Chapter Eleven
After three hours of sleep, I pulled myself out of bed to face the daylight that shone on my bad decision.
I took a deep breath. I could do this—I could dress and put on a neutral face and pretend like nothing happened last night.
Gray wouldn’t ask many questions, and if he did, I was his boss.
I didn’t owe him an explanation. The guards who had failed would not be returning for their shifts the next evening.
All would be well and right with the world.
I showered for thirty minutes, scrubbing my skin harder than normal to make it forget the way his hands felt, and took even longer grooming and dressing. I would look perfect, put together, not at all bothered.
I entered my bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, opened my closet, and flipped through hangers for my favorite suit—the deep burgundy one that was unique without being flashy.
I slid aside the outfit in front of it and found my most prized suit in tatters, shredded from collar to waist. Pants, too.
Bits of it hanging off the hanger like rags.
That bastard.
I huffed and dressed in something else, suddenly not caring what I chose, and stormed over to the nightstand to grab my phone.
You are an arsehole.
Rook: Have a good day at work. :-)
I flipped the phone shut and pressed it against my forehead. I didn’t have time for this.
Gray was already waiting in my office, being the only other person who had a key, and must have noticed something was off. That was the bad side of his keen senses—they were useful at gleaning information, but annoying when they took an interest in me.
I held up a hand. “No questions. Just business.”
“You got it, boss.” He shrugged. “Two weeks until the gala. I hired an event planner, by the way. I’m not getting shackled with flowers and music anymore.”
I nodded, settling behind my desk. I prioritized Gray for things like ridding myself of incompetent staff, so I didn’t complain that he had no time to plan this month’s Full Moon Gala.
I threw them every month, partly to satisfy my love of parties, and partly to monitor all the players who might be a threat—or of benefit—to me.
People clamored for invitations. Sometimes I coupled them with fundraisers to keep up the facade of everything being above board.
It was all a delicate dance of power, information, and money.
“Keep me informed—flowers or no flowers, you're the middleman to the event planner,” I said. “Any luck finding Teddy?”
“Locator spell worked, but by the time our guys got there, he was already gone. We’ll find him.”
“Feel free to cause him pain before you bring him back,” I said. “It’s always such a pain in the arse when they run. Go get yourself a coffee."
Gray had a credit card in my name that I trusted him to use responsibly. “Pick me up a latte or something.” After last night, I think I needed to start today the way Americans did. Just…with something less bitter. I made a face at the thought of it, and Gray chuckled.
“I’ll make sure they pour a shit ton of sugar in it,” he said, rising from his chair.
I realized, as the door closed behind him, how tedious it had all become. A party once a month, meetings with buyers, warehouse inspections, artifact acquisitions, calling in favors only half the people I granted them to could pay back. Same shite day after day.
I opened my laptop and checked my messages on Midnight Chat.
Nothing.
Same dead ends week after week.
I touched one finger to my lips.
Not that kiss, though, not the way his fingers stroked me, rough and hurried. That was new. Different. An interruption.
I hated interruptions.
So why was my dick half hard and my heart racing in my chest?
I checked my text messages and found them in the same unchanged state as my online communication.
As long as no one disruptive sent word, today would be like every other day, and for once I craved disruption.
Between the latte Gray brought me for breakfast and the salad I rushed through for lunch, I picked up my phone exactly twenty-seven times.
I counted them, mostly to berate myself each time my thumb hovered over the buttons.
Out of twenty-seven, I typed half a message eighteen times before deleting each of them and explaining to myself that nothing good would come from texting Rook.
Last night was some strange, hate-fueled fever dream I should leave in the dark.
***
The weeks passed in similar monotony, aside from approving food choices and a guest list sent by the event coordinator.
She was good. I had every intention of hiring her on a monthly basis if she could pull off these parties under that strict timeframe.
These events were always black tie, and I made sure to look my best in case my guest of honor accepted his invitation.
I’d invited Emmett Graves tonight.
This was the perfect time to get a read on him before the election and to make alliances where there was cooperation to be had.
It wasn’t as if the Council didn’t know about me or the work I did, but they had never been able to get any charges to stick to me.
Many of my artifact dealings, the nightclub, and the parties were all legal, and I was exceptionally good at hiding the rest of it, despite their efforts to unveil my secrets.
But to have a Council ally who could help me keep my less savory practices invisible would be an asset.
I finished straightening my tie and went downstairs to meet my driver, who would take me to Avalon. The cost of closing the club for a private party once a month was minimal in the grand scheme of things, and well worth it for the connections built over champagne and conversation.
When I arrived, two bartenders were already working at the bar and Gray had taken up his post by the door.
He didn’t greet guests. No, I had hostesses for that—attractive, sweet, and willing to fawn over the wealthy for a paycheck.
Gray fawned over no one. He was there to watch, listen, and report.
Dressed up in a black suit, he fit in enough to camouflage, which gave him freedom to move in and out of the guests like a phantom.
Looking sharp, Austin.
He always looks sharp! Oh, I love these parties.
The voices had returned shortly after my encounter with Rook, with absolutely no explanation for why they had temporarily vanished, and gave me no warning for who I’d find in my penthouse that night.
The guests filed in at seven, and I stood at the bar, not so eager as to greet them, but visible enough for them to find me when they wanted to beg for a moment of my time.
A live band on a stage played elegant music.
I watched as my guests filled the club, women glittering and men polished, but I didn’t see Graves.
I’d looked up his photo so I’d know who to expect and sent the invitation via Charles’s connection to the Council.
Perhaps he would not accept the invitation, I realized with irritation.
No one had ever refused an invitation from me.
I spied on the guests, most of whom went directly for the food, and cataloged familiar and unfamiliar faces.
A bookseller who could produce any rare volume I asked for.
A rich donor who always put money into my fundraisers to keep his own image of legitimacy.
A nepo baby who owed me a string of favors that would keep him on my leash for the rest of his life.
Gray moved around the perimeter. He would eat food and have one drink at the bar later. He would pretend to be looking for someone and listen to the band. But he would seldom speak to anyone. He was a ghost observing it all.
Several people approached me, shook my hand, and thanked me for inviting them. I ordered a martini and held it, untasted, in my hand. The more they drank, and the more they believed I had and that we were on equal footing, the looser their tongues would be as the night went on.
A mismatched couple—the man portly and his wife reedy—cross over to me with flutes of champagne in their hands.
“Austin!” the man greeted me, clapping me on the shoulder with a beefy hand.
“Ivan, so good to see you. Eleanor, you look lovely, as always.”
She giggled and blushed, though I thought it might be an act.
Half the women who came to these things were actually charmed by me, by my money and accent, and the other half played the part to manipulate me.
That feeling of unending routine crept over me again as I watched the door between staged smiles and small talk.
A man strolled in the door, smiling in a way that looked very genuine as the hostess greeted him. Tall and slim in a navy suit, he radiated sincerity each time someone approached him, which began the moment he stepped into the room.
Emmett Graves had a way with people, and it seemed much more authentic than mine. He patiently entertained each person who slowed his pace.
“Excuse me, won’t you?” I said to Ivan. “There is something I need to speak about with the staff. Enjoy the party.”
Graves was a third of the way across the room now, flanked by people who recognized him from his political campaign.
I just needed to cross the other two-thirds without getting trapped into another conversation.
I moved as hastily as I could manage with someone stopping me every two feet to say hello or compliment me.
I nodded and excused myself as I swept past.
Halfway across the room—we were only twenty feet apart now. I just needed to—
A laugh caught my attention, a low chuckle, unnoticeable if it weren’t for the fact that I’d been the object of it before, and so few people dared to laugh at me.
And maybe I liked the low rumble of it.
I knew that laugh, and its owner was not on the guest list. My head whipped to the side, searching for its source.
Fifteen feet between me and Emmett. A woman I knew to be endlessly chatty had trapped him.
That laugh again. I scanned the crowd, breaking my visual on Emmett.