Page 86 of Double Down

When he finally turns, tightness pulls at the corners of his eyes. I can’t tell if he’s a second from breaking something—or just breaking.

“Hey.” His voice is gravel.

I go to him, catching the faint smell of whiskey even though it’s barely morning. “You look like you need to sit down before you put a fist through the window.”

“Can’t sit,” he mutters, but he lets me guide him to the couch. He’s a stubborn, muscle-bound mountain, but gravity wins; he drops onto the cushions, still coiled. “It’s been a fucking morning, and it’s just getting started.”

I slide behind him on the couch back and dig my fingers into the knots in his shoulders. He’s rock hard—and not the fun kind. He’s the I’ve-been-clenching-for-six-hours and I’m carrying the world kind of hard.

“Talk to me?”

He exhales through his nose, eyes on the dark TV. “The student promo I set up—the university discount for suites?”

“Yeah, the party bundle. It was brilliant. The first one was last night, right?”

“It was supposed to be.” His tone is bitter enough to cut diamonds. “The first group? Their card was declined. The night manager let them up anyway—figured I’d comped it.”

My hands pause. “Did you?”

“Hell no.” He huffs a humorless laugh. “We’re trying to make money, not wash it down the fucking drain. That doesn’t matter, though. Losing the room rate is the least of it. They throw a party and now four are dead. Two are in the ICU. They brought drugs—a shit ton of drugs—and some OD’d. Then one of those little assholes tells the cops they got the pills from our staff.”

I come around to face him. “Please tell me that’s bullshit.”

“Of course, it’s bullshit.” His gaze tracks me in the TV’s reflection, jaw ticking. “But it’s easier to blame us than admit they smuggled the poison in themselves. They’ll do anything to dodge the consequences of their own actions. It wouldn’t surprise me if they try to sue for ‘emotional distress.’”

“Any idea who supplied them?”

“No, but I doubt it was one of ours. The description doesn’t match anybody on payroll. And conveniently—” He tips his head back into my lap, and my hands go to the tops of his shoulders. “There’s no CCTV footage. Another goddamn hole.”

“Like the other ones?” My stomach twists. That’s why Atticus wasn’t in bed.

“Exactly like the other ones.” His voice goes lower. Meaner. “So my promo blows up, costs us money, gets people killed—and sets the stage for whoever’s playing ghost in our cameras.”

“Ghost?”

“It’s what Atticus is calling the hacker. The name doesn’t matter. This still feels like my fault.”

I slide down beside him until we’re thigh to thigh. “This is not on you.”

“It sure as hell feels like it is.”

“Of course it does.” I grip his hand. “Because you care. But you didn’t hand them the drugs. You didn’t hire someone to sell them. You didn’t cut the cameras.”

He studies me like he’s testing the truth of it.

“I can’t be the reason we fail, Phoenix.” Barely above a whisper. “I can’t be the weak link.”

“You’re not.” I mean it. He doesn’t quite believe it. Maverick can’t just let go, though. He needs something to do. “So take action. Just because you didn’t break it doesn’t mean you can’t fix it. How can I help?”

It takes coaxing, but he leans forward, elbows on knees, while I pull his laptop over.

“Vegas,” I say, typing fast. “Let’s see what their packages look like. We steal shamelessly and add a Southern twist that makes our clients drool.”

He watches the screen over my shoulder, anger cooling into focus. “They do VIP weekend bundles.”

“Mm-hmm.” Click. “Group discounts tied to minimum spend. Suite upgrades for bachelor/bachelorette groups. Casino credit is baked into the package so the money stays in-house. Maybewe shift to an older demographic—fewer drugs, more disposable income?”

“And pre-approve their credit cards before anyone sets foot upstairs,” he mutters.