14. Atticus
Atticus
There’s a reason I don’t do family reunions. Or feelings. Or Phoenix Jones.
When Maverick said all the parents, I had no idea he meant all the parents.
Apparently, everyone has forgotten that my parents should never be in a room together. Regardless of whether or not they’re in mixed company, it’s going to end up being a complete and total shit show.
I’m fine with doing my duty. Going down, making the requisite appearance with the fam, and doing whatever was needed—which usually involved playing a couple rounds of blackjack and pretending it was all the luck of the draw.
That I was one of the Midas-touched Titans of Savannah and that luck had nothing to do with my ability to count cards.
If that’s the only penance I have to pay for the lifestyle I get to live, I’m happy to pay it…as long as I can deal solely with my mother or my father. Never both at the same time.
Someone failed to get that memo.
As I walk into the crowded casino, my eyes land on them immediately.
My mother’s dyed-blonde hair is curled into an updo that I’m sure she thinks is elegant.
As she speaks to my father, her hands are clenched at her side.
My father wears a serene expression on his face, but his hand is gripping my mother’s elbow with far more pressure than either of them willingly let on.
To a casual observer, the two of them look like anyone having a quiet conversation, but the second you start looking at the details—that hand on her elbow, the tightening of his lips, the tension in her shoulders— the subtext becomes clear.
Another fight, probably about money. My mother is upset that her allowance was cut again; my father’s upset that she was photographed half-naked by the paparazzi at some old man’s pool again. It’s always the same bullshit, and I don’t have the patience for it today.
The girl I took to my room last night safe-worded far too quickly. I let her try to make it up to me with her mouth, but it just wasn’t working. She wasn’t working, and while I could blame her for that fact—I did so repeatedly—I know that really her failure was that she wasn’t Phoenix Jones.
I grab Con’s arm to get his attention. At his raised eyebrow, I motion toward my parents. His expression falls as hard as mine did when I saw them.
“Tell my parents I have one of my migraines, and I’m staying upstairs.”
“You know they’re just going to accuse you of being hungover.”
“Tell them I spent the night reviewing security footage, trying to see if we had any card counters, and the blue light from the screens gave me a migraine.”
“Can you even do that?” Maverick asks .
“Review the footage, or get a migraine from the blue light? Either way, yes.” I swear I’ve told him this a dozen times.
He knows I used to get exactly that type of migraine all the time when we were younger.
I was always watching the cameras, believing if I was useful enough, my parents might stop fighting.
Clearly I was misguided.
“But you don’t actually review the footage anymore, right?” Storm asks, twirling his knife between his middle and ring fingers.
“Correct, because I wrote a program to do it for me. Now I just have to go in weekly and review any footage the algorithm flags.”
Also because I realized I’m not the one with anything to prove.
The thought settles over me, a blanketing of awareness, as I look at my parents.
I don’t crave their approval the way I once did.
“Look, it doesn’t matter. I’m going upstairs.
You guys make whatever excuse you want. I’ll see you later. ”
I turn and walk away fast, not wanting any of them to keep me there talking or worse, for one of my parents to catch sight of me and try to drag me into whatever ridiculous argument they’re having .
I’d much rather be tucked away in our suite. And maybe when I get there, I should take a turn playing with our new toy.
We have all become more than a little obsessed with Phoenix of late.
Con and Maverick won’t stop staring. Storm pretends not to. And every time she looks at one of them, I feel the low scrape of something in my chest I don’t want to name.
Anticipation zings through me as the elevator doors slide open, and I step into the suite. Now they’re all downstairs, and I have her all to myself.
The common areas are empty of her presence, so I stalk forward and twist the doorknob to her room without bothering to knock. Part of me wants to catch her by surprise for some reason. Maybe because I like seeing her unsettled, devoid of that careful caution she keeps wrapped around her so tightly.
Disappointment flares when her room proves empty, as well, and I give the bathroom and closet a cursory inspection. Where the hell else would she be? She wasn’t given permission to leave, so she has to be somewhere .
A soft sound registers from elsewhere in the suite, and I move toward it, keeping my footfalls silent against the carpeted floor. The sound came from one of our rooms. Noiselessly, I open the first door I come to—mine—and lean against the doorjamb.
She’s fucking snooping.
She’s in her ‘uniform’ now, this one a black, skintight dress that hugs every inch of her and makes her slim curves look almost feline.
My fingers twitch to stroke the length of her spine and see if she purrs in response.
It doesn’t help that she’s on all fours with her tight, round ass high in the air and her chest pressed to the floor as she peers under my bed.
The way her body is positioned almost looks like an invitation.
All I would have to do is grab that tiny little skirt on either side and lift, and I would see absolutely everything this girl has to offer.
Thanks to Maverick’s genius idea—there’s a phrase I’ve never said before–of making her go commando, I can just make out the outline of her delicate pussy.
Just looking at her on her knees like that is enough to make my mouth water and my cock throb. If I were anyone else, her position would probably be enough to make me forget that she’s snooping around my room.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I ask without moving from the door.
Her entire body stiffens, and she slowly straightens and turns around to look at me.
“I—” she falters, her mouth opening and closing as she looks for some excuse.
“You what?” I ask.
She gets to her feet, wobbling on her sky high stilettos.
“Nothing. I’m just going to go,” she says, trying to move around me.
I reach out my hand, wrapping it around her waist and stopping her.
“I don’t think so, kitten.” I move my hand to her throat and place my thumb against her racing pulse. “You were looking for something. Tell me what.”
Her eyes are wide and scared as she brings her gaze up to meet mine. “Nothing. I?— ”
“You were clearly looking for something. Why else would you be on your hands and knees in my room?” A blush stains her cheeks, and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth. She looks so exquisitely frightened, so worried about what I’m going to do to her. So unbelievably fuckable.
It’s not just the others who are obsessed with her. The way she walks around in the tiny little dresses Mav picked out for her…the way she does everything she’s told…it’s a heady combination.
Using the arm around her waist, I pull her a fraction closer to me. “Con told us you were a good girl, kitten. That you could follow orders. Is that true?” I bring her chin up with my thumb to force her to meet my eyes.
“Yes,” she says a little too breathlessly, her pupils dilating. She’s not unaffected by us. She’s just a little harder to break than I thought she would be.
“Sir,” I reply. “Yes, sir.”
No better time to break her and make her beg for my cock than right now. Once she is broken and well-fucked, then I’ll get my answers from her. There’re so many games that she and I can play that will make her tell me anything I need to know .
“Yes, sir,” she answers.
“Show me,” I demand. “Tell me what you were looking for.”
“I‘m not looking for anything. I brought in the fresh sheets and changed your bed, and I wanted to see if you had anything?—”
“You wanted to see if I had what?” I ask, moving my thumb back down to the pulse still fluttering rapidly in the hollow of her throat.
She shrugs a little. “If you had anything I could do. Like a puzzle or a game of sudoku or a book…something…”
I give her an assessing look. Her head is tilted back within my grasp, but her eyes are still cast to the side, avoiding my gaze. Her pulse speeds up against my thumb.
She’s lying to me.
“Well, if you’re bored, let’s play a game,” I say as I let her go. “Are you familiar with the hot and cold game?”
“No?” Her gaze darts around the room .
“It’s simple. I’m going to tell you to look for something in the room, and you’re going to do it. If you move away from the object, I’m going to tell you that you’re getting cold. You move towards it, you’re getting hot, understand?”
“Yes,” she says, staring at the floor.
“Good, now get on your knees.”
With only the briefest of hesitations, she lowers herself to her knees. I grab the back of her neck, forcing her down until she is on all fours.
“I want something wet,” I say. “Fetch.”
I slap her ass, enjoying the way the dress stretched over her skin ripples with the movement. She moves to stand.
“No,” I say, pushing her back down. “Crawl.”
Muttering something indistinguishable, she gets back on all fours and crawls towards the door.
“Cold,” I bark out.
She moves to the closet.
“Cold,” I say again .
She comes over to me, and I shake my head in disappointment.
“Still cold, kitten.”
She looks around for a moment and heads to the mini fridge.
“Warmer,” I call out.
She keeps working her way to the mini fridge, opens the door and grabs a bottle of Coke.
“Fiery hot, kitten. Now bring it to me.”
Again, she starts to stand.