Chapter 19 Atticus
Atticus
Hours.
I’ve spent hours combing CCTV, trying to figure out how the cops got around all our staff, how fucking men were drugging women and trying to take them, when Phoenix comes into my office.
“Don’t you think you should come to bed?”
I lean back in the chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight, and attempt a smile. It falls flat. “I still have a pile of work to do, kitten. And you should probably be with Maverick tonight,” I tell her. “He needs you more right now.”
Pushing her away makes me sick, but I need a few more hours to work on this, and after what he went through, he needs her care.
She steps between my legs and loops her arms around my neck. Her fingers brush the hair curling at the nape, sending shivers tracing down my spine. “I agree,” she says. “But he won’t let me anywhere near him. He’s too angry, and after everything with the cops and the scene…I need—”
“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. My girl needs aftercare, and I refuse to be the kind of dick who skips it—not after she submitted to me so beautifully. Besides, I’m getting nowhere. I’ve stared at the screen so long the letters and numbers are blurring.
I don’t think I’ll fall asleep easily, but with Phoenix beside me, I sink quickly into unconsciousness. Despite my intent to provide her with the aftercare she needs, I barely wrap my arms around her before I’m gone. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping hard when something shocks me awake.
For a second, I don’t know where I am. All I register is heat and weight: a leg thrown over my hip, a small hand on my stomach.
Phoenix. Awareness sets in. The second I know it’s her next to me, my body unlocks. I’m about to slide under again when the phone on the nightstand, face down, stutters, the vibration sending it skittering across the polished wood surface.
“Atticus?” Phoenix murmurs, half asleep.
I reach over and silence the notification with my thumb, then lift the screen to glance at the time. “Shh. Go back to sleep.”
She nuzzles under my jaw like she’s trying to anchor me to the bed. I want to let her. I want to sink into her and let the hotel burn.
Two hours. That’s all I’ve had. Eighty-nine minutes with her skin on mine—the first time in days that my mind sank quiet into slumber without a fight, and I actually slept.
The phone buzzes again, crushing any hope of more. Maybe ten people have this number, not counting the Titans. It’s the last line of defense—an emergency line. If someone calls this, someone’s dead, bleeding, or in jail.
I slide my arm out from under her, lift her head with the heel of my hand, trade my shoulder for a pillow.
She makes a small sound, fingers closing on the sheet, and my annoyance spikes because leaving her alone is wrong.
Our scene was interrupted. It was intense—not nearly as intense as I wanted, but it was still a scene.
I owe her aftercare. I need it just as much as she does, and walking out like this is fucked.
The phone buzzes again, and I know—I have to go.
“I’ll be right back,” I lie to both of us, kiss her hair, then slip from the bed.
I dress in the dark: slacks, a shirt I don’t bother buttoning all the way, no tie. Hermes pool slides. The hallway outside is still the color of pre-dawn, windows washed in the blue of a sun that hasn’t committed yet.
I crack the door and glance back. Phoenix turns once, reaching for me, and my chest pulls tight.
The phone goes again. I hang my head, close the door, answer. “This had better be a bomb threat.”
“It’s worse,” the night manager says. He’s aiming for calm and missing. “The downstairs lobby is swarming with paramedics, and the police are with them. There was another group of ODs. Eighteenth floor.”
My jaw locks. I won’t be getting back in that bed. “How many?”
“Three confirmed, one unresponsive. Another five…it’s not good, boss. The paramedics are saying it’s fentanyl cut with something. Narcan isn’t working, so benzos, maybe? One guy from the same party is swearing the crushed pills came from our bar.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it as well as I do.” I don’t need to check to know. We make plenty with the hotel, its restaurants, the casinos on land and boat. Risking it all by selling drugs in-house would be suicidal. The money wouldn’t be worth the risk or the potential exposure.
This has set-up written all over it.
“I know.” The manager is still speaking, and with difficulty I draw my attention back to him. “He was in a private cabana by the pool earlier. Same crowd. He’s…being loud. Creating a scene. Threatening to call the news if we don’t make him a better offer for his silence.”
“Contain him in a back office,” I say. “Security holds him only—no hands, no bruises. We do this clean. And make sure we get every party guest’s name in writing.”
I’m already at my office desk, waking a spare laptop, hands moving by muscle memory to access the security network.
My fingers feel thick, a step behind my brain.
Moving on two hours of sleep after four days isn’t enough, regardless of how many energy drinks I consume. I’m going to crash at some point.
I’m going to crash hard.
“Police already have the loud guy,” the manager says, poking his head around the door jamb, “but they also want access to CCTV. Hall cams and elevator feeds from midnight. No warrant yet, but they’ll be getting one.”
Of course they will. “I’ll pull the feeds and make them a copy, but tell them to get the warrant anyway.”
“Atticus…they also asked for you personally.”
“Why?”
“Because a guest is implying the house sold them something.” He doesn’t have to finish the equation. The ‘house’ equals the Titans, which equals the casino which equals the resort which equals fucking everything. “I told them that wasn’t possible. They asked for bartender logs.”
My eyes burn with a headache that kindles at the base of my skull. “Send the logs. And tell them the only thing the house sells is overpriced bourbon.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be down in ten.”
I end the call, pinch the bridge of my nose, and count to five. It does nothing.
Phoenix will wake up alone, and I can’t change that.
I grab hotel stationery because I’m ridiculous when I haven’t slept.
Emergency. Stay put, or else. Do not leave this suite.
Then add the only carrot with a shot at keeping her in bed for fourteen minutes.
I’ll bring coffee—and apple fritters—if you’re good, Kitten.
I slip back into my room, set the note on her phone, place both where she’ll see them, and ghost back out again.
The elevator opens on eighteen into the kind of chaos that comes with uniforms and latex gloves.
Four ambulances’ worth of paramedics crouch in the hall over prone bodies, each with a rolling case cracked open like a metal rib cage. Oxygen masks, IV kits, and spent Narcan inhalers litter the carpet. The air smells like antiseptic layered over stale party.
Police tape stretches a weak ribbon across a doorway that used to be a guest suite and is now a crime scene. A woman sobs into her hands on the carpet. Another is wide-eyed and too bright, talking too fast to a cop who pretends to write while a paramedic takes her pulse.
The night manager looks pale, sagging against a wall. He straightens the second he spots me and moves my way.
“They wouldn’t let me close the hallway,” he says. “They said a secondary survey is ongoing. I don’t know what that means.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure, either. This is their circus.” I scan faces, count uniforms, mark the wall cameras with my eyes. I know every angle in this building like the back of my hand, but right now it feels like I’m looking at someone else’s.
Nothing is right.
“Mr. Vale.” The ranking officer turns. His eyes rake me; his mouth twists.
He’s young enough to still believe in clean lines between lawful and useful. “We’ll need hallway and elevator footage from midnight until now. And bar cameras prior.”
“I’m already pulling it,” I say, lifting the laptop. “You’ll have a drive in your hand before your EMTs finish second-round vitals.”
He nods and turns back to the chaos. No thank you, fuck you, see you next Tuesday. That’s fine. I don’t do this for gratitude. I do it because evidence beats opinions, and the fastest way to shut this down is by feeding the machine.
“What are you doing about the suspect shouting that the house sold him pills?” I let the edge show.
“Talking to him. Getting his statement,” he says. “We’ll verify receipts and staffing.”
I nod and sit on the floor out of the way, balancing my computer in my lap. Con needs a full brief, but I’ll give it in a few hours. No sense in all of us losing sleep.
First, a quick email to legal and PR. Their day is already wrecked; they’ve got a few hours till they report.
Then I pull the CCTV—and find nothing. Gone. Wiped.
This time, though, the sick bastards leave a trace.
I take the laptop and, in one clean motion, launch it at the wall opposite me. It explodes—case, keys, all of it a useless scatter on the carpet. The cop turns from down the corridor, surprise arching an eyebrow as he takes in the scene.
I ignore him, dropping my forehead into my hands.
They used my fucking admin credentials to delete everything. It now looks like I erased the footage.