38

Weston
The slight buzz indicated a new text.
I’d already had my terse phone call for the evening with Bart. He’d undoubtedly waited until after seven in the evening to call, hoping to get my voicemail. He’d gotten a taste of my wrath instead. And it was just the beginning. I was finished playing games with anyone. I’d invested a significant amount of time as well as money in the discovery phase initiating a purchase.
I refused to lose several hundred thousand dollars because of a twisted fuck trying to orchestrate a failed deal. While Bart Cheveau would learn very quickly what happened to assholes who crossed me, William-fucking-Watkins was next on my list.
As I headed towards the elevators, I yanked out my phone. What I read sent a shot of adrenaline straight to my veins.
I know what you did.
Oh, please. If the fucker really thought his threat was going to unnerve me, then the idiot needed to get over himself.
As I stepped inside the elevator, I allowed my thoughts to return to Maria. She’d acted strangely, as if she’d seen a ghost. She’d mentioned she’d had trouble sleeping but had said little else besides her dreams had been plaguing her. I leaned my head against the wall, thinking about the haunted look in her eyes. We’d spent some of the most enjoyable days I’d had in several years together.
Hell, I’d spent time online searching for the perfect home for all four of us to share. I’d found several that could work. The requirement for the right selection? A huge bedroom suite and an area that could be turned into a playroom for adults. I was one sick pup, my needs spiraling out of control. Tonight, she’d be introduced to the lifestyle we preferred, one that she hungered for as well.
If all went well, the three of us had discussed collaring her soon. I laughed, closing my eyes and envisioning her in nothing but heels and a collar. She’d also have a matching leash.
The ping of the elevator drew me out of my moment of revelry. Before I could bask in the beauty of her naked body, there was business to take care of.
I stepped out into the corridor, yanking my phone into my fingers. While I figured the asshole who’d sent the text had already tossed the burner phone, my anger was elevated given Bart’s bullshit. Before I walked into Clinton’s suite, I texted the son of a bitch back.
I will hunt you down. Then the fun will really begin.
Laughing, I shoved the keycard into the lock, opening the door then shoving the phone into my pocket. Both Christian and Clinton were already inside. In the last few days, we’d established a communication roomor maybe I should have called it a war room-in order to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Tonight, the three of us were headed to deal with Bart. I had a feeling given his earlier call that he’d been either hired to provide a ruse or told in no uncertain terms he wouldn’t sell to me.
“There he is,” Christian said, barely glancing at me.
“How’s our girl?” Clinton piped in.
I wasn’t entirely certain how to answer the question. “Anxious.”
Clinton lifted his head. “How so?”
“Has she said anything to you guys about the dreams she’s been having?” It was obvious from the expression on Clinton’s face that he had no clue what I was talking about.
Christian sighed. “Reoccurring nightmares from when she was a child. Why?”
“I don’t know. She stared at me as if she didn’t know me.”
“She’s not a stupid girl, Weston. She googled us. You know she did. That’s why she asks so many questions.”
“The recent Times article is connected to our names.” I made the statement more in passing. “We should talk to her about it.”
“Agreed,” Christian said casually, although I knew he was just as concerned about her as I was. However, I couldn’t read Clinton’s expression.
“Did you get a text?” I asked, immediately nodding to Brock, who knew all about our time spent in purgatory at the university. While Clinton might still have fond memories, I loathed having my name and the schools on the same piece of linen paper. Maybe that’s why I’d only framed my master’s degree from Yale.
“The words were like a rip-off of a stupid horror movie from the nineties?” Clinton asked sardonically.
“Yeah, that one.”
“It would seem our mysterious poker player is getting bolder,” Christian said.
I nodded. “I want to know how he got our private numbers.”
Clinton snorted. “You know that anything can be discovered for a price.”
“True enough. Let’s hope Bart has something concrete to offer us.”
Clinton rubbed his eyes. “Well, I have a piece of news you’ll find interesting. Watkins isn’t behind leaking the information about the Elite and the various functions we held.”
“Then who is?” Maybe we were idiots to assume anything about the situation.
“An unknown source that had detailed information, including pictures. Although those weren’t used. I pushed the guy, but it was obvious he really didn’t know who’d sent him the information.”
“That means it could be Watkins,” I mused.
Clinton shrugged. “Not his style. He has no problem accusing us out in the open.”
“Pictures?” I asked, surprised as hell that Clinton wasn’t angry.
He nodded. “Yeah. In reading over the article, I found it interesting that what happened at the end was barely mentioned. Even Ava ‘s accident was glossed over.”
“Wait a minute. Are you thinking that whoever is doing this is holding the last card, waiting for the perfect moment to use against us?” I thought about what could possibly link us to Theodore’s death.
“I do. I also think the person or persons responsible are anticipating we’ll make a wrong move.”
I tilted my head. “Which is why we need to be careful how we handle Mr. Cheveau.” The perpetrator was setting a trap, allowing us to finish our demise.
“Christ,” Christian huffed. “Why bother talking to him at all if we need to go easy on him?”
I rubbed my jaw and grinned. “Because there are several ways of getting information out of people without killing them.”
Clinton burst into laughter. “And I thought you’d gotten soft in your old age.”
“Who’s getting old? You?”
Brock chuckled from behind us. “Yeah, he is.”
Clinton shot him a nasty look. “I don’t think so.” He threw back the rest of his drink. “It’s time to take control of our little party.”
I heard a buzz and smiled as I pulled the phone into my hand. “Well. Well.”
“What did you do?”
“I threw out a bone and texted the number just to see if I could get a response. It would seem our dog is very hungry.” I held out my phone for my buddies to read.
Game on, fucker. Come get it.
“Then let’s go,” Clinton said with a growl in his voice. “Brock. Don’t let the lovely Ms. Sadler out of your sight. I have a feeling this is going to get dicey.” His eyes were practically glowing with the same bloodlust I’d seen before.
“You got it, boss.”
—
There was more than one way to skin a cat. That was my father’s favorite expression. As a kid, I’d believed he was a man who never played in the gray, until I’d walked into his office unannounced and uncertain of what I was seeing.
I’d been sure my father would get angry with me, but he’d welcomed the interruption. A man I didn’t know and never saw again was tied to one of my father’s office chairs. I’d often wondered why he’d purchased very plain looking hardback chairs with arms for his guests or employees to sit in.
That was the day I learned the reason, and the memory remained fresh in my mind as if I were twelve years old all over again.
I’d been gifted a tutoring session, including the ceremonial torture of someone I’d learned later was a friend he’d once trusted. He’d even considered the man like a brother. The man had betrayed him with someone who owned a rival corporation.
I sat behind Bart’s massive desk, having retrieved a very similar chair that my father had used to provide a lesson in one of the outer offices. A bogus call had been made to Bart’s house indicating an issue that an employee had needed help with.
Bart had bought it.
Unfortunately, it had taken more time than I’d originally wanted.