by S. M. Soto
My brows dip. “The piece?”
Something passes over Baz’s face, the muscle in his jaw clenching. “The piece for work? Isn’t that why you’re here in LA?”
Shit!
“Oh! Yes, sorry. The piece. Right.” I cough, trying to clear my throat and pull myself together. “It’s coming along slowly. I’ve run into some blocks, you know, material and flow issues, but I’m sure it’ll pass soon.”
“Blocks, huh?” he cross-examines. The strange glint in his eyes is making me sweat. “I don’t think I ever asked before now, but what’s the piece about, anyway?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t interest you. It’s just some freelance gig. Nothing notable.” I wave him off, hoping like hell he’ll change the subject.
“Who is it for, if you don’t mind me asking? Your previous works as well, where can I find them? You’ve seen firsthand what I do. It’s only fair I do the same.”
Fucking shit.
Fuck.
Fuck. Shit. Fuck!
Why is he suddenly asking all these questions? And on the way to his friend’s house of all fucking times? As if I don’t already have enough on my plate.
I rub my suddenly sweaty palms down the material of my dress, trying to come up with something logical.
“I’ve never really been featured in anything special. I’ve written a few ads, some warranty policies for companies, and one other time, I wrote a column in Cheddar for their celebrity section. It’s not much, and it’s obviously like nothing you do at the resorts, but”—I inhale a deep breath—“it’s a check. And it pays the bills, so I can’t complain. And what I’m working on right now is more of a journalism piece. It’s on crimes here in Hollywood and the surrounding areas. It’s a little gruesome to go over old reports, but it’s a huge opportunity and not to mention a huge check. I’d be stupid to turn it down.”
When I finish with my lie, something I promised I’d stop doing so damn frequently around Baz, my heart is pounding, and my breathing is labored. He stares at me for a beat, searching my eyes. I wonder how long he’s going to do that until a smirk spreads across his face.
“You’re something else, you know that, dirty girl?”
I force a smile. “So I’ve been told.”
If there was ever a house I’d expect Zach Covington to live in, it would most certainly be this one. Where Baz has his mansion and other rich people accolades, he doesn’t flaunt them. There’re always two types of rich people: the up-in-your-face ones and the ones like Baz—all it takes is one glance, and you know they’re loaded.
Zach is very much the former.
His sprawling home isn’t as big as Baz’s, but all the sports cars parked conspicuously near the garages tell enough about the man. He’s a show-off. I guess not much has changed over the years. My hand grows clammy in Baz’s as he guides me out of the car and toward the entrance. A few other vehicles are here, which I assume belong to the rest of the guys and any other invited guests.
The home is a modern masterpiece—I’ll give him that—that sits just minutes from the Sunset Strip, so as you’d imagine, the views of West Hollywood and the ocean are incredible. On the outside, everything is white and sleek, mainly glass. I can’t help but think of the irony—Zach living in a glass house.
The looming door is masculine and black, and much to my surprise, Baz pushes right through. As soon as you walk in, everything is dynamic, what with the designs and the shapes. When I glance up, there’s a two-story living room with a fireplace that extends all the way up to the second floor. The foyer we’re standing in leads up to a blinding white staircase. The weird metal and chrome chandelier lights up the entire staircase as if it’s the stairway to heaven. My lips twist into a frown.
More like the stairway to hell.
Baz guides the way up the steps, and I follow, silently taking everything in. I can hear masculine laughter and even some feminine giggles interspersed.
I’m not the only woman here? Interesting.
On the upper level, it’s an open space plan. There’s the second living room and down the hall are what I’m assuming are the bedrooms; on the other side of the staircase is a billiards room with a bar. A large poker table sits in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that boast the impeccable views of downtown LA.
All easy conversation comes to a halt when we walk in. My wedged heels clicking on the marble are like a blaring alarm to their ears. I focus on keeping my expression light and neutral, which isn’t easy, considering I’m standing in the home of one of my sister’s killers while surrounded by the rest. Slowly, I survey the room and its grandiosity. The money literally drips from its walls. I curl my free hand into a fist as I try to suppress the anger that’s simmering just beneath the surface. Because these assholes are all part of society’s elite, they got away with murder. Now, they’re rolling in the lavish lifestyle while my sister rots in the ground.
It isn’t fair.
It doesn’t make any sense.
My nails dig into my palm, the stinging of my flesh slowly calming me when all I feel like doing is screaming like a banshee and ripping everything off the walls, watching it crash and shatter onto the floor.
“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” Zach says with an infuriating smirk on his face. He looks like an absolute idiot, sitting at the head of the table as the dealer with one of those stupid green gambler visors on his head. He’s wearing a polo, all the top buttons left open, revealing the gold chain around his neck that I’d like to strangle him with. He has a toothpick hanging lazily out of the side of his mouth, and I keep my fingers crossed that he’ll accidentally swallow and choke on it. “Looks like someone made the cut, boys.”
Vincent scoffs, shooting a spiteful glare my way. “Don’t give her too much credit. The night has only just begun.”
A cold chill travels down my spine, and despite how angry I am and how determined I am to make them all pay, I find myself stepping closer to Baz. For comfort or protection, that I don’t know.
“That’s enough. Wouldn’t want to scare her off.” The dark undertone in Baz’s voice prompts me to look his way. He’s glaring at the rest of the guys, a silent conversation happening right in front of me that I’m not privy to. I can’t tell if the warning is for them to truly back off or something else.
“Turn back now, Mack. There’s still time. You’re not ready for this. They’ll eat you alive, tear you to pieces. He won’t be able to save you from them, Mack.” I hear Madison chanting. She sounds afraid, and she’s probably right. I should turn around and say to hell with everything, but that’s not what I do.
“All right, all right. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Marcus rolls his eyes. He lifts his arm, beckoning me over. “C’mon, Scar, you can take this seat right next to me. I’ve had my bitch keep it warm for you.”
One of the women at the bar laughs, and the burning in my gut returns with a vengeance. What kind of man talks about a woman that way? What kind of woman even allows the man she’s sleeping with to talk about her that way?
I glance up at Baz, needing to take my cue from him. Do I sit here, or wait till he makes his move? He jerks his head toward the open seat next to Marcus. There’s another one open, but that one is on the other side of the table, next to Zach and Trent.
“Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right here at the bar getting a drink.” He bends down, kissing my neck, and before standing upright, he whispers for my ears only, “Remember, their goal is to make you uncomfortable. Prove them wrong.” He smoothly turns on his heel, toward the bar, and it doesn’t escape my notice the way the busty blondes perk up when they see him.
Once again, he certainly has a type, and it’s not me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I strut toward the open spot next to Marcus, feigning confidence I surely don’t feel. I lower myself into the chair, and I try not to stiffen when Marcus tosses his arm over the back of my chair. His cologne wafts around me, and disgust burns in the back of my throat. It’s not that
it’s bad or disgusting, but it’s him, and that’s enough.
“I gotta admit, Scarlett. You’ve got balls.” Zach chuckles, shaking his head as he shuffles the deck of cards.
“And range, apparently,” Vincent pipes in, still glaring daggers at me. I glance toward Baz who’s deep in conversation with one of the women at the bar. She’s laughing and doing her absolute best to keep him entertained. At least he looks bored out of his mind and doesn’t seem to be enjoying the attention.
“He’s fucked her, you know.”
I stiffen at the sound of Trent’s voice. I’ve tried to avoid him, especially after what happened at the gala. I can see why Baz let me sit here instead of on that side next to him. When his words register, I try not to let my anger show. I dig my nails into my thighs, inhaling through my nose.
“Range?” I ask, dismissing Trent when I look toward Vincent. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He leans back. “Well, it just means you’re quite the actress. You’ve got range. First, you show up as this sexy, irresistible woman at the club, then you’re like a bombshell celebrity at the gala, and now look at you, all virginal and sweet. How long did it take you to decide what to wear?”
My eye twitches with frustration.
Fucking bastard.
“Paying an awful lot of attention to someone who isn’t yours,” I quip, and Vincent’s body goes rigid. I watch closely as the smug expression morphs into something more sinister. He leans forward, resting his forearm on the table.
“Damn straight, you’re not mine. I wouldn’t be caught dead fucking a lying piece of shit like you. Is that all you’re here for, your next big break? An actress looking for arm candy and her spot in the limelight?”
“Oooh,” the rest of the guys chime in, in unison, as if that was a burn.
They’re all so fucking childish. Even now. So many years later.
Placing my hands on the edge of the poker table, I curl my fingers around it, gripping in anger. Slowly, I lean forward, mirroring him. I keep my voice sugary sweet to disguise my fury.
“Look, you don’t like me. I get it. But I’m not here to cause problems. I’m just trying to enjoy my time with Baz while I’m here, and I’m hoping you’ll be open to having me around.”
Vincent laughs, but it’s without humor. “You can cut the sweet girl act because I know your type. I know who you are, Scarlett. You’re not sweet. You have a fucking agenda, and you want to know mine? I want you gone. We all do.”
My nails start to bend with how deeply they’re digging into the table. Just as he asked, I drop the sweet act and lean back. Instead, I let them see the anger running through my veins.
“Okay,” I concede, crossing my leg over the other, raising a taunting brow. “You think I’d be caught dead with you? I’m not a liar, and I’m not a fucking actress. I’m here on a freelance writing job. Can you even manage to write a paragraph without help from someone else?” I grin wickedly when his brows take a dive, red coloring his cheeks with anger. “I didn’t think so. I don’t care what you think of me. You can fucking hate me, and I wouldn’t really give a shit because, guess what, while I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. So you might as well suck it up, buddy. And I can tell you with the utmost certainty—you don’t know me. You’ve never met a woman like me. That I can assure you.”
Vincent’s jaw is clenching. His chest is rising and falling, and he looks like he wants to murder me. Like he wants to fly out of that seat and strangle the life out of me.
Trent breaks the silence with a chuckle. “Damn. The girl has fire and claws. Who knew?”
Everyone laughs except Vincent. He’s the one I need to keep an eye out for because there’s no doubt, after I’ve just embarrassed him in front of his friends, he’ll be watching me.
The mood shifts when Baz steps back toward the table, drink in hand, with another guy beside him. I’ve never seen this man before and didn’t even notice when he got here, but he and Baz are in deep conversation.
“What do you know, another uninvited guest,” Zach drawls, starting to officially deal the cards. I seek out Baz’s eyes, and finally, as he sits next to Trent and his mystery friend sits on the other side of Marcus, he shoots me a smirk, and I see the warmth in his eyes. It calms me some.
I can do this.
It’s just a simple game of poker.
I can do this.
“Fuck off, Covington. I’m your lawyer; I’m invited to everything.”
I try to mask my surprise when I pick up my cards. So he’s Zach’s lawyer? Or does he represent them all? He looks fairly young, about mid-thirties, so not much older than the rest of the guys. I wonder what kind of shady shit the Savages are into that they would need a lawyer on retainer.
The game starts off slowly. I pay special attention to my cards and work my bottom lip between my teeth anxiously. My dad and I used to play poker years ago. It was the one time I didn’t have to share him or his praise with my sister, but I haven’t touched a deck or any cards since then. On the outside, to the rest of the guys, I probably look like a fool who doesn’t have a clue what I’m doing, but all I need is a warm-up. Playing poker is like riding a bike.
At least I hoped it would be.
“Who’s the babe?” the lawyer asks, jerking his gaze toward me. “It’s nice to see at least one of you has taste.”
Vincent guffaws, pushing green chips into the center of the table. “If you’re into gold diggers, sure. Everyone has a preference.”
My grip tightens around my cards.
“Watch it,” Baz threatens, the threat clear in his tone as he takes a sip from his tumbler. Vincent just shrugs.
“Just calling it like I see it, but as you can tell, she’s Baz’s flavor of the month.”
I can feel the lawyer’s gaze on me, but I continue staring down at my cards, trying to control my anger. I have a straight flush. This is good. I just hope it’s enough, so I can rub it in all these fuckers’ faces.
“What’re you working with over there, Scarlett? Ready to fold so soon?”
I smile a sugary sweet smile that says, “fuck you,” and I push all my chips into the center of the table. Eyes widen.
“You realize we’re playing with real money here, princess?” Marcus asks.
The sugar from my smile drips into ice. “Oh, I know. I don’t mind buying my way in.” I flatten my cards on the table and try not to let my smirk overpower this win.
“You fucking kidding?” Zach scoffs, looking at my flush and everyone else’s shit cards. There’s no disputing it. I won.
“I’m not. You can slide the rest of your chips to this princess now.” Everyone’s expressions tighten. All except Baz’s. He raises his glass to his lips for his drink but leaves it there. I can clearly see the grin. The smile he’s hiding behind his glass causes warmth to unfurl in my chest.
“I’m not surprised,” Vincent says, leaning back in his seat, glaring daggers at me. “Gold diggers are good at everything, aren’t they?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to defend myself, but if I want the upper hand around these guys, I need to play it cool. It doesn’t escape my notice, the way Baz pats Vincent roughly on the back. The pads of his fingers dig into his shoulder, and Vincent’s face tightens with pain. Baz drags him closer and says something only he can hear. The whole time Vincent watches me with a cold gleam. With each word that Baz says, Vincent’s lips get thinner and thinner until he shrugs him off, straightening his shirt.
The rest of the evening goes much the same. We play a few rounds. Though I’ve lost most of them, that first one is still going in the books for me. The guys still take jabs at me, hoping to wear me down, but I don’t. About halfway through the night, I make an excuse that I need to use the bathroom. Like the gentleman he is, Baz starts to stand, offering to escort me, but I wave him off.
“Go ahead and finish this game. I’ll be quick.”
Zach sighs in irritation. “Noah is in this one, so take the stairs dow
n and use the one on the first floor.”
I’m dismissed that easily, and as I turn around, I don’t even have the willpower to hide my smile. I leave the billiard room with my clutch in hand, my heels clicking down the hall and down the stairs as I head to the bathroom. Actually having to pee, I do my business before I start my search. I walk with my weight on the toes of my wedges to keep the noise at a minimum. The music is helping a bit. The bass masks each click. I leave the light on in the bathroom and shut the door behind me, moving through the bottom floor.
I pass the chef’s kitchen, pass the windows overlooking the view, and cross into the back of Zach’s home. There’s a guest room on the lower level, and as I try the knob to another door, it’s an office—not as nice or as manly as Baz’s, but it’s still an office, nonetheless. The room is bathed in darkness, making it hard to see anything other than the outline of a desk and the floor-to-ceiling window boasting another spectacular view. Glancing over my shoulder, I quietly shut the door behind me and hurry across the room. Much like I did in Baz’s office, I slide open the drawers and search through the papers. I roll my eyes when I find a hearty stack of Playboy magazines.
Seriously?
Laid out on his desk, he has flight manifest information. Apparently, he plans on going somewhere.
“You need to hurry. Anyone can walk in on you. You need to find what you’re looking for and leave.” I grind my teeth at Madison’s warning.
“I know that!” I hiss out loud, even though she can’t hear me.
Tossing my clutch on the desk, I move on, toward the bookcase. I search through the books, opening some that have frayed edges, but they’re all just for looks. I don’t think he’s ever cracked any of these open. Starting to grow frustrated, I glance around the room frantically.
There has to be something.
I look at my reflection in the huge ornate mirror hanging on the wall. Squinting my eyes, I’m not sure if the darkness is just playing tricks on me. I close the distance, and sure enough, there’s a gap between the wall and the mirror big enough to stick my fingers through. Before I can think better of it, I grip each side of the mirror, my biceps burning from the weight, and I lift. My eyes widen when I see what’s behind the wall.
