Good Game (The System, #1) (62)

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Seriously?”

This is like pulling teeth.

I can’t blame him. If I’m right, and I’m pretty damn sure I’m right, I’ve just discovered something no one is supposed to know. The information I’m sitting on is worth thousands of dollars. Maybe even hundreds of thousands to the right bidder.

Not that I would sell this information. I don’t care about that. I don’t care if Parker is English or if English is Parker. It’s all the same to me. What does make a difference is the little seedling that has been growing in my stomach ever since that night at the club. This niggling sensation that maybe there is something more to Alek’s job than he has been letting on.

My cell phone rings. Parker stares at the foreign sound in his hand. He tosses the phone back to me, and I see a call from my mother.

I send it to voicemail.

Parker’s phone rings, but he answers it.

“Sorry, I had to leave, something came up. Yes, I know. I know. I know. It is an emergency. No, she—Alright, I’ll be home Sunday night.” He hangs up with a sigh.

“Fuck. Me.” Parker runs his hands down his face.

“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Covington, but I need to know where I’m headed.”

Parker peeks out from between his fingers and groans, mumbling his words.

“The apartment.”

I see the driver’s eyes widen in the rearview mirror.

“The apartment?”

“Yes, Francis. The apartment.”

“Are you sure?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I have to do some damage control.”

Pretty sure I’m the damage.

“Alright, it’ll take a bit longer, probably an hour from now. We have a tail.”

“Of course, we do.”

Parker reaches under the seat in front of him, rummaging for a minute until he pulls out a silver flask. He opens it, taking a large gulp before holding it out to me.

“You’re going to need it for the night we have ahead.” His laugh is bitter.

I accept the flask and take a small sip, the heat of whiskey burning my throat.

For the first time since I took off running after Parker, worry filters into my system, and I begin to wonder if I made a mistake. I don’t think I’m wrong about Parker secretly being one of the biggest streamers of our generation, but I do think I might have made a mistake in confirming it. Because it seems like whatever is waiting at the apartment is not going to be good.

***

We pull into a private underground parking lot beneath a dazzling glass apartment complex. Francis parks the car next to a black Escalade, gets out, and opens the door for me. I take his hand and step out onto the concrete. Parker doesn’t wait, jumping out my side as well.

I wobble on my feet slightly, all the alcohol catching up to me over the long drive. Parker doesn’t look any better. He runs his hands through his hair for the thousandth time, then twists the hoops in his ears. I’ve come to recognize it’s his nervous twitch.

“Alright, Stevie. Let’s see how bad this can get.”

He tugs at his tie, loosening it, before throwing an arm around my shoulders.

“Bye, Francis.” He dramatically salutes.

“Thank you!” I add on.

Francis’ parting words are a mere “good luck,” but they feel like a death sentence.

Parker steers us toward a set of elevators, but my eyes are darting around the private lot. There is a row of luxury cars, Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris, plus a stray Jeep. My eyes snag on a set of motorcycles, and I halt. Parker continues walking forward, and we jerk against each other.

“Having second thoughts? Sorry, love, you can’t really back out now.”

“No. No, it’s not that,” I stare at the black motorcycle, my tipsy brain trying to put the wires together and failing. “You know what, it’s nothing.”

Parker hits the elevator button, and my heart rate spikes.

I’m nervous. I have no idea what is waiting up there for me.

The doors ding open, and Parker hits the PH button before leaning us against the back of the elevator. I watch as the number crawls higher and higher, heart in my throat.

Oh god, I’m going to throw up.

Okay, I won’t, but these damn nerves feel like it. Like I have a swarm of bees in my chest fighting to find their way out. The buzzing is insane.

My ears pop as we pass the fiftieth floor, and it dulls my senses, bringing in a sliver of calm.

Finally, the elevator pings. A robotic voice announces, “Penthouse.”

Parker pushes off the wall, bringing me with him. He hasn’t let go of me this entire time. I appreciate it because I’m not sure I could stand on my own with the nerves and liquor trembling under my skin. I’d rather go into whatever is awaiting us as somewhat of a team. I steel my eyes ahead as the doors open.

My first thought is that this apartment is gorgeous.

It’s modern, with sleek white walls and gray marble tiles. The elevator opens into a small hallway with a closet, but a bunch of men’s shoes are strewn all over the floor in front of it–complete disregard for said closet. The opposite wall is lined with four neon art pieces, an X, O, triangle, and square. We step out of the elevator, and my heels clink on the tiles, alarmingly loud.

“Parker?” a female voice rings out.