Page 75 of Double Down

“Oh, look.” A short, fat cop reeking of cheap cologne and failed departmental hierarchy glances up from his phone with an annoyed look. “Here’s one chick they haven’t killed yet.”

17

Maverick

This entire fucked-upday needs to be over.

The paramedics are in and out, but the fucking cops insist on grilling me for hours, and Mrs. Langford—a senator’s wife, apparently—decides it’s her civic duty to tell the police everything.

The cops were already on edge before I walked into the room—one of those situations where, no matter what I say, they’re convinced I’m leaving something out. I give them the facts they need, but it doesn’t matter. They keep asking the same questions over and over, like I’m going to trip over my story and confess to… I don’t even know what.

Dealing? Planning to whore out those two women until they OD on dick? God only knows what stories they’re concocting in their heads. That’s for the lawyers to deal with.

The resulting search couldn’t be more thorough if they had bent me over the goddamn table for a cavity check. Thank fuck Storm manages to clear a considerable amount of shit from their room before the cops check it out.

Finally, the police leave—with the promise to come back with a warrant.

Good fucking luck. I make the calls to the lawyers, give Con the cliff notes, and clock the fuck out even though we never really clock out since it’s our fucking resort.

By the time everything is done, a headache has begun to throb between my eyes. I need a meal and my girl bouncing on my dick, and then I’ll deal with all this shit again tomorrow—with a fresh head, a full stomach, and empty balls.

The elevator ride feels longer than it should. I stand with my arms crossed, watch the floors tick by, every muscle in my body tight.

The elevator dings. I step out and head down the hall, already picturing her in my bed. When we decided we were going to share her, I promised myself—and her—I’d be in that tight little ass every fucking day. I’m finally about to make good on that.

I’m halfway to my room when I hear her stifled moans, Atticus’s voice threading through them. He’s using that calm, precise tone he only uses on Phoenix. The door to his dungeon is shut, but soundproofing only works so well.

I pause outside, gritting my teeth against the ache in my balls.

It’s not that I mind sharing. I don’t. I actually like to watch, so there’s that.

Conrad doesn’t usually care, although this thing with Phoenix has him wound a little tighter than he normally is.

Storm is situational. Sometimes he cares, other times he wants to show off what he’s capable of making our girl feel.

Atticus, though…Atticus demands control. He can’t control the other Titans, so when he’s in what I lovingly call his “anal-retentive dom-daddy mode,” he exists within the confines of his own little control-freak bubble.

Popping that bubble would make me the asshole—especially when it sounds like Phoenix is into every bit of what he’s doing to her.

And just like that, I’m back at the end of the fucking line and the bottom of the goddamn pecking order.

I lean against the wall, jaw working, wondering if interrupting them is worth it. I could knock. I could force my way in. I could take one look at her and decide I don’t care about Atticus’s rules tonight.

It’s tempting.

If it were anyone but a Titan in there, I’d take what I want. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve taken a girl from a man mid-fuck.

Before I can make up my mind, Conrad appears at the far end of the hall, his expression already telling me I’m not going to like whatever comes next.

Jesus Christ—now what?

“We’ve got a problem,” he says. “Two cops are sitting in our living room. The lawyers say to humor them until they can get here. Cops want to talk to all of us.”

“Who the fuck let them up?”

“I don’t know, but when I do, I’m siccing Storm on them.”

I huff a laugh. “I’m on board with that.”