Page 91 of Double Down

I have some thoughts. Did you know Phoenix likes dirty talk—the filthier the better.

She likes praise and degradation.

A knock. “Mr. Carrow? You asked to see me.”

“Come in. Sit.” I point to the chair opposite the desk and keep my thumb moving.

Storm

We take turns whispering in her ear while the other makes her come.

Con

How do we know who wins?

Storm

I’d love to find out if Phoenix can come hard enough to squirt.

Con

YES.

100%. That’s what we’re doing.

Storm

I’ll text when I’m on my way. No pre-gaming. Maybe make her drink water—won’t work if she’s dehydrated.

“I can come back if?—”

“No. Stay.” I drop the phone in a drawer and shut it.

Maryanna sits straight-backed, her hands folded over a tired-looking tote. In her late-twenties, she’s the picture of professionalism with her hair pulled back and secured in a neat knot. I look over her impersonally, trying to get a read on her. While she looks mildly nervous, there are no theatrics and none of the lustful, seeking looks we tend to get from a lot of the younger female staff.

She looks like someone who works doubles and sleeps with her alarm in her hand.

“What’s this about? Am I in trouble?” she asks after an extended silence.

“I’d like to start with what you’re hearing about the incidents,” I say, leaning back and steepling. “Staff chatter.”

“Staff chatter,” she echoes slowly. “Well…we’re hearing about the drugs, of course. The guests are nervous. The staff’s split—some think it’s a bad run, some think someone’s getting around the controls the hotel has in place.”

“Do they think it’s us?”

“There are some not-so-bright lightbulbs who will always go with the easy answer.” She lifts her shoulder in a small shrug. “The ones paying attention say that if it were you, the cuts on the cameras wouldn’t be the same every time.”

I keep my expression flat. “What’s your take on it?”

“My take?” She inhales. “Front-of-house won’t risk it. The bartenders know better because they’d be caught in a hot minute. Maintenance sticks to weed if anything at all. Security’s tight and that guy Atticus sees every fucking thing, ‘scuse my French. The spa and housekeeping are kept pretty separate. They don’t compare notes. And that’s probably where your problem is…when departments don’t mix, little things might slip by.”

“Anything specific you’ve seen?”

“Deliveries feel…off sometimes,” she says carefully. “The paperwork and timing don’t always match. And the crowd that came in on that student promo? I didn’t like the way they rolled—too many bodies for the room, no one wanted to put a card down, lots of friends-of-friends. It smelled like trouble, and I can’t believe that management let them up, anyway.”

It certainly did, but hindsight’s always twenty-twenty. “Anything else you’re not saying?”

She meets my eyes. Steady. “People are scared. Tips are down because guests don’t linger. My rent didn’t get that memo.”