Page 10 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

BECK

I t’s Friday. I’ve already been to the gym and had an early morning jog and it’s not even seven a.m. Mornings are the only time the city feels quiet, like the chaos hasn’t quite stretched its claws into the day yet.

It goes a long way to calm me. Sometimes I can’t shut off my brain.

Business is usually the culprit, but with Horner in my crosshairs, I’ve got other things on my mind.

I take my coffee black, scroll through the reports stacked on my desk, and wait for the clock to hit nine.

Cade’s intel is still fresh in my head: Jules Horner, broke, barely hanging on, funneling every dollar she makes toward keeping her brother alive. No cushion. No safety net. The kind of desperation that makes people easy to control if you know how to pull the right strings.

And today, I’m going to start pulling.

I hit her number, leaning back in my chair as the phone rings. She answers on the third ring, her voice soft and tentative. “Hello?”

“Jules,” I say, my tone smooth and even. “Beck.”

There’s a faint pause, like she wasn’t expecting me to call. “Good morning, um Beck, I mean, Sir. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I need you to come in early tonight—six sharp. You won’t be on the main floor. You’ll be working upstairs in my suite.” I smile at the thought and lean back in my chair.

Another pause. I can almost hear her hesitation over the line. “Your suite?”

“I host a private poker game on the last Friday of every month,” I explain, keeping my voice casual. “Small circle. Myself and a few friends. You’ll serve drinks and food, keep the room tidy.” I lean back some more. “I promise to make it worth your while.”

“I… okay. I can do that,” she says finally, though there’s a faint thread of uncertainty in her voice.

“Good. Wear black. Nothing flashy. And be on time.”

“Yes, sir.”

I end the call without another word, setting the phone aside as I stand and glance out the floor-to-ceiling window. The city’s alive now, traffic threading through the streets, people spilling onto sidewalks with their coffees and their deadlines.

I think of Jules sitting in her apartment. Wondering about tonight. Wondering why the newbie gets a coveted serving slot. Generally I leave the schedule to Brent and he tries to rotate through the staff because they know how well they’ll be compensated.

The boys tip large because they can.

I sit straight and look over the newspaper article from the day before. Harold Horner is trying to raise capital. At the moment he’s talking to a venture capital firm and has no idea it’s mine.

Amazing really. How the pieces are all falling into place and I had nothing to do with it. I’d like to gloat all day, but if I want to enjoy tonight I need to get through this shit on my desk. I settle in and work my way through and as usual, lose myself in work.

The suite is already being prepped by the time I head downstairs later in the afternoon.

The long walnut table has been set with fresh felt, the bar stocked with the usual—Clase Azul, Macallan, a few bottles of red for the ones who pretend they care about tannins.

The kitchen sends up a tray of wagyu sliders, charcuterie, and enough finger food to keep a table full of billionaires happy between hands.

I step inside just as Abel strolls in, still dressed like he stepped out of a GQ spread, hair slicked back, a tailored jacket draped over his shoulder.

“Looks good,” he says, eyeing the spread. “You’d think we were hosting royalty, not a bunch of assholes who can’t fold a hand to save their lives.”

I chuckle, shrugging out of my coat. “Last time I checked, you were one of those assholes.”

“True,” he admits easily, dropping into one of the leather chairs. “But at least I’m good-looking enough to distract people from my terrible bluff.”

He pours himself a drink without asking, lounging like he owns the place. His eyes flick toward me, sharp despite the lazy posture. “So… you’re pulling the new girl into the lion’s den tonight, huh?”

I don’t answer right away, straightening the deck of cards on the table.

Abel grins like a wolf. “Don’t give me that look. Cade told me you called her in. Jules Harper. The little mystery server who showed up out of nowhere and somehow ended up on your radar faster than anyone else ever has.”

“She’s working the room. That’s all,” I say, voice even, unbothered.

“Sure,” Abel drawls, taking a sip of his drink. “And I only go to Italy for the wine, not the redheaded pianist I banged in Florence last year. Don’t bullshit me, Beck. I’ve known you too long.”

I lean against the bar, meeting his gaze without blinking. “She’s Harold Horner’s daughter. That’s why she’s here. Nothing more.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, unconvinced.

I see his look. “But then you already knew that. Fucking, Cade. The guy can’t keep a secret to save his skin.”

Abel ignores me. “And hosting her in your suite for poker night with our crew is just about revenge? Not because you’re curious, not because she’s… different?”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t bite. “She’s leverage, Abel. The last thing Harold’s got left. Tonight, she sees the world he thrived in—the one I own now. That’s all this is.”

Abel studies me for a long moment, then frowns. “If you say so. Just remember… sometimes the pieces you think are just leverage? Sometimes they start moving on their own. That’s when problems happen.”

“Since when did you get so goddamn philosophical?”

He lifts his glass in a mock toast before leaning back in the chair, his grin infuriatingly knowing.

I ignore him, turning my focus to the window as the city darkens, the first of the suite lights reflecting off the glass.

Jules will be here soon. And once she’s inside this room, surrounded by my people, all bets are off.

“I’m going to change.”

I disappear back up to my bedroom and toss my suit.

I hop in the shower then pull on a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

By the time I’m back the suite hums with low music and the scent of cigars as the others start to roll in.

Braedon is first, of course—he’s never late for anything that involves booze or cards.

He steps in with that easy swagger, sunglasses still on despite the hour, a grin already plastered across his face.

“Beckett,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Got the good tequila out, I hope. Or am I supposed to drink the cheap stuff like a pleb tonight?”

I gesture toward the bar, where the Clase Azul is already lined up. “Help yourself. Try not to scare off the staff this time.”

He smirks. “Depends on the staff. Who’s working tonight? Cass?” He’s always had a thing for her and she’s always managed to put the guy in his place. I don’t need to worry about Cassidy getting too friendly with any of my friends.

“Cassidy’s on the floor,” I reply, deliberately casual. “I’ve got the new girl covering the suite.”

Braedon freezes mid-pour, then slowly turns, eyebrows raised. “The one from the other night?”

Before I can answer, Cade strolls in, his dark suit sharp, his phone still in his hand as he fires off a text. “That would be the one,” Cade says without looking up.

Braedon whistles low. “Interesting.”

Huxley arrives a moment later, slipping his coat off and draping it over a chair. He gives me a pointed look. “So, Harold Horner’s girl is working poker night?”

“Cade, is there anyone you didn’t tell?”

Cade shrugs, a sly grin on his face.

I ignore them all, shuffling the deck of cards with steady hands. “She’s staff. That’s all this is.”

Braedon leans against the bar, swirling his drink. “Sure. Because calling the brand-new girl into your private suite for a closed-door game with your inner circle is definitely standard operating procedure.”

Cade finally pockets his phone and fixes me with a sharp look. “What’s the actual play here, Beck? You planning to keep her close until Harold catches wind? Or are you just trying to figure out what kind of leverage she’ll be?”

“She’s Horner’s blood,” I say simply. “That’s reason enough.”

He grins like he knows better and I fight the urge to slam my fist into his perfect fucking nose. “You keep telling yourself that, man. But don’t act surprised if the game stops being about Harold and starts being about her.”

I don’t bother answering. The truth is, I don’t need their approval—or their warnings. I’ve already made up my mind.

The suite settles into its usual rhythm as the night deepens. The lights are low, warm; the smell of good whiskey and cigars clings to the air, the kind of atmosphere that makes men like Braedon and Cade loosen their ties and lean back like kings.

Braedon’s telling a story about some oil deal that went sideways, gesturing with his glass as if the whole world should hang on his every word.

Abel sits quietly, as always, stacking his chips into perfect towers, listening but not offering much.

Huxley leans in his chair, his smirk as sharp as the watch glinting on his wrist, occasionally cutting in with a dry jab that keeps Braedon from getting too comfortable.

“Beck,” Braedon says, breaking mid-story, “you’re quiet tonight. What’s the deal? You lose money somewhere or are you just waiting for your girl to show up?”

I arch a brow, setting my cards down. “She’s not my girl.”

“Yet,” Huxley says, voice smooth, sipping his drink.

“She’s a means to an end. That’s it.”

Braedon grins like a cat who’s cornered a mouse. “Sure. And it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s got legs that kill and a face that would make most men forget their own name.”

I don’t rise to the bait. I say nothing.

Huxley studies me over the rim of his glass, his smirk fading just enough to let something sharper through. “You’re not dealing with property. You’re not breaking down a business. She’s flesh and blood.”

Before I can answer, there’s a knock at the suite door. Brent steps inside, nodding toward me. “She’s here.”