Page 6 of R Is For Revenge, Part One (The Billionaire Boys Club #1)

BECK

T he bells start before the sun has burned through the clouds, echoing over the quiet streets. Most people wouldn’t expect to find me here. Hell, even my closest friends don’t know I come. And not because I’m weird about it, but because I don’t come for me.

I stopped believing in God a long time ago.

If there was one, He sure as hell wasn’t around when I needed Him.

When Harold Horner paid my mother to disappear, when she was working herself raw in High Wind just to keep us fed, when the cancer finally took her slow and merciless while I was seventeen and too broke, too angry, to do a damn thing about it.

My little sister became a ghost and though she’s better now, a part of her died when mom did.

No, I don’t come for God. I come for her. My Mom.

This church was hers. She grew up not far from here into a chaotic cold world with a father who liked to use his fists.

This church was her sanctuary. A place to escape the violence at home.

She told me once she used to hide in the back pews when the choir practiced.

Said that music helped her survive. Said that the church gave her some kind of peace and filled her with hope.

She loved everything about this church. The old stone, faded paint, cracked wooden steps.

The faint smell of incense baked into its walls.

The statues of Mary and Jesus. The colorful windows showing biblical scenes.

All of it belonged to her at one time. Now I come because it feels like the only way to hear her voice again it to be here. Even though I don’t belong.

The pew creaks under my weight as I sit, elbows resting on my knees.

Stained-glass light filters in, soft reds and golds casting patterns across the aisle.

The quiet settles around me, and for a moment, I can almost hear her humming one of the old hymns under her breath. This is as close to peace as I get.

But it doesn’t last.

Because even here, even in this place, Jules face slips into my mind.

The girl standing in my suite Friday night. The girl walking dogs in the morning sun. The girl Grant King thought he could press his hands on like she belonged to him. Like she was another jersey chaser looking to add to her bedpost.

We’re connected and she has no idea.

She doesn’t know Harold Horner got my mom pregnant.

Doesn’t know we share a half-sister. Doesn’t know how we suffered while they lived large in the Hamptons and in LA.

Doesn’t know how my mom’s light dimmed and that she got sick and died leaving me to look after my sister when I could barely look after myself.

All because of her father.

To her, I’m just her boss. Christ, she might not even know I’m the owner and she sure as fuck doesn’t see the web yet. Doesn’t see the history bleeding into her new life.

But she will. Fucking right she will.

Maybe I’m a bastard for what I’m planning.

Maybe a part of me should feel guilt at the plan that’s taking shape, especially sitting here in a place like this.

But I don’t. Not when all I can think about is what Harold Horner will feel when he finds out that I’ve taken the last thing he can still claim as his.

In fact, he still has no idea it was me who took everything he owned. Me, the kid he used to toss a ten dollar bill at, then send me out for ice cream so he could have time alone with my mother.

I sit back, eyes lifting to the old wooden cross at the front of the church. If my mom could see me now, she’d probably hate what I’ve become. But saints don’t survive in this world. They get eaten alive.

Jules has no idea the wolf is already circling.

The health club smells like cedar and money.

Not the fake, overcompensating kind, but the real thing—the kind where membership fees cost more than most people make in a year and every locker is stocked with pressed towels, imported soaps, and bottles of electrolyte water with labels no one can pronounce.

Huxley’s already on the court when I arrive, his warm-up jacket tossed aside, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth as he bounces a ball against the wall.

He looks exactly the same as when I last saw him—a few weeks back, before he flew to Berlin for some tech summit—tall, lean, sharp-eyed, and always ten steps ahead.

“About time,” he calls, catching the ball in one hand. “Was starting to think you’d gone soft while I was away.”

I snort, pulling off my hoodie. “Not a chance.”

We play two warm-up games, both fast-paced, both ending in us trash-talking like we’re twenty again. I take the first, he takes the second, and by the time we’re leaning against the cool glass wall with water bottles in hand, my pulse has slowed, but my thoughts haven’t.

Huxley tilts his head, studying me the way he always does when I’m too quiet for too long. “Alright, Beckett. What’s eating at you? You’ve got that look.”

Christ. He knows I hate it when he calls me by my full name. “What look?” I deflect, wiping sweat from my forehead.

“The one where you’re planning something big and pretending you’re not. Spill it. Berlin was boring as hell, and I need entertainment.”

“Boring? What, no pussy to ease the pain?” He’s been weird lately. The guy rotated women like a goddamn pro, but I can’t remember the last time I’d seen him with one.

“None that interested me.” His tone is clipped. He’s done talking about that shit.

I stare at the court for a long moment, debating.

Normally, I keep this sort of thing locked down, even from the others.

But Huxley? He’s the one person in this circle I can’t bullshit.

He’s seen me at my worst, and he’s the only one who never asks why I burn bridges—just makes sure I don’t get burned in the process.

“Harold Horner’s daughter walked into my club Friday night,” I finally say.

Huxley’s brows lift, but he doesn’t look shocked—just intrigued. “The same Harold Horner you gutted five years ago? That Harold Horner?”

“The one and only. She’s calling herself Jules Harper now. Says she’s new to the city. Applied as a server.”

“Server. That’s gotta be tough for her coming from that kind of background.” He whistles low. “And does she know who you are?”

“No. Doesn’t even know we’re… connected. She doesn’t recognize me, doesn’t know the past.” My jaw tightens. “But I knew her the second I saw her. Same eyes as her old man.”

Huxley studies me for a beat, his expression unreadable. “So what’s the play?”

“The same as always,” I say, the words cold and steady.

“She’s the last thing he has left. I’ll take that, too.

Slowly. She’s the only thing he managed not to lose when I burned down his fucking empire.

And when I take her , it’ll finish the job.

It’ll break him.” I grimace and glance away.

Maybe then I can move on. Live a life that doesn’t have me looking back.

Huxley tilts his head. “And you’re sure about that? You don’t even know what their relationship’s like. For all you know, he barely speaks to her.”

I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter. He’s a selfish bastard, and men like Harold always need something.

Someone. She’s the last thing tethering him to any kind of life.

He might not give a damn about anyone else, but I’d bet everything I own he’s still holding onto her.

And when I take her away? It’ll kill him long before the booze does. ”

Huxley’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t argue. “Revenge by proxy,” he murmurs. “Classic Beckett.”

I grip the handle of my racquet tighter, jaw flexing. “This isn’t about her. It’s about him. She’s just… leverage. The final nail in the coffin.”

“And you’re okay using her like that.”

“I’m okay with it.” She’s a fucking Horner. She means nothing to me.

Hux says nothing, but I don’t like the look on his face. He sees too much.

“Let’s play.”

Huxley serves, the ball slamming against the back wall, but I barely feel the competitive edge this round. My mind’s already elsewhere.

On Jules. On Harold Horner.

On how easy it’s going to be to twist this situation until it cuts deep enough to finish what I started five years ago. By the time we call it quits—Huxley taking the win by a single point—I’ve already mapped out my next steps.

In the locker room, I shower, change, and scroll through my phone while Huxley debates which overpriced smoothie he wants to grab on the way out. Brent’s name is at the top of my contacts.

He answers on the first ring. “Boss?”

“I want the new girl on the floor tomorrow,” I say, pulling on my watch. “Jules Harper. No back-of-house shifts, no rotating through the kitchen. I want her visible. Preferably in VIP.”

Brent pauses. “VIP’s a lot for someone still training. Cassidy’s easing her in?—”

“She’ll manage,” I cut him off, my tone even but final. “Put her in Cassidy’s section if you’re worried. And make sure if our boy Grant King shows, he keeps his hands to himself. If he’s got an issue, he can take it up with me directly.”

“Got it. Anything else?”

“Not yet.”

I hang up, sliding the phone into my pocket as Huxley strolls back over with a neon-green smoothie and an amused expression.

“Adjusting the board already?” he asks, eyes flicking to my phone.

“Just setting the pieces in place,” I reply.

Huxley takes a slow sip, watching me like he can see every angle in my head. “Careful, Beck. You pull too hard on a thread, sometimes the whole thing unravels.”

“No one wants to hear your philosophical bullshit.”

“No one?” He grins. Takes another sip. “Or just you?”

I offer him a faint, humorless smile as we head for the exit. Outside, it’s bright with sunlight glinting off glass, traffic picking up, people spilling onto sidewalks with coffee and purpose. It’s Sunday but I’ve got a shitload of work to wade through. No rest for the wicked and all that.

And tomorrow night?

Jules Harper will step into my world again, closer to me than she realizes, playing a part in a game she doesn’t even know has started.

And I’ll be waiting to make my first move.

Hux declines my offer of lunch. Says he’s got a meeting he can’t get out of but doesn’t elaborate. I know something’s up with him and pause as my driver pulls up.

“You okay?”

Hux nods. “Yeah.” He smiles and steps back. “Never better. See you Friday.”

“Friday?”

“Fuck sake, Beck. Get your head together. It’s poker night and it’s your turn to host.”

Shit. “Right. See you then.” I make a note to send out an invite and see how many of the boys can make it, then climb into my car.

“Where to, sir?”

“Home.”

It’s nighttime. Hours later and the city lights spill through the glass walls of my office, throwing long shadows across the floor.

The desk in front of me is stacked with reports and proposals, deals that need my signature, opportunities and ideas that need implementation.

Some need another look from my lawyer, while others need a fucking decision.

Normally, I’d burn through them in an hour.

Tonight, I can’t focus on a damn thing.

Every line I read blurs into the same thought: Jules Harper.

I lean back in my chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. She’s only been in my orbit for two nights and already, she’s in my head. Not just because she’s Harold’s daughter. Not just because she’s the last thing the old bastard has left.

She’s not what I expected and that’s something I can admit now that I’m alone. It’s the way she carries herself. Calm, poised, but not fake. All that hair pulled back, clothes neat but simple. Like she’s walking a fine line between trying to look like she belongs and not having the means to do it.

She doesn’t act like a princess. Doesn’t even look like one, aside from a body that doesn’t quit and the classic model looks she inherited from her mother.

Which makes me wonder what the hell her angle is.

I open my laptop and pull up a browser, typing in “Jules Horner” first. Hundreds of results, none of them her. Too common. I’m pretty sure she attended prep school in New York, so I add that and find a single old alumni page.

Jules Horner – B.A. in Art History, University of Colorado.

That’s it. No social media. No public career moves. Nothing that screams Horner money.

She’s either good at covering her tracks… or she really has nothing left.

I already know her mother remarried when Harold lost his fortune. Serves him right, I think savagely. I already know her sister is married and living overseas. There was the brother but after his accident he’s been out of the picture as well.

What the fuck? Women in their twenties are all over social media. There’s not enough here. She’s too clean, too quiet. No one just disappears from the internet these days.

I grab my phone and scroll to Cade’s number. He picks up on the second ring, his voice rough like I dragged him out of a warm bed.

“Beck. You do realize it’s almost midnight, right?”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters, but I hear the sound of him sitting up.

“Who am I digging into?” Cade is like a hound dog.

He can find out anything about anybody. It’s why he was so valuable to our group, especially early on when we formed our company.

If there’s a bread crumb out there, he’ll track it down.

“Jules Harper. Twenty-three. Lives in Manhattan, just started working at the club. I want everything—where she’s staying, who she knows, where her money’s coming from, what she’s hiding. Dig deep. I don’t want the surface crap anyone can find. I want the dirt.”

“This is the woman who came up to your suite the other night.”

“It is.”

“She’s Horner’s daughter.”

“Bingo.”

Cade pauses. “Do I want to know why?”

“Doubtful.”

Another pause, then a low chuckle. “Fine. But this is going to cost you a bottle of that overpriced tequila you hoard.”

“Done. Call me when you have something.”

I hang up, close the laptop, and lean back in my chair again. I propped open the window an hour ago and the city hums outside, distant and cold with blaring horns and echoed voices. It sounds chaotic. Appropriate I suppose, because my thoughts are anything but calm.

Jules is hiding something. And by the time Cade’s done, I’ll know every last secret she has. I’ll know who she’s slept with. Who she has coffee with. Who she trusts. Where she lives. What she has in her bank account. All of it. Once I have all the facts, I can finalize the plan.

I guess if I was a better man I’d feel bad for her, but I push that away and focus on the task at hand. This isn’t about Jules Horner.

The thought makes me smile and restless, I get to my feet. Pour myself a generous scotch and drink until I fall asleep.