Page 21

My mind still reeled from my encounter with Trissa. Her tear-stained face haunted me like a persistent ghost, and a primal, possessive need to fix her problems brewed inside me.
Jareth’s imposing figure was silhouetted against the backlit bar, his broad shoulders taut beneath his tailored jacket. He didn’t turn as I entered, but I knew he was aware of my presence. This was an area in which he and I were alike. We’d learned to be observant of our surroundings and had trained our bodies not to react outwardly.
I grunted a barely passable hello and joined him at the bar. The crystal decanter of Macallan Anniversary Malt 1928 50 Year Old Single Malt whisky caught the light, its amber liquid promising respite. I poured myself a generous measure, the liquor sloshing around inside the Glencairn whiskey glass, and gulped it down.
“Nice to see you too, Killian,” Jareth drawled, his voice carrying the customary edge of sarcasm. “You do realize that’s over two thousand dollars a glass and should be swirled and nosed before letting it sit on the tongue. Not gulped like a fucking heathen.”
I refilled my glass and tipped it toward him, then took a defiant swig, draining half of what was there. “Sorry,” I muttered, knowing I was being an absolute dick. “Had some unexpected business to attend to.”
Jareth’s dark gaze didn’t waver, and his eyebrow slightly raised. “And how is she?”
My head snapped up. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Jareth had an uncanny ability to read people, and somehow knew everything that went on in his empire, even if that included a dark hallway in his restaurant.
I shrugged, but the door swung open again before I could respond. The energy in the room shifted palpably as the rest of our crew arrived.
Jack Finn led the pack, his large frame dwarfing everything around him. The beard he grew during the NHL season was still in place, giving him a rugged, wild look. He grabbed a beer from the fridge behind the bar, popped the cap with practiced ease, and settled into one of the plush leather chairs around the poker table. “What the fuck’s going on now?” he asked, his eyes darting between Jareth and me.
Trey Oso was right behind him, a vision of effortless style in a bespoke suit he likely created. As Head Designer at Jareth’s Couture Fashion House, he always looked like he stepped off the runway. He poured two glasses of red wine, passing one to Luke Vega, a sought after Hollywood actor, before taking a seat. “Is it about that douche Peter again?” he asked, swirling the wine in his glass.
Luke said nothing as he sat down, but his piercing blue eyes regarded me carefully. It was like he already knew something, and the slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth made me uneasy.
Archer Loxley, our resident professional archer, the irony of his name was lost on no one, was the last to enter. Jareth passed him a tumbler of Macallen before they both took a seat. Archer’s callused fingers deftly shuffled a deck of cards as he asked, “Peter fucking Young. Why were we ever friends with him again?”
Our group was silent, the only sound was the rhythmic shuffling of cards. We all knew why. We’d met playing baseball for a state-wide team. At my insistence, Peter became a part of our group when he tried out and made the team after he was removed from his parents’ care when he was twelve. It went on like that over the years. Peter would get caught doing illegal shit, removed from his parents’ custody, and then his parents would find a way to get him and his sister back.
I growled, “You know Peter.” Not elaborating further. I wasn’t sure what to tell them. They all knew Trissa too, since she’d been at most of our games and practices.
They grumbled their agreement over what an asshole Peter was as Archer began to deal for our Texas Hold ‘Em game. The soft thwap of cards hitting the table punctuated the tense atmosphere.
I looked at my hand, two of clubs and seven of hearts. A trash hand.
Without looking at me, Luke spoke up as he pushed some chips forward. “And how’s Tris?”
I should’ve known by his cagy attitude that he had something he was waiting to say. “Fine,” I immediately recognized my mistake. That one word was as good as admitting I’d seen her.
Luke called Trey’s bet, the rattling of the chips filling the momentary silence. “Really? After ten years, all you have to say is good?” He tapped his chin. “Has it been ten years, though?”
I was in a piss-poor mood, and now I had something to fixate on. Well, someone. Luke and his stupidly veiled comments. “You got something to say, Vega?” I snapped, mucking my hand into a pile of discards.
He flicked his gaze to me, his expression fucking gleeful. “I’m just wondering why you’re not saying anything about that.”
“What are you two talking about?” Trey asked, his eyes narrowing on me as he raised the bet.
“It’s not a big deal,” I grunted, hoping they’d drop it. I retreated to the bar and poured myself another whiskey, the deep, rich mahogany catching the light.
“How is Trissa not a big deal?” Archer asked, disbelief etched into every line of his face as he called. “You were obsessed with her when we were kids.”
“I wasnotobsessed,” I muttered, taking a long sip of my drink. “Can’t we focus on the game? Do you all need to be the fucking Housewives of Rhode Island?”
Jack placed his cards face down on the table and leaned back in his chair, his chips plinking together as he toyed idly with them. “Dude.”
Jareth, the fucker, sat there not saying a word. He was enjoying the fact that I hated every second of this. Not for the first time, I wondered why we had ever invited him into our sacred circle.
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck, already feeling the tension knotted there. “Tris and I talked,” I finally admitted.
The threat after the flop was a royal straight: Ace of hearts, King of spades, Ten of diamonds. Trey bet aggressively, his chips hitting the felt with a decisive thud.
“What the hell did she have to say after ten years of silence?” Jack asked, folding his hand—he clearly had no face cards. “I bet she’s boning that fucktard, Peter.”