Chapter 22
“Better Than Revenge” - Taylor Swift
Pierce
Everyone is here except Maeve, and I can’t help but remember a time not too long ago when she was always the first to arrive for poker and would help me carry drinks into the game room. Now, half the time it feels like we’re strangers.
I was hoping for a few minutes alone with her when she gets here, but I’m still mixing cocktails when she knocks.
Lux rushes to open the door, eager to get her infernal plan underway.
Maeve doesn’t even spare me a glance as the two of them walk in, and I’m left following her with my eyes like some lovesick teenager.
Get it together, Pierce.
I think about her spending the night with Ansley last night, and my gut churns.
Leaning against the counter, I take a few seconds to breathe deeply so I don’t end up hurling into the rubbish bin.
She went hours before responding to my text, long enough that I checked my phone more times than is healthy for a guy in my position. Or anyone, for that matter.
Nausea builds as I think about him in her bed, doing things to her that I should have been doing, getting to witness her falling apart.
Does she say his name when she comes? Does he make her scream?
Does she leave scratches on his back the way she does on mine?
I wear those marks like a fucking badge of honor, but thinking about him having a matching set makes me see red.
At the poker table, I hand Maeve a charred-pineapple Mezcal smash, but she still won’t meet my eyes, preferring to bicker with Rhett over his shirt, which is actually pretty ridiculous: black silk covered in giant bumblebees.
She takes the drink from me without letting her fingers brush against mine, a nearly impossible feat with a coupe glass.
I glance at her hands for evidence of her tryst last night—a broken nail, some chipped polish—but her manicure is as impeccable as always.
She’s wearing a schoolgirl dress with a rounded collar that’s meant to look cute, but all I can think about is taking it off her later.
She doesn’t look at me or say anything, treating me like a fucking server.
Something is definitely up, and if she thinks I’m not getting to the bottom of it, she’s wrong.
I sit down in the only empty seat—not next to her—and grab the stack of cards from the center of the table. I start shuffling them, mostly to keep my hands occupied. Otherwise they might do something stupid, like yank Maeve into my lap in front of everyone.
Lux clears her throat and claps her hands together. “Before we start playing, we need to announce the winner of this month’s challenge.”
Maeve looks over at her, and I swear I can feel her eyes wanting to turn to me as if drawn by a magnetic force field, but she resists. “Terrific,” she says.
“The winner is . . .” Lux waits for a dramatic beat or a drumroll like a game show host. “Pierce!”
I shoot her a droll look, because how they came up with that one is beyond me.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s skeptical. “Objection.” Maeve’s face resembles a storm cloud.
“This isn’t a courtroom, May-eve,” Rhett says. The guy must have a death wish.
Her head snaps toward him, eyes blazing with fire. “I want an explanation. We did that challenge together. The only fair outcome is for it to be a tie.”
“But that would have been pointless. There has to be a winner,” Lux says.
Maeve still hasn’t looked at me, and it’s painfully obvious she’s willing to go to great lengths to avoid doing so. “Then explain to me how he is the winner.” She points in my direction but keeps her eyes on Lux.
As if prepared for this, Lux pulls her phone out and reads from her screen. “He fetched you drinks, he whispered in your ear, he kept a hand on your back, he watched you the whole night.” She glances up. “Should I keep going?”
Maeve’s face turns a new shade of red with each line item. “I sat in his lap,” she hisses.
Lux nods. “We have that down, but we also noted that Pierce was the one who pulled you into his lap, and he looked more happy about it than you did.”
As if she can no longer stop herself, Maeve finally turns her gaze to me, and god help me, I don’t even care that she’s glowering and looks like she wants to gouge out both my eyes.
It feels like I’ve been underwater for far too long, and looking at her now is like breaking the surface and sucking in as much oxygen as I can handle.
She’s gorgeous, her hair tucked behind her ears, her dark eyes sparkling with all the emotion she’s holding back. Thin strands of diamonds dangle from her lobes and catch the light every time she moves her head.
I don’t even care about fucking her right now—not that I’d pass on the opportunity, don’t get me wrong—because I could stare at those eyes all night long.
It’s been four long days since we’ve been together, and god, I miss her.
You have no idea how deep my regret runs over telling her I’d be out of town for the weekend.
All I can think about is how many opportunities I missed because I had my head up my ass, not to mention practically driving her into that fucker’s arms. I don’t know how long this thing between us will last, but if there’s even a chance it will be over sooner rather than later, I need to take advantage of every moment.
“If that’s settled,” Slate says, “for the next challenge, the two of you will plan a blind date for each other.”
It’s obvious that it’s not settled in Maeve’s mind, but this new information distracts her for the moment, and she looks away from me. “Can you repeat that?”
This time she’s not alone in her irritation. “What does that prove?” I say. I’m not setting Maeve up on a date with some wanker. I’d rather cut off my middle finger.
Slate shoots us both a warning look, probably concerned we’ll start flipping tables. He doesn’t need to worry. We do our best sparring verbally and in bed. “The winner is the one who has the most fun on their date,” he says.
Now I’m even more confused. “Shouldn’t it be the person who arranges the best date?” I ask.
Rhett laughs and leans back in his chair. “Nah, mate. This will be way more entertaining.”
The pieces click into place, and I see what they’re doing.
They know Maeve and me well enough to know we’ll try to find the worst possible person for each other.
The winner will be the one who not only does the best job feigning their enjoyment, but also sets up a date so bad the other person can’t possibly fake their way through it.
It’s actually kind of genius. I look up to see what Maeve thinks, and from the diabolical gleam in her eyes, I can tell she agrees with me.
I don’t even care that she’s already plotting my demise in that brilliant brain of hers.
I’m just happy she’s finally looking at me again. How fucked up is that?
When neither Maeve nor I have any more objections, the game starts.
We play poker and plot a revenge scheme most Tuesdays, but after all these years, sometimes it’s more fun to sit around and talk.
Maeve is still a stickler for tradition, however, so if she has her way, we take someone down every week.
The way she’s shifting in her chair and tapping her cards against the table tells me she can’t wait to submit her victim tonight. It must be a good one. I haven’t seen her this agitated since Walker came home after being gone two years.
Betting moves around the group, and when it’s Maeve’s turn, she’s nearly giddy with excitement as she pushes all of her chips into the center of the table. “Loretta Donaldson,” she says.
My forehead creases into a frown. What the hell is she playing at?
Everyone waits for her to drop more info, but she just sits back in her chair, coy smile on that mouth I very much want to taste.
“We’re going to need more than that,” Lux says. “What’s the story?”
“Let me guess,” Rhett interjects. “She stole your parking spot.” He gives Slate and Lux a knowing look.
“Wrong,” Maeve sings. “But she did steal something from me.”
I press a thumbnail to my lips as I study her. There is no way in hell this is a coincidence. She’s back to ignoring me, which is all I need to confirm my suspicions, although how she figured it out remains a mystery.
Loretta is the woman I took home after the gala.
She ended up being decent in bed, so she stayed all weekend, and we fucked our way around the flat, including on this game table.
Best of all, she wiped thoughts of Maeve from my mind.
Most of them, anyway. I’m still determined to take Maeve on this green baize at some point.
But now Maeve is submitting Loretta as her revenge victim.
It has me reeling. We’re obviously not exclusive—not with fucking Preston Ansley still hanging around—so is it possible she’s .
. . jealous? I want to laugh out loud at the thought.
Maeve Wilson jealous over the woman I fucked all weekend? Now that is pure gold.
“What’d she steal?” I ask, sipping my drink.
Maeve’s eyes snap up to mine, and if looks could kill, I’d be nothing but ash. “Nothing of significance.”
“Then why the high stakes?”
A muscle in her jaw jumps, and I want to kiss it. “I just feel like teaching her a lesson.” Her smile is so achingly fake, it hurts my teeth to look at it.
The game commences, but I’ll be the first to admit it doesn’t have my attention.
In fact, there’s little that does besides Maeve.
I keep stealing glances at her, but she’s studiously turning her eyes everywhere but in my direction.
I’m ready to get up and demand she talk to me when she provides me with the perfect opportunity.
She pushes back her chair and excuses herself. After a minute, I corral the empty glasses and take them back to the kitchen for refills. The second I hear the restroom door open, I bolt into the hall and grab Maeve’s arm just as she’s coming out.