Page 1 of The Devil’s Detail (The Greystone Family: Greystone Brothers #2)
Jackson
March, Los Angeles
“What the hell happened to you?” Baz, my oldest friend and top security guy, opens the passenger door to the sleek black sports car for me to dive into.
Bouncing off the door frame I was clinging to as my life preserver, I stagger towards him, screwing my face up and trying to shield my bloodshot eyes from the blinding sunlight.
It’s fucking light already? When did that happen? It feels like seconds ago that I stepped through the doors of CAshO—the up-market and, err, sex club—with my brother Jonno at my side. My frazzled brain is trying to process my situation.
“What the hell time is it?” I croak out, slumping into the front seat. If I could curl up into a ball on the rich leather, I would.
“Six thirty,” he pauses, “AM.” He side-eyes me, the start of a smirk on his normally stoic face.
“Fuuuucck.” I scrub my hand down my face and am hit with a scent. Jesus fucking christ. Am I to be haunted by it? Oud, cardamom, and a spice that blows my mind to pieces. I take a deep breath in, intending to luxuriate in it just one more time. I’ve lost my fucking mind.
“Did you take Jonno home?” I ask Baz, trying to distract myself from my body's reaction to that scent. I cannot still be getting hard at this point. But I am. Fuck me.
“Ash took him, about half an hour ago. He looked slightly better than you, but not much.” His smirk becomes a smile as he settles into the driver’s seat.
What the hell just happened? What was I thinking? How could I have done that? How could I not have?
All these questions and not one answer, other than that bloody scent.
One that poses a lot more questions that I really don’t want to delve into.
I’m shutting down my emotions, that are still running wild and free, one by one—like doors slamming shut domino style.
Bang, bang, bang. It’s self preservation time.
“You look like a skulk of foxes that’s been partying in a henhouse. And had a fucking excellent night.” Baz would use hunter and prey analogies. He’s the ultimate apex predator. Well, other than myself, of course.
I mull over that statement and surprise myself when I ask nonchalantly, “And what would you say if I told you I was the hen in that scenario?”
He relaxes back into his seat, his eyes on the road. Then his smile turns into the biggest shit-eating grin. “I’d say the foxes probably got a lot more than they bargained for.”
I snort-laugh at his response. He’s a sick fuck at times. And yeah, we’ve been the foxes on many occasions in the past.
“But I have to say…” He stares at me, taking me in fully.
Dishevelled hair. Suit hanging off me as if I’ve thrown it at my body and hope it sticks.
Stubble looking like I’ve not shaved for days.
Eyes wild, a feral energy firing off me.
He almost winces as he continues. “If they look anything like you, they probably know by now that the hunter became the hunted.”
I stare at him. How the fuck did he get all that from me? I’ve said hardly any words.
He’s back to a sinister smirk. “I know you well, Jackson Greystone. I see you even if that fox didn’t.”