Page 4 of Delta

"You looked into him?" I ask.

"Yes, ma'am," he says. "Of course. I photograph and investigate everyone you spend time with."

"Wow. I didn't know that."

“You're not supposed to."

I hum thoughtfully. “And? What did you find out about Eric?"

Gleason grimaces. "Um, his name was actually Kai, and he was pretty vanilla. Studying biology at the university in Berlin. Engaged for six months, the year before you met him, but they broke it off somewhat amicably, according to his social media. Excellent credit rating, and no priors."

“Kai. Right." I smile, remembering. "We had fun. He did this thing where—"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP RIGHT NOW!" Killian shouts. "I do not want to fucking know a single detail about your sexcapades, sis.”

I pinch his cheek, laughing. "You're so easy to rile up, Killy-Billy. Like I'd actually tell you anything? Gross. No."

He flicks up both middle fingers and shoves them in my face. "You're a walking catastrophe." He punches the call button. "And if you call me Killy-Billy again, I swear to god I'll put Nair in your shampoo."

Cal wraps an arm around Killian's shoulders. "Killy, buddy, do you remember when you and Bryn got in that prank war?"

"Fuck you," Killian mumbles.

"Do you?"

"Yes, I remember,” Killian grumbles.

Cal claps him on the bicep. "I'm just saying, man, I'd think twice about starting that shit up again. Better to just let her call you Killy-Billy. You refused to come out of your room for a month until your eyebrows grew back."

I can't suppress a snort of laughter. "That was awesome."

"Oh yeah? How awesome was that ghost pepper powder in your underwear?"

"My vagina still burns just thinking about that," I admit. "Fine. Truce. Besides, I was just fuckin' with you."

The elevator finally arrives and we all pile in—all nine of us. Gleason does his best to wedge himself into the corner in an attempt to take up less space, but there's only so much you can do to reduce your footprint when you're six-eight and weigh three hundred-plus pounds.

I head back to my room, waving to my guys before I close my door. And to clarify, "the boys" means Killy and Cal; "the guys" means Gleason and Zidane. Zidane is a mystery. Six-foot even and lean, he's got dark brown skin, a shaved head and long beard, and never, ever speaks unless spoken to, and only then to say “yes ma'am” or “no ma'am.” Once, I actually got a whole five words out of him: “I don’t think so, ma’am.” Basically, he's a scary shadow, one of those guys that just exudes fuck-off vibes. Of my two guards, he's the one who'd do the bloody work, if called for. Not that Gleason is just for show—after an injury ended his NFL career, he pivoted to security and made a name for himself single-handedly fighting off a dozen armed attackers who were trying to kidnap his A-list actress client…who got the whole fight on video. And posted it on TikTok. Gleason is TikTok famous and can throw down with the best of them. AND he's scary as fuck, despite generally being a big sweet teddy bear of a man.

Alone in my room, I try to watch TV, but after flipping through all the channels at least four times and finding nothing, I turn it off. I'm not sleepy, despite a day spent skiing.

I need to do something.

How can I get out of this room and past Gleason and Zidane undetected so I can go clubbing by myself?

Fire alarm? Too big and too obvious.

I can't ask the boys to cover for me, because the little bitches will squeal on me.

The only real option is to go down to the hotel bar and hope I can slip away. I'll have to turn my phone off since it's tracked six ways to Sunday, and if it's on, Uncle Lear can pinpoint my location anywhere on the globe within seconds. I'll also have to be creative about my outfit.

I put on my favorite silver sequined miniskirt paired with a strappy, slinky, low-cut, iridescent midriff-baring top. I leave my hair down and keep my face makeup free, and then put on a baggy pair of sweats and matching hoodie—stolen from Killian because they're worn and soft and cozy. The hoodie, coincidentally, is voluminous enough to hide the strappy silver wedge heels under it. Along with my clutch—which has my compact pink SIG Sauer 9mm, because I’m not a total idiot. Just mostly. I know, I know, guns are highly illegal in most of Europe, but I'm Bryn Harris, and people are fucking nuts. I may be foolishly ditching my bodyguards to go dance at a nightclub, but I'm not doing so unarmed. How will I get it past the club bouncers? Wait and see.

I grab my room keycard and clutch my phone in my hand as I leave the room, breezing past Gleason to the elevators. "I just need a nightcap, guys. I'm bored and can't sleep."

They follow me dutifully down to the bar and post up where they can see me and keep an eye on the bar and exits.

Now…we hope a distraction pops up.