18. Maverick
Maverick
I knew that asshole was going to try something.
Atticus is so fucking sneaky and diabolical, and he was seconds from leading our little toy to the finish line. Telling her to beg would be fucking cheating, but I had a feeling he was going to pull some shit anyway.
All of us are determined to win, and he’s no exception. Not just because we love a good game, and we’re competitive as fuck. But because we all want the prize.
Atticus is the type of sadistic son of a bitch who would get her to beg on the top deck of that boat, knowing we would all hear it and delighting in our irritation.
I wasn’t about to let that happen. I interrupted him in mid-sentence and retrieved my little firebird, bringing her back down to the party. He’d had her long enough.
They all had. Earlier I even accidentally (wink wink) set the grill on fire—mostly to get her away from Con—only for Storm to go in and snake her, anyway.
Fuck it, he’s an asshole, too.
Still, dinner is now ready, and we can all just hang out, eat burgers, and chill. After this, when everyone’s chill and drowsy, I will take my turn. The others can suck it; she’s going to be all mine.
We do what we do every time it’s just the four of us out on the open water.
We laugh and drink and trade stories, Phoenix easing her way into the group as if she’s always been a part of us.
She doesn’t share any of her own stories, of course—I’ve noticed that she’s too private to let much of anything personal slip.
She relaxes, though, smiling at the funny stuff and letting the cooler night air wash over her as she lifts her face to the stars .
I don’t offer much in the way of tales, either. The guys know, but I’m not much for broadcasting the fact that my mother is very likely insane, in a certifiable sense. I don’t know if it’s simple paranoia, or schizophrenia or something else, something bigger…but something is wrong with her.
I also don’t like anyone knowing that my deepest fear is that I might turn out just like her.
Eventually, the storytelling dies down, and we sit quietly around the propane fire table we have on the deck. Phoenix stares dreamily into the blue rocks at the base of the flames, her expression faraway.
This is the first night we haven’t paraded other women in front of her, flaunting our ability to have anyone we want. I wonder if she knows that none of those women satisfy us, that we are almost always thinking of her when we mess with them.
It’s Phoenix we all want, Phoenix we’re all determined to have, and I’m not so sure having her won’t tear us apart. I’m at least willing to take this fucked up arrangement Con has maneuvered and try to make it real. Sustainable .
But what happens if she doesn’t want all of us? What happens if she chooses him, and only him?
I’m not so sure the others feel the same way, and I don’t know how it would work if only one of us had her. I glance over at Con to find him studying her in much the same way I am, and the uneasy awareness that there’s no returning to who and what we once were settles deep within me.
Does she even know she has the power to rip us apart?
No, of course she doesn’t know that. Part of her appeal is that she has no idea how different and special she is.
She’s not like the Botox bred, silicone stuffed, bleached-blonde girls who normally chase after us.
Those girls know they’re gorgeous because they bought their beauty, and they know how to use it to wrap a man around their little fingers.
I am absolutely not shaming that. To each their own. A little plastic never hurt anybody.
But they’re not Phoenix.
Phoenix’s beauty isn’t just in her face and her body—though God knows they’re both stunning. Her beauty lies in her odd mix of stubborn resilience and innate obedience. In her fierce resolve to make it on her own mixed with an underlying vulnerability that we can all see.
Phoenix tucks her legs under her like she’s been here a hundred times, not just once.
Her eyes stay fixed on the fire, and I swear she’s seeing something I can’t.
Storm hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes.
Atticus is doing that thing where he watches her too long.
And Con’s jaw hasn’t unclenched since she smiled at me across the table.
“We should play strip poker,” he says suddenly, sitting upright.
“Hell, yeah, we should,” I agree. Usually we play straight poker, but I’ve never actually seen Phoenix completely naked. Even that time I stumbled in on her and Con having sex, his body was unfortunately blocking my view of most of hers. That needs to change. Now.
Atticus turns his contemplative gaze on our girl. “What do you say, Phoenix? Up for the challenge?”
Phoenix hugs herself and glances at the black water surrounding us, dotted with little glimmers of moonlight. “I’m more than willing to kick all of your asses,” she says. “As long as we do it inside. I think it’ll be a little chilly out here if we start removing clothes.”
Instantly I think about shrinkage. “Good thinking.”
We head inside and make ourselves comfortable at the games table the den is equipped with, along with a massive, cushy leather sofa, big screen television, sound system, and wet bar.
Phoenix’s gaze flits from one luxury to the next, and she gives a little snort before beginning to examine the hand Storm has dealt her.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. It’s all just a little…” She waves a hand, encompassing the room and everything in it. “Much.”
“How do you mean?” Con squints at her over his own cards. “Draw.”
She shifts in her seat, then pulls a card. “You have…I don’t know…three spaces exactly like this on this boat. And seven bedrooms. Why do you need so many?”
It’s a reminder that our lifestyle is not hers; it never has been.
Unbidden, the memory of Con’s father telling us how he’d taken the liberty of informing her he would be cutting off his son’s allowance and credit cards surfaces.
She had run for the hills afterward, and Con attributed it to greed and disappointment that he would no longer be able to give her all the things…
but something about that had always bothered me.
In the time she’s been with us, our overt displays of wealth and excess have made her uncomfortable instead of excited.
She saves her leftovers and reheats them, washes her own dishes, and the other day I heard her muttering that there was no way she was paying twenty-four dollars to watch a movie on Prime, right before she turned the TV off.
She doesn’t act like any of the other money-hungry people we’ve been acquainted with.
“Gotta spend the money on something,” Con answers.
Phoenix shakes her head. “You could donate to charity.”
Atticus rolls his eyes. “We already donate a pile of money to charity. It’s a tax write-off.”
“Or you could…set up an animal shelter or something. ”
Con lifts a brow. “An animal shelter?”
“There are so many strays out there. They need homes and care, just like people do.”
I lean forward, putting my elbows on the table. “Do you have a pet, Phoenix?”
She shakes her head, almost violently. “No. No, I didn’t have the funds to take care of an animal. I used to feed this little dog, though, before I took this job…” Her voice trails away for a moment, and then she straightens in her chair, her spine stiffening. “I liked him.”
The hand ends, with Atticus the winner. I think the rest of us were too distracted to concentrate. I take off my shirt, enjoying the way Phoenix’s eyes hone in immediately on my chest, and flex my pecs.
Heat rises in her cheeks. “Stop that.”
I flex again. “Take something off, Phoenix.”
She leans back, eyes glittering with mischief. “You first.”
And fuck if that doesn’t do something to me.
We all wait, breath held, as she considers her options. Finally, she lifts a hand and pulls the elastic band from her hair. It tumbles around her shoulders, thick, wavy strands of a coppery caramel color.
A collective groan murmurs around the table, and I meet Storm’s eyes. “Gonna be a long game,” he says.
“My deal,” Phoenix says simply. She picks up the deck of cards and begins shuffling.
Twenty minutes later, none of the Titans are wearing shirts or shorts, except Atticus.
“Where’d that come from?” I ask. “I’ve seen you play poker only once or twice, and it was not with that degree of skill.”
Phoenix gives me a demure smile and passes the deck to Atticus. “My father might have been good for something, at least.”
“Noted,” Con says. He studies his hand, a line forming between his brows. I know what that line means—he doesn’t have shit. I study everyone, searching for their tells.
Storm is easy; he tends to run a hand through his mop of platinum hair when he has a good hand. He’s too still now, so he doesn’t have anything to speak of.
Atticus’ expression remains as neutral as ever, but when he slides his cards into a tidy stack in his hand, I know he has something decent.
Phoenix…I watch for several minutes as the play travels around the table. I have no idea what Phoenix has in her hand. The perfectly blank expression she wears is telling me nothing.
As I stare, she looks up at me and smiles.
“You boys bluff like tourists,” she says, tossing her bet in with one lazy flick.
Storm arches a brow. “Tourists, huh?”
“Yeah. All charm, no game.”
I laugh out loud. Damn. She’s good. And I know that it’s not just her body I want—it’s this. That sharp tongue. That wit. That spark.
Minutes later, Con goes out, followed by Storm. Atticus regards me and Phoenix blandly. “Call.”
Phoenix looks from me to him, then pushes a stack of chips to the center of the table. “Raise. ”
“Mm.” I look down at my hand, even though I already have it memorized. A full house isn’t bad, but it’s not the best, either. Still…I push the requisite number of chips toward the pot. “Call.”
Atticus follows suit. “All right, show ’em.”
I lay down my full house, and Atticus tosses his cards down in disgust. “I had a straight.”
I look at Phoenix. “Your turn.”
With a trace of a smile curling her lips, she flattens her cards on the table. “Four kings.”
We all go quiet. Four kings. Not just a hand. A statement. A goddamn prophecy. She's not playing our game—she's rewriting it.
“Fuck.”
All I have left are my boat shoes. I take one off, tossing it over my shoulder. This is not going the way I had hoped it would.
And yet…it’s a bit symbolic of our arrangement with Phoenix, when I think about it. A game, one where we anticipate having the upper hand. One where we’re certain we’ll bring her to her knees in no time .
That’s not what’s happening, though. I’m watching each of us fall a little harder each day that she’s with us, while she manages to somehow retain her dignity and grace and independence in spite of this fucked-up situation we’ve put her in.
It makes me think that maybe Phoenix Jones isn’t just a game. She’s the end game .
And if I’m not careful, I’ll lose. Not the game. Her. The way I always do when something starts to matter too much. That’s what scares me. Not the stakes. Not the others.
Just… her.