Chapter 26 Maverick
Maverick
It’s you—you know that, right? You’re the weak link in this bunch. You’re the one who came up with that student promo.
The voice in my head won’t shut up, but for once I don’t even try to quiet it. I deserve to hear every punishing word.
All of this mess is on you, because you’re the one who opened the door to the fucking mafia. Now the others have to clean up your bullshit.
You didn’t even get pre-authorization on the cards—who fucking doesn’t get pre-auth? They died for your stupid idea, and the resort lost money. You’re the one who led Sarah on, and that poor girl died because of you.
Everyone can see what a fucking liability you are.
Phoenix doesn’t want you; she pities you.
Nobody says it. They don’t have to. We all know it. Just like we all know I am the weak link, the misplaced, talentless Titan.
I lean on the window frame while they assign themselves impossible chores and pretend I’m equally as necessary. Atticus has some epic hacker shit to do. Storm is going through staff, investigating, combing through and reading people to find the truth.
Con is doing some next-level CEO shit, working his ass off to fix all my mistakes.
Outside, the pool looks like something you’d see in a brochure—bright white towels, aquamarine loungers, umbrellas nodding gaily in the breeze.
The sun is shining far too bright for the way this world feels.
“Okay, new idea,” I hear myself say, and I lay out a plan with a voice that sounds like mine, but I’m not even really listening to myself.
Concierge parties, a pre-auth that could buy a small island, a “butler or private host” to help make each party perfect, but really act as a set of eyes in each event.
They nod, and their generic platitudes wash over me.
Good idea, Mav. Smart. Useful.
I accept the pat on the head like a dog that brought back a shoe instead of the paper.
We finally break to go see to our own responsibilities. Atticus disappears back to his lair of monitors and wires. Storm is already texting someone to set up the next round of interviews.
Con lingers for a moment. Maybe he’s going to talk to me to tell me I’m not pulling my weight, or give me some busy work?
He doesn’t. He just looks at his father’s desk with an expression I can’t read. Then he leaves, too.
I stay for a minute longer, my gaze flicking about the empty office. I hate this…feeling of uselessness.
I need my Firebird.
The suite is empty when I get up there. Atticus is in his office, but she isn’t with him. I don’t bother telling him she left against Conrad’s wishes. She isn’t our prisoner. Not anymore.
The bet crosses my mind for a second before I dismiss it. It’s not like she’s going to trust me over the others anyway.
Her phone sits on the table, a clear message that she doesn’t want to be found, at least not by me. I don’t blame her.
Maybe she knows. The thought slices like a knife to my gut, and I find myself leaving the penthouse as quickly as I arrived, heading back to the elevator and jabbing my finger at the button.
Maybe she finally figured out I’ll always be second best at everything, and she’s shifting her attention to the Titans who matter, the ones who deserve her.
Atticus is the brains. Storm is the depth. Conrad is the leader.
I am…nothing. I’m just the joker they tolerate, the house smile. I’m the big mouth, big energy. If there’s a party or a bad idea, I’m sprinting toward it.
The Titan that fucks up and ruins everything he touches. I’m the one who throws parties that get people killed.
The elevator dings as if in agreement, and I leave before the walls close in around me.
Growing up at Titan-Wynn has taught me that midday and midweek casinos are like their own kind of church—they’re hymns in the chime of slot machines, pews in table felt and leather seats.
It’s mostly full of retirees right now, sun-soft, wrinkled, and unhurried.
These are the diehards who call every dealer by their first name and order coffee like all they need to make their ‘system’ work is a little more caffeine and focus.
Harold with his oxygen line and his lucky rabbit’s foot, and Evelyn who tips in quarters and advice… they’ve been here since I was a kid.
The action is steady in a slow heartbeat kind of way.
No one’s really thinking they’re going to hit it big, although that would be nice.
They’re just here, playing because it’s something to do, something that might just give them that one last thrill, which may or may not lead to the heart attack that will end it all.
I nod at the pit boss. Holden squints like he wants to ask if I’m okay, then closes his mouth, choosing life instead.
Smart man.
I slide into a blackjack seat. The dealer is new enough to still smile at me. “Good afternoon, Mr. Locke.”
I don’t bother returning her smile.
“Deal me something that’s not going to make me hate you,” I say.
“Or myself.” The retirees laugh because they think it’s a joke, and I slide right into the persona they know.
The one who indulges the regulars in small talk, charms the patrons and makes them so comfortable they decide to stay longer.
I play basic strategy because I’m not completely stupid. I’m useless, but I’m not stupid. I hit when I should, stand when the book says stand.
The chips inch my way. Twenty here, forty there. A soft seventeen that turns into a twenty-one, and an old woman with a visor squeezes my arm like I’m one of her grandchildren and she is showing affection.
I wonder for a moment what that would feel like. To be worthy of someone’s pride.
I order whiskey because my hands want something to do. The first one goes down like I’m checking a box.
The second warms my ribs and makes the edges blur enough for the image to be complimentary.
And the third reminds me that there are a dozen ways to go numb, and I can’t think of a reason not to try every one in a row until something works.
I hit again, and I win. There is no excitement, no joy. No feelings at all.
My fake grin makes my cheeks ache.
I keep winning. The pile in front of me says I’m good at this. The hole in my chest says I’m terrible at everything else, and being good at blackjack is useless when you are the one who owns the casino.
It’s not really winning—I’m just taking from my own business, like a dealer smoking his own stash.
I abandon the game and drift from table to table, greeting people and performing the charismatic host routine I learned when I was too young to be this tired. Like the rest of us, I can turn it on at will. All of it. The affable grin, the casual conversation.
The lie I project tells the world I am young, rich, hung and in my charmed life, everything is always under control.
After a while, the illusion usually works on me as well as everyone around me. Today it doesn’t.
I walk past a bank of slots that sound like children’s toys and catch my reflection in the polished chrome. I look like a man on top of the world—maybe missing a little sleep, but only for the best reasons, of course.
I look like the lie I give to the world, and it makes the hollow pit inside me grow. Is the lie that Phoenix is attracted to? I thought maybe she wanted me because of our past, and maybe she saw me as more than just a Titan…but maybe I am deluding myself.
She tolerates you because she wants the others. They are worthy of her; you are just extra baggage.
I don’t care. I still want Phoenix’s mouth on mine, like a prayer I whisper to the only god I know.
I want her weight in my lap to anchor me to her reality.
More than anything else, I want to tell her the thing I never say out loud: I don’t have this. I’m scared I’m going to break us.
I close my eyes and try to grab my breath, hold it for a space and release it in time with an imaginary line tracing a box. It doesn’t work. I need Phoenix.
I need her to help me breathe again.
“Maverick.”
A waitress calls me out of my thoughts. She’s one of the newer ones, her ponytail high, tray tucked against her hip like a shield, shirt unbuttoned low enough that it’s obvious she wants eyes on her cleavage.
She tilts her head, biting her lip. She’s giving me a look I know how to answer.
“Hey,” I say easily. The word slides out by habit, all part of the mask I’ve been wearing for years.
“You look like you could use a distraction,” she says, low enough not to carry. “I’m sure running this place is stressful, and I’d love to help relieve some of the…stress.”
She’s not wrong. She is also not the relief I want. I open my mouth to tell her thanks, but no thanks.
The whiskey slurs my words. “Thanks, sugar. But nah. I think I’m done for the night.”
“You sure, sir? I have a break I can take.” She gives me a thousand-watt smile.
I go to walk away, because I’m stupid but I’m not an idiot. Drunk, yes. But I’m not about to hurt my Firebird that way.
I practically lurch away only to stumble slightly. “Well, okay, then.” She huffs. “Let’s get you upstairs, big guy. I don’t think you’ll make it on your own.”
She guides me to the service elevator, the one that leads from one of the rear docks directly into the resort. This barren hallway has seen more secrets than any confessional.
Officially it’s used just for the cleaning crew, so they can move around discreetly. Unofficially, every Titan has used it for quick hook-up with staff and guests since we turned eighteen. It buzzes with the sound of fluorescent lights and smells like detergent, but it serves its purpose.
All of them.
In the elevator, she steps close, her perfume filling the space. It smells like roses and desperation.
Not Phoenix. Don’t touch.
Her hand slides over my stomach and under my jacket before I can stop her. But I shake my head. No.
“Gotta get some rest. Don’t touch me please.”
But my words are cut off as the elevator pings to let us out at the penthouse.
It’s not until I grab the doorknob that I allow myself to consider how wrong this is.
The guys…Storm is going to kill me. Phoenix—this will hurt.
“You gotta get back down, I’m sure.”
“I’d love to go down on you,” she purrs, and I’m about to lose the little bit of food I’ve had.
I don’t fucking know what to do, but I need to sit down because my head is spinning.
“It’s not gonna happen.” I tell her bluntly, scrounging for what scraps of clarity I still possess. “I’ve been drinking, and I’m not interested.”
She nods, and then the smile is back. “That’s okay. Let’s just get you inside and get some water into you.”
“Thanks,” I smile back.
See? That was easy.
We are barely inside the door when the waitress turns on me. Her hands are on my chest, her mouth on my jaw. The aggression in it is telling, even through the haze of drink—it’s the kind of kiss that says she wants a story to tell later about the time she had a Titan against a door.
It’s the kind of affection that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with who and what I am.
I let it happen for one heartbeat as I struggle to figure out what the fuck is going on.
I feel nothing.
No, not nothing. I feel wrong. This is wrong.
My body responds out of sheer muscle memory; my hands are on her hips, but my cock is barely interested, and my chest aches.
NO. No. No. This is not the woman I should be touching.
Images of Phoenix curled up next to me on the couch, her face when she sleeps safe in my arms, and the smile that makes warmth bloom in my chest all flash through my head.
With my hands firmly on the waitress’s hips, I push her back.
“What’s wrong?” she says, brown doe-like eyes staring up at me.
“I told you no. No means fucking no.”
I reach for the minibar because my reflex is to offer an appeasement drink when I disappoint someone. It’s the polite thing to do, always, to fall back on Southern hospitality.
I pour something expensive without really looking and press the crystal glass into her palm. “You’re great. I’m just…not here, and I told you no.”
Her face cycles through a slideshow—surprise, then irritation. Then her eyes widen, and she looks down where I am absolutely not pitching a tent, and her expression falls to a professional recovery. “It’s fine.”
I am not having a dick malfunction, but fuck it. If that is the story she wants to tell herself to save face, I don’t give a fuck.
What’s one more failure in the grand scheme of things? Hell, I deserve it for bringing her up here.
“It’s not fine,” I say, and mean it. “But it will be. Take this, take a breath, take the elevator back down. Tell Holden I told you to extend your break. He can call me, and I will verify the story.”
She looks down at the glass, studying its contents. Then she squares her shoulders, tosses back the drink in a single swallow, and nods. “Sure thing. It’s been a week for everyone, hasn’t it?”
“It has, indeed.”
I walk her to the door because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do. My hand is on the small of her back as I reach for the front door, and it opens from the outside.
Phoenix is there. She takes one look at the girl, and I can see shock, confusion and understanding cycle swiftly across her face, until she settles on white-hot rage.
Her hand tightens around her phone.
What’s worse than being a failure?
Being a failure who fucks everything up again, and again, and again.