21. Con
Con
Phoenix is up to something. And I’m going to find out exactly what.
Since Maverick took her down to the boat, I figure now’s as good a time as any to go through her room and see what the fuck she thinks she’s doing.
Before he left, he mentioned overhearing her talking to some chick named Sienna about girls disappearing.
Disappearing? They’re not disappearing—they’re quitting.
Every resort, every casino—hell, any place built on service jobs—has high turnover. That’s not a mystery. It’s math.
Phoenix’s room is clean. Too clean. And honestly? Kind of a bummer.
We didn’t bother decorating it when she got here—didn’t know what she’d like and didn’t care enough to ask—so we left it as-is. Standard hotel issue.
And she hasn’t added a single personal touch.
It’s nice, sure. But it’s cold. Empty.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, scanning the place, and I don’t like the feeling that creeps in.
It’s like she doesn’t plan on staying, and I don’t know why that even bothers me.
I shove that thought aside and get back to the reason I’m here.
This room’s so bare and hotel-sterile it’s practically a glass box. No clever little hiding places. Nothing subtle.
So I check the obvious first—drawers, desk, couch cushions.
Nothing .
I even look under the bed in case she stashed something in a rush, thinking we’d never bother to look. Still nothing.
Not that I expected her to be that stupid. Phoenix isn’t dumb. But the first ceiling tile I check proves she’s not as original as she thinks she is.
Bingo.
A notepad with the Titan Wynn logo sits just out of view, right where she thought no one would bother to look.
Neat, careful handwriting. A list of names and dates. They look like former employees, with a few notes scribbled in the margins.
Not sure if no call, no show or dead.
Dead?
What the fuck is she doing?
One girl—Rachel—has her name circled. Twice. Next to it: found in the trunk of her car. Why was she found when others weren’t? In the ocean, maybe?
At the top of the page, she’s scrawled Titans?? I huff out a laugh. Like we’re the fucking mob .
I stare at it for a long beat, then force myself to slide it back into place, exactly how I found it—though my fingers itch to tear it to shreds.
Or use it to spank some sense into her.
Seriously—does she really think we killed someone?
We haven’t killed anyone. Yeah, we’re dicks. We play games, push buttons, bend rules until they scream.
But murder? That’s not our brand.
According to her list, only one girl actually turned up dead. And that’s easy to reconcile.
It’s always the boyfriend. Or the ex. Or the one who wanted more than a one-night stand and got burned.
I rub a fist over my chest, soothing the dull ache of irony there. I should know.
There’s even a note next to Rachel’s name saying she hooked up with Maverick. Which just strengthens the jealous ex theory. Anyone would be jealous of Mav.
As for the rest? They probably just got sick of working for my father and walked. No big mystery there. No conspiracy.
I can’t say I blame them, either. I’ve been sick of him for a long fucking time.
I shake my head, disgust curling low in my gut.
She really thinks that if girls were going missing and bodies were washing up somewhere, there wouldn’t be a full-scale FBI investigation? That we wouldn’t already know?
Please.
If that were happening, my father would’ve warned us himself—just to cover his own ass.
I leave her room and head for the side patio—one of the quiet ones off the east side of the penthouse—where the wind from the river cuts the summer heat just enough to breathe. My pulse still thuds beneath my skin, tight and angry.
She thinks we’re killers.
The idea won’t stop chewing at the edges of my brain. Not because it’s true—but because she believed it. Believes it. Enough to keep a fucking notebook tucked behind a ceiling tile, with names and dates and question marks like she’s auditioning for Dateline .
I shove the door open and head for the patio table, reaching under it to grab the cigar box I stashed there months ago. I clip the end of the Cuban and light it with a flick of my wrist. Thick, sweet smoke rolls over my tongue.
It tastes wrong tonight.
I don’t know if it’s her, or me. Probably both.
“You can stop lurking now,” I mutter without turning around. “It’s creepy as shit. Sit down and have a cigar like a normal sociopath.”
Storm doesn’t say a word. Just crosses the stone tiles and drops into the chair beside me. He doesn’t reach for the box. Never does. He doesn’t touch anything flammable—won’t even light a candle.
I glance sideways. His sleeves are pushed up tonight, and I can see the faint, round scars that dot the inside of his arm. They’re too symmetrical to be anything but intentional. Too personal to ask about, but it doesn’t matter. We all know what they are .
And it wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. Storm never answers questions. Not the real ones.
When the night terrors started, we tried everything. Booze, girls, weed, even a priest once—don’t ask. Nothing worked. And he wouldn’t talk. Claimed he was seeing a therapist.
We all knew that was bullshit.
The terrors stopped, eventually. But the screaming didn’t—not with Maverick and Atticus cycling through women like it’s a goddamn sport. It’s only ever quiet when it’s just me and Storm.
He breaks the silence first. “You look pissed.”
I take another drag, slow and deliberate. “I know why our little toy’s been snooping.”
Storm doesn’t respond, but I can feel him watching me.
“She thinks she’s living with a bunch of fucking murderers.”
His stillness sharpens. “And why would she think that?”
There’s a new edge in his voice. Not curiosity—hurt. Maybe even betrayal .
Storm’s the one who kept telling us not to jump to conclusions. The one who insisted Atticus give her a chance. Said we’d pushed her too far, too fast. That maybe she was playing defense, not offense.
I shrug, jaw tight. “I don’t know. But I’m starting to wonder if this whole minder thing—her saying yes so fast—wasn’t as innocent as we wanted to believe.”
Storm leans back, eyes on the water. We sit like that for a while. Not talking. Just breathing. Him in his silence, me in my smoke.
Eventually, I break it.
“Anyone win the bet yet?” I ask, even though we both know the answer. If someone had won, Maverick would’ve already rented a skywriter.
Storm doesn’t look at me. “No.”
There’s a pause.
Then, quietly: “What happens if she wins?”
I turn my head. “What do you mean?”
“What if one of us begs before she does?” His jaw shifts, like the words cost him something to admit. “I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. None of the others do it for me. I want her. Only her. I’ll have her, Con. I don’t care if I have to beg. I will.”
The thing is—I believe him.
Storm doesn’t want things. He endures them. Avoids them. Keeps his world small and cold and controlled. But something about Phoenix…
Something about her is making us all stupid.
I blow smoke toward the ceiling fan and mutter, “Fuck.”
He’s right.
We’re circling the drain. Me. Storm. Even Atticus, for all his icy detachment. Maverick doesn’t count—he’d climb a cactus if it moaned.
“Are you really ready to lose?” I ask, staring at the ember glow of my cigar. “You gonna admit you were defeated?”
Storm doesn’t flinch. But his jaw tightens. “No.”
“Then she doesn’t win.”
I crush the cigar in the ashtray with more force than necessary and rise to my feet, shoulders bristling .
“She won’t win this game,” I say flatly. “We’ll break her first.”
Storm doesn’t reply. Just watches me go, his expression unreadable.
Another night of hookers, games, and questionable life choices awaits. Another night in the life most men would kill for. But for the first time, it feels dull.
Like all the oxygen’s left the room, and I’m chasing a high that only exists in the curve of her spine and the fight in her eyes.
She’ll break. She has to.
Or else.
When I tell Maverick and Atticus what I found, they go quiet in that way that means everything inside is definitely not quiet. The kind of stillness before a room explodes.
“She thought we were getting to know each other,” I say. “We took her on the yacht. Told her things. Things we don’t even say out loud. And the whole time she thought we were murderers? ”
Atticus doesn’t look at me. Just pours himself a drink with too much force and says, “I say we punish her.”
Maverick grins, because of course he does.
Atticus turns, eyes cold. “She loses every privilege. No contact. No eye contact. No talking. She can go back to sitting in the goddamn corner until I don’t want to strangle her anymore.”
“Agreed,” Storm says, voice low and dangerous.
Maverick leans back with his arms crossed. “Can’t we just fuck some common sense into her?”
“Not until she begs,” I cut in. “Just because we’re mad doesn’t mean the game is over.”
“Agreed,” the others echo—in unison, like they’d rehearsed it.
The hookers show up twenty minutes later.
Maverick cranks the stereo, and some base-heavy party mix takes over the main room.
Storm leaves his black shirt unbuttoned—his usual party uniform—and flips one of his smaller knives through his fingers like a coin.
The blades don’t scare the girls anymore.
If anything, they get wet for the spectacle .
Atticus doesn’t even sit. He collars his girl and drops her to her knees in front of his chair, ignoring her like she’s a piece of furniture. Which, in his world, she is.
Maverick pulls Phoenix from her wall perch and hauls her into her room.
I already know what he’s doing—digging through her drawer of “options” and picking the most humiliating one.
When she comes out, she’s wearing a dress made of chain links.
Nothing underneath. Just bare skin and metal and fucking nerve.
My gut tightens.
It’s meant to punish her. Maybe embarrass her. It might break me first, though.
I’ve got two blondes on either side of me, their mouths tangled together, hands down each other’s tops like I’m not even here. It should be hot. It is hot.
But all I can think about is Phoenix, standing barefoot in silver chains, licking her bottom lip like she’s the one watching me .
If I weren’t so pissed at her, I’d call her over and bury my face between her thighs. But I am pissed. And she hasn’t begged.
So I let the girls do their thing. I watch them strip each other, grope each other, put on a whole pornographic performance right there on the velvet sectional.
“Which one of you wants my cock tonight?” I ask, voice flat, eyes on Phoenix.
They both pause long enough to give me the same hungry, performative smile.
“I’m sure we can share,” one of them purrs.
“Not tonight,” I say. “Tonight’s a competition.”
Their eyes light up.
“You want me?” I ask. “Earn it. Make her come first, and you lose.”
The girls move like I lit a fuse. Clothes rip. Nails rake skin. They moan like they’re on camera.
Phoenix hasn’t moved.
She watches from across the room, back against the wall, arms folded—but her eyes don’t lie. She’s flushed. Breathing faster. Her lip is caught between her teeth like she’s trying not to feel anything at all.
My cock throbs.
Don’t move.
I turn back just in time to see Blonde Number One flat on her back, the other one between her legs, fingers pumping fast and hard while she licks like a girl on a mission.
Maverick whistles, then drops beside me with a drink. “This is the best party we’ve had all month.”
Atticus has his girl on all fours, whispering in her ear while she fingers herself slow and desperate. Storm’s got his girl straddling him but his eyes keep sliding back to Phoenix. He’s trying to look casual, but his hand is clenched too tight around the base of his drink.
I want Phoenix to look pissed. To pout. To lash out.
She doesn’t.
She looks turned on .
And that’s worse .
Because I know— I know —if I bend her over against that wall, she’ll be soaked for me. She wants to break just as badly as we want to break her.
But until she begs, none of us are touching her.
A high-pitched moan cuts through the music. I look back just in time to see one of the girls convulse, her thighs shaking as she squirts all over the couch.
“Fuck yes,” Maverick says.
Atticus slaps his girl’s ass and murmurs something filthy before she crawls forward to clean it up —first licking the couch, then the overstimulated girl lying there like a wrecked doll.
Winner-Girl crawls over to me, all teeth and pride. She puts her hands on my shoulders and straddles me without permission.
“When do I get my reward?” she asks.
I glance past her at Phoenix.
My anger reignites.
“Now,” I say, and haul the girl into my room. I toss her onto the couch like she weighs nothing.
Not the bed .
Never the bed.
That’s mine.
“Suck my cock like you sucked her pussy and I’ll make you come on it,” I say, bored, unzipping my fly.
She drops to her knees and gets to work.
I stare at the ceiling.
Nothing.
No heat. No ache. Just skin against skin with a girl I don’t want, trying too hard for a reaction that isn’t coming.
She isn’t Phoenix.
And suddenly, I’m furious all over again—at her, at Phoenix, at myself.
“Come here,” I snap, pulling her up. I can’t throw her out. If I do, she’ll talk. That kind of talk spreads.
Instead, I grab a vial someone left here during a wilder night. “Here,” I say, handing her the rolled bill and the line. “You want a reward? Knock yourself out. ”
She does a long line without hesitation, then slumps against the wall. Thirty seconds later, she’s out cold.
Shit. I bend and check her pulse, mildly relieved when it beats strong against my fingers. I lift her eyelids, unsure of what I’m looking for. They always do it on TV, though.
She’s breathing fine. Probably just mixing too many things at once.
I lift her and set her down in the corner by the couch. Let her sleep it off.
Then I crawl into bed alone, eyes fixed on the ceiling while the sound of moaning and music filters through the walls.
I can’t go back out there. Not when I can’t stop wanting her—even when she’s the reason I feel like I’m unraveling from the inside out.
Fuck that.