Page 46 of House of Cards (The Devil’s Den #2)

Zoey

Air. I need air.

I rush across Smith’s hotel room, fumbling with the balcony doors before I wrench them open.

A light drizzle spatters against my face as I grip the cool railing, mouth open, trying to gasp in some oxygen. Wind pushes against my face and shoulders, blowing harder bursts of rain against my skin, but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps.

Bile rushes into my mouth.

Fuck. I’m going to puke again.

I brace myself, leaning over the edge, wondering fleetingly if dying wouldn’t be easier at this point. My eyes dart down to the street below, the cars’ headlamps painting yellow streaks over the wet road?—

—and I hastily shove myself upright again, head reeling.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

A fall from this high won’t just kill me, it’ll turn me into sidewalk art. And if I die, so does Ricky.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to get my racing mind to stop. Force myself to take one hitching breath, then two.

I got this. I got you, Ricky.

Damn it, I can still hear his voice, hoarse and panicked before it got cut off by those sickening, meaty thuds. But the way he whimpered, “I’m sorry”…that’s what broke me.

Not Elonzo’s threats. Not how he spat ‘Marconi’ like it was a curse. It was how Ricky sounded like he’d already given up.

Like he was saying his last goodbyes.

I step back from the ledge, raking trembling hands through my damp hair.

Can’t jump. Have to get out of here. If I’m not at the diner by midnight?—

Rain, traffic noise, and the blustery wind shut off as I slide the balcony door closed. I press my hands against the cool glass, scanning Smith’s hotel room.

The door? Locked. I checked this time.

I throw open drawers, yank open cabinets, looking for… I don’t even know what. A weapon to attack Smith with the next time he steps through that door?

A rope I can tie to the balcony railings?

Something to pick the fucking lock?

But all I find are clothes that smell like Smith’s cologne, a disappointing mini-bar that doesn’t even have enough alcohol in it for me to drown my sorrows, and a bathroom filled with non-lethal toiletries.

Despite the Smith-scented suits filling the closet, I doubt my tormentor actually lives here. There’s nothing personal or sentimental in this room. Not a single photo. None of the junk or comfort items a person usually accumulates—grocery receipts, paperback books, random ornaments, sweatpants.

I rip open his top drawer, hardly surprised when I find plastic zip-ties fashioned into handcuffs and an extra pair of soft leather gloves inside.

Sick freak.

Thunk.

The second drawer is filled with fancy paper and envelopes. A few slim boxes neatly arranged besides the envelopes might be the right size and shape to hold a slim knife?—

Pens.

Pretty, but fucking useless, pens.

Thunk!

The bottom drawer rattles when I haul it open.

“Jesus. Okay.” My knees hit the carpet, my eyes going wider and wider as I hunt through the drawer that just debunked my theory that Smith doesn’t live here.

Everyone, even neat and organized freaks like Smith, has a drawer like this. It’s like he just dumps everything out of his pockets into this drawer whenever his suit jackets rattle too much when he walks.

I pack things on the carpet beside me, because there’s so much shit in here it’s hard to make sense of it.

Business cards. Cheap, branded pens. Restaurant mints. Matchbooks.

Casino chips.

So. Many. Chips.

My fingers tremble as I stack the chips in my palm. They’re not all from the Devil’s Luck, but it’s obvious they’re all big denomination chips.

Conveniently, there’s a small velvet bag with a bottle of cologne inside that I guess Smith got as a gift.

I toss out the cologne and start filling the bag with enough chips to buy a small island.

Hesitating, I shove a few of the black ones from the Devil’s Luck in my pocket.

Those alone are five hundred kay, if my calculations are correct.

Judging from the chips still left in the drawer, I bet he won’t even miss it.

And so what if he does? I’ll be long gone by then.

If he doesn’t catch me.

I return everything except the tight velvet bag stuffed with coins to his bottom drawer, then try to make it as messy as it was before.

Sitting back on my heels, I weigh the bag in my hand. I turn to look at the door. I’m pretty sure there’s enough in here to cover Ricky’s debt. Maybe even enough for a deposit on a new diner.

But if I can’t open that fucking door, I’m not going anywhere.

My eyes land on the phone.

Unless someone opens it for me.

I freeze.

Room service.

That’s it. That’s how I get out of here.

My last attempt didn’t go as planned, but that’s because Smith arrived with the food tray, not some senseless bell boy, or whoever brings the stuff up from the kitchen.

Panic twists into something sharper, more focused. My hands still shake, but my thoughts are clearer now, my body buzzing with adrenaline.

I walk to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. When I look at myself in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

She looks unhinged. Wild hair, deathly pale skin, wide deranged eyes.

…No one’s gonna recognize you when I’m done…

A violent shudder runs through me. If I don’t get out of here before he comes back, that woman in the mirror won’t just look unhinged—she’ll be broken beyond repair.

Despite Smith’s words echoing in my ears, my voice doesn’t stammer when I order a pizza. And my hands don’t shake when I lift a lamp with a sturdy base from Smith’s night stand.

I try not to chew off all my cuticles as I wait for the order to arrive. My eyes keeping darting to the clock, watching every second count down. I nearly jump out of my skin when someone knocks on the door and drones, “Room service.”

I hurry over to the door, hefting the lamp like I knock people over the head with blunt objects all the time.

“Come in!”

Goosebumps break out on my skin when the door opens. I flatten myself against the wall, trying to become invisible as a food cart appears.

Thank God she turns slightly away from me to scan the room, because I wouldn’t have been able to charge her if she’d been staring at me.

I expected more of a ruckus. But as soon as the lamp crashes into her head, she crumples to the ground and doesn’t move.

“Fuck,” I mutter, dropping to my knees beside her.

Did I kill her?

I roll her onto her back, and press my fingers to her neck like I know where the fuck her veins or arteries even are. I can feel something thrumming in my fingertips, but I’m pretty sure that’s my racing heart, not hers.

Precious seconds are slipping away, but I guess everything happens for a reason, because while I’m on the carpet, frantic at the thought I might have just murdered someone in cold blood, I take the time to examine my alleged victim.

She’s wearing pleated black slacks in red trim, and a black button-up shirt with red buttons and piping. Black trainers. Her keycard is attached to the end of an elastic lanyard clasped to her belt. A shiny name badge on her breast pocket.

Cute uniform, Kate.

My head snaps up, and I stare at nothing for a second before grabbing Kate’s arms and dragging her clear of the door.

I don’t close it all the way, worried that her keycard will suddenly stop working and leave me trapped in Smith’s hotel room with a possibly dead body.

Dragging my hands through my hair, I try to gather myself.

“Sorry, Kate,” I murmur as I bend down beside the woman again. “But we all know what happens when you back a rat into a corner.”