four.
It’s still Phoenix’s ten-year-old voice in my head, counting me through the exercise.
Minutes drag, and the tightness in my shoulders turns to a slow, throbbing burn. My jaw aches from keeping my mouth shut.
The breathing helps, but it isn’t enough.
When Atticus finally strolls in with Phoenix beside him, her hand tucked in his, I almost lose it.
He’s got that calm, put-together, just-been-fucked look—tie straight, hair perfect, self-satisfied curve to his mouth like he just won a bet. We’re waiting; I’m fucking handcuffed on the floor, and he leaves us like this so he can get off?
In that moment, I understand exactly why Storm sometimes wants to murder people.
Phoenix’s gaze drops to me on the floor. Her brows pull together. I shake my head once—silently telling her to keep her mouth shut. I motion with my eyes to the cops, and I watch her spine lengthen as her face slides into a pleasant lie.
“Oh, look,” Little Dick says at that moment. “Here’s one chick they haven’t killed yet.”
Phoenix’s spine straightens, and she stands a little taller, and I can’t help but feel proud before she ever opens her mouth. She’s a smart girl. She’s dealt with more assholes on power trips than I have. She smells what they are.
“I’m not going to pretend to understand the foolishness that just came out of your mouth,” she murmurs.
“But I am going to warn you that we have a closed circuit of cameras in this penthouse. If you don’t back the fuck away from Maverick right now, I’ll make sure that every news outlet in the fucking country gets a copy of whatever the fuck I just walked in on. ”
The tall cop hitches his pants. “Right. Now we can get to it. Do any of you know a woman named Sarah?”
The name hits like an icy trickle of water down my spine. Images flash: the shameless flirting when I intentionally called her by the wrong name, the way she practically begged to suck my cock, her determination when I told her to take lessons.
Her body falling on its side when we found her, the cold stare when we left her in the alley.
I say nothing.
If I admit to knowing her, I’m in the crosshairs. And from the way the short one watches me, I’d bet money they already know something.
The question is what. The room tilts toward the answer, everyone waiting for someone to speak. My pulse is a drum in my ears.
And all I can think is I haven’t had nearly enough whiskey—or sex—to deal with being their prime fucking suspect just because five-0 radiates tiny-dick energy and has a hard-on for big guys who happen to be rich and decent-looking.
I meet the short cop’s stare and know he’s already decided how this is going to play. He’ll do whatever it takes to bring me down.
He doesn’t give a fuck if I’m innocent or not.
“I told you to release him.” Phoenix mutters indignantly.
“No one is going to say a word to you for two reasons. One, you assaulted a man in his home, which you’ve entered without a fucking warrant.
He’s not under arrest. Which means what you’ve done is assault.
And number two? Their fucking lawyers are not present.
Do you think that you can enter the private residence of the heirs to the Masterson, Vale, Carrow, and Locke dynasties.
To Titan-fucking-Wynn? Are you a fucking idiot? ”