“Hey what—what are you doing!” Henry shouts, bucking his hips to shake Gabe off. Gabe’s grip tightens as he pulls his out of one of Henry’s pockets, fist clenched.
“Weeding out a rat,” he whispers, full of venom.
He lets go of Henry, moving to his side, and Henry uses that as an opportunity to get up. Reeve stops him with a whack to his spine, his cane resting like an iron bar on Henry’s back.
A smile stretches Reeve’s face. Relishing in the ripples of pain that wrack Henry’s body as he brings down his cane again, the sound piercing the room. It’s gone deathly quiet. Not even a breath stirs the charged air.
I chance a glance at Noah but he is no longer in the booth. He’s striding to his friends with unhurried steps. His face remains impassive while his blue eyes flare with wanton rage.
When he nears, Gabe opens his hand and poker chips fall from his palm, between his finger, to their feet. Almost in slow motion one rolls on the ground, stopping before Noah’s shoes.
He steps on it, continuing his march to Henry. Brin and I share a look of worry, of fear and the unknown, as he bends at the waist to meet Henry’s eyes.
“Trying to steal from me, Porter?” Noah’s whisper reaches my ears. There is no promise of salvation in it. “You should know I don’t take kindly to people stealing from me.”
Henry doesn’t answer. I see the back of his legs shake uncontrollably.
Noah sounds pissed beneath the calm and control he’s wielding over his body. I hold my breath as he waves Reeve away. He helps Henry stand up, holding on to his arm.
“Do you know what happens when people try to steal from me?” Noah still has a hand on Henry’s arm.
Henry hesitantly shakes his head.
A crack, then a scream fills the room.
Henry collapses to the floor, his arm still in Noah’s grip though it’s bent at an awkward angle between them. A piece of bone protrudes and I have to force myself not to gag.
Noah broke Henry’s arm. He broke his arm and he’s wearing a smile.
They all are. Reeve, Thea, and Gabe are grinning ear to ear. Enjoying this.
My stomach churns. Noah drops the arm and Henry howls out in anguish.
“Get him out of here,” he growls. Thea skips over to the body and hauls him up. Noah gives her a look and in a hushed tone that my ears strain to hear he says, “You know what to do.”
With a smile too sweet for the circumstances, she nods and leads him out of the ballroom. Gabe and Reeve, who’s whistling, stroll out leisurely behind her.
At first, there is only silence as the door shuts behind them.
Then, Noah shatters it.
“Let this be a lesson to everyone here.” Noah doesn’t shout. Doesn’t yell. His voice is steady. A lethal quiet that causes everyone in the room to lean forward to hear what he has to say. He holds the room on a precipice, antsy with anticipation and fear. We just saw him break the arm of a thief. “Anyone who tries to cheat or steal at The Underground will be caught and dealt with.” A pause. “By me.” One hand slips into his pocket, his body still tight with tension. “And next time I won’t stop at a warning.”
He is the judge. The jury. And the executioner.
Noah’s voice grows colder with every sentence. Angry. I can feel the anger pouring from him. Even when he’s silent. It fills the room.
You don’t try and cheat the Devil. He’ll always win.
He snaps his fingers and a cigarette girl walks to him, her tray full of champagne. He picks up a flute, holding the delicate glass between two fingers, raising it above his head. A toast. “Now.” He smiles, dark delight brightens his harsh features. “Let’s get back to why you came here. To drink and give me your money!”
As the crowd cheers with him, I scrunch my face.
Seriously?
Noah tips his drink back, christening his words.
When he places his empty glass on the tray, he’s not paying attention to the crowd as they walk around him, going back to their table of choice.
He can’t.
Not when his eyes are on me.
If he looked intense before, it has nothing with the fervor that burns behind his eyes.
A fire erupts in my stomach under his stare. Starting from the top of my head, his penetrating eyes drink me in. They feel like a caress reaching all the way to my bones. Sensual and commanding, calling me to attention. Everything else fades to the background.
My memories of him, even from earlier this week, haven’t done him justice as I take him in. Dressed in another black on black suit, he’s as polished as they come. Except for his hair, it’s a wild mess on top of his head.
A flash of that woman on his lap burns through my mind. She knows what I’ve always wondered. What’d it’d be like to feel Noah in the palm of my hand. To come undone and lose control with me.
A sea of people walk between us but it’s like we’re the only two in the room. I hear nothing, see nothing except him. Until someone knocks into me, jostling my shoulder, the connection between us is broken.
I lose him to the crowd. He left the safety of his booth and has made himself approachable to everyone who wants a piece of him.
Everyone except me.
Feeling warm and overwhelmed as the noise of the room comes rushing back to me, I need a drink. A large, stiff drink.
Before turning my sights on the bar, I turn to Brin to ask if she wants anything but I see she’s already preoccupied with the poker player from earlier. When I reach the bar, the tall bartender with peppered hair from Heathen’s Hell appears as I slide into a stool.
What’s he doing here?
He winks. “Lemon drop, right?”
Slowly, I nod.
The bartender walks away and I feel a body slide behind me.
A sense of déjà vu washes over me as I keep my gaze trained on the shelves upon shelves of liquor.
Without looking, I know who it is. There’s an energy around him that’s charged and always has been, only to be amplified with time.
“You look lonely.”
I shift in my seat at the sound of his voice.
Smooth and rich, the finest liquor on the top shelf. Intoxicating. It warms me and chills my bones at the same time.
He followed me over.
The little kernel of knowledge does nothing to help the flutters and nerves twisting my stomach. Thank God the bartender returns with my drink. I take a healthy sip as he nods to Noah.
“Maybe I like to be alone,” I tell him.
“Oh I remember.” The husky quality of his voice makes it sound scandalous. “But maybe you might want some company. Just this once.”
“You mean so you can question me endlessly about my sister? No thanks.” I start to turn the stool around when Noah’s hand shoots out, holding my thigh.
I stare at it, my breath slowing. Gradually, my eyes meet his.
“Perhaps I want to talk about you.” His eyes are honed on my lips.
Noah’s not the only one with eyes on me. Over his shoulder the woman from earlier glares at me, still seated in the booth.
“Looks like your friend is missing you.”
A wolfish grin appears. “Want to join us? She always does better with two people.”
“Tempting.” I take a sip of my drink, licking the excess liquid off my lips. “But no.”
His eyes flash, locked on my lips.
Feeling bold, I dart my tongue out, licking them again.
Noah’s hooked on the movement.
He takes a step closer as I say, “Go back to your lady-friend, Noah. I’m not here for you.”
He tilts his head to the side. It must be baffling to his ego that my being here has nothing to do with him.
“I’m here as a guest with a friend,” I continue when he doesn’t say anything.
Noah stares at me and I stare back until he shakes his head at my naiveté. “You shouldn’t have come here, guest or not” —he snatches the martini glass out of my han
d and downs the rest— “But now that you have, I’m not letting you get away.”
I swallow as a wicked gleam brightens those frosty eyes.
A dark chuckle fills my ears. “Ready to play, Baby Brooks?”
“What’s your poison?” Noah asks, shuffling a deck of cards between us.
We’re sitting around a poker table in a private room that’s hidden behind a locked door.
Me, and the most powerful man in town.
“You’re letting me decide?” Disbelief colors my tone.
He clicks his tongue. “Always thinking the worst of me.”
“Do you blame me?” I can’t help but ask. “I just saw you break a man’s arm.”
Noah’s hands stop middle shuffle. “Are you afraid to be alone with me, Sayer?”
Am I afraid to be alone with him? Did he ever care before? All the times he sought me out when I was a teenager? “No.”
“Liar,” he challenges with narrow eyes. “I terrified you as a teenager.”
I was afraid with how you made me feel. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from answering.
Noah goes back to shuffling the cards and I watch them blur between his hands.
“What’s your game?” he asks again.
“Blackjack.”
He nods, starting to deal out the cards. One card face down for each of us.
I stare at the card. “I’m not giving you any money.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You.”
My arms drop from my chest. Is my mouth open? It feels open.
I wait for him to crack a smile or laugh, to show any sign that he’s joking. Until I remember who’s sitting across from me. Noah Kincaid doesn’t joke. Not about debts and sex.
“I’m not on the table.”
“You could be.” His eyes dance when I shift in my seat.
I stop, pushing away from the table instead. “Noah, be serious or I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere, Sayer. Sit down.” His tone brooks no argument and I’m wise enough to listen.
Slowly, I sit down. “I’m not playing strip poker.”
“Tempting.” Noah smirks. “But too frat house for me. I was thinking of something a little different.”
“Which is?” I ask when he doesn’t elaborate.
“Favors.”
I don’t like the smile he gives me. A predator closing in on his prey.
Sitting here, I feel like an idiot. Of course he doesn’t want my money. He has more than enough.
Noah lives for a challenge.
Too bad for him, I don’t. “There’s nothing that I want from you,” I say.
“You sure about that?” he asks, heavy with implication.
I raise a brow. “Positive.”
He plays with the collar of his shirt, still exposing part of his chest. My eyes hone in on it. On his neck, watching it constrict as he swallows. Masculine and sharp, he’s honed into a weapon.
A weapon set out to distract me. Entice me.
Noah’s chuckle crashes into me and my eyes meet his. “Yeah. You don’t want anything.”
He flicks a card in my direction.
Four of hearts.
Silence settles between us.
I came tonight to sit at a table and play a game or two of cards. To see the mysterious Underground. Now I’m sitting at a table playing a game of cards with someone even more mysterious than The Underground itself.
For the past week I’ve been on edge, not wanting to see him, thinking he’d collect on the promise of whatever he has going on with my sister not being over, but here we are now and he hasn’t so much as brought her up.
There was a brief moment, years ago, when he felt more like mine than hers.
And maybe it’s the drink from earlier or the quietness of the room that feels so small but is not, whatever it is, I want to get to know that person again.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask when the stillness of the room becomes too much. “What kind of favors?”
I don’t get an answer.
Across the table Noah studies his cards. What’s there to study? You get two cards in blackjack.
I clear my throat.
Still nothing. Not even a twitch of a brow.
Well, fine then.
If he’s going to ignore me, I’m going to give him something he can’t ignore.
My butt is barely in the air when, without looking up, Noah growls, “Sit.”
I narrow my eyes at his authoritative tone. “I’m not a dog. Commands don’t work on me.” I hop off the chair. Marching right to him.
He still won’t look at me. It grates on my skin. He dragged me into the room. He wanted to play this game. He unbuttoned his shirt. Now, he’s ignoring me.
My fingers wrap around his chin. I ignore the wave of electricity that ignites inside me as I force his gaze to meet mine. “If you’re going to invite me to play a game, I expect your undivided attention.”
“Oh, you do now?” Low and husky, his words brush against my skin. “My apologies, my lady. Let me rectify that.”
His hands shoot out, sinking into my hips, pulling me close.
Right onto his lap.
“How’s this?” he whispers in my ear. The arms around me feel like steel bands, keeping me secure against his body. Slow, methodic strokes move in circles along my skin, hypnotizing me, holding me in place.
Fire blazes in the wake of his touch.
Noah Kincaid has always felt larger than life, the kind of person that makes everything else fade away when his sole focus is on you, and right now he’s pressed mute on the rest of the world.
All from a caress of his thumb.
Wonder what he could do if more than his thumb was involved…
Stop it. Stop it right now, Sayer Brooks. We do not have these thoughts about our sister’s ex-boyfriend.
Except we are totally having these thoughts about our sister’s ex-boyfriend.
“How are we playing?” I ask softly as I stare at our forgotten cards, needing the distraction from the growing need inside me.
“One round,” Noah says, the words shooting down my spine like an arrow. “Pick your favor.”
“And keep it in my head?” My voice is low and packed with sass.
“Smartass,” he chuckles, shifting behind me to reach into his jacket. Something brushes against my backside and my eyes widen a fraction.
I’m not the only one affected by our closeness.
Seconds later, pen and paper are placed in front of me. “Write it.”
I look at him. “How do I know you won’t peek while I write?”
“You don’t,” he answers.
I frown. “Have you always been so insufferable?”
How did I have a crush on him?
Noah reaches into his jacket again—Jesus, is a man’s suit jacket lined with a million secret pockets?—and pulls out a vape pen.
Putting it to his lips, I’m reminded why.
Because my clichéd teenage heart loved the idea of a bad boy. And a bad boy he was. And if my treacherous heart doesn’t flutter at the sight of him taking a hit from his pen, smoke leaving out of his nose.
Dang.
It’s hot when he does that.
He smirks, tapping his finger on the paper. “Write what you want, Sayer.”
With a resigned sigh, I do.
Leaning over the table as much as I’m able with Noah’s arm still around my waist, I write the first thing to pop into my head and before I can second guess myself, I fold up the paper and leave it on the table.
I start to sit back up when Noah’s palm presses into the middle of my back, keeping me curled over the table.
Removing his hand, a piece of paper takes his place. Sharp and purposeful strokes from a pen follow, just deep enough that I can feel them through my dress. The letters, though I can’t make them out, feel etched on my skin.
Noah fold
s the paper up and flicks it over my shoulder.
Still bent over the table, I feel his body stretch out above me to bring my forgotten cards closer. Yet the cards are the farthest thing from my mind feeling his weight press against me.
It’s gone all too quickly as he sits back. The spell broken.
I have to focus on the cards, the game. Not just to stop focusing on Noah and how it feels to be so close to him, but because I don’t want him to win. Whatever he wrote down is going to take me out of my comfort zone.
I bite my cheek to hold in a curse as I peek at my bottom card. A nine. A freaking nine!
I try to glance at Noah’s bottom card but he barely peels up a corner. On top sits a king.
“What’s it going to be, Sayer?” His words soft in my ear, despite the challenge they hold. “Hit or stay?”
I tap the table with two fingers, afraid how my voice will sound if I try to speak right now. I take a hit.
And bust.
Noah’s hand tightens on my thigh.
Crap. “Crap,” I whisper, eyeing our bets. The only way I’m saved is if Noah busts too. Which seems unlikely.
The house always wins.
Muscles I never knew I had are tense as he chuckles, shaking my body.
Almost in slow motion he reaches for his cards.
I don’t breathe.
I don’t blink.
Noah flips his card.
Noah won.
And he’s cashing in on it now.
A favor disguised as a dare.
“No,” I whisper as we stand on the roof of the building. “I’m not doing this.”
Standing a few paces behind me, Noah is unfazed by my refusal. Letting me deny, deny, deny while he watches with his hands in his pant pockets.
Of course he’s relaxed. He’s all cool, calm, and collected in his comfortable position of being the winner.
After showing his hand of twenty-one, Noah gave me the piece of paper he wrote on. Then he reached for mine. I tried to snatch it back but he swiftly put it in his pant pocket. I wasn’t bold enough to retrieve it.
“Heard you the first twenty-five times, but really, it was this time that has made your point perfectly clear.”
I shoot him a nasty glare.
Noah speaks four languages, his most fluent?
Under the Lies Page 4
