I wince, expecting to see that light in her eyes extinguished anyway at the mention of Ted.
Instead, it just sparks brighter. “Killian asked me to the banquet tomorrow. As his date.”
My head snaps back in shock. “Seriously?”
She nods, her chin digging into my sternum. “That’ll help, won’t it? It’s a solid alibi?”
“Well…yeah.” We’d already had a plan for him, but it was shaky, at best. “I just thought he’d cut off his own dick before showing up to that thing.”
Killer has this way about him. When he commits himself to something, he goes one-hundred-percent. It’s part of what made him so good at The Game. He has discipline in spades. But the second he makes a choice to drop it? That’s it. It’s done. He doesn’t want to waste one more iota of energy on it.
Story must sense my skepticism, because she sighs, turning to lay her cheek on my chest. “I think he’s wanting to make a statement.” Quieter, she clarifies, “About me.”
Ah.
“You’re his date,” I say, understanding. Twirling a lock of her hair around my finger, I muse, “He must have it pretty bad.”
Don’t we all.
“Do you think it’s dumb?” she asks, rubbing our thighs together. “Since we’re…you know. Step-siblings.”
I scoff. “Baby, this is Forsyth. By the time you find your table, there’ll be a much juicier scandal than some guy banging his stepsister. Have you noticed that Nick is white as fuck?”
She meets my gaze again, frowning. “Yes?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Sy isn’t.”
“So?” She shrugs, making her nipples drag against my chest. “I assume they’re half-brothers.”
I tilt my hand in a so-so gesture. “Technically, but it’s mostly because their mom has two husbands.” Her face goes slack, making me laugh. “Like I said, this is Forsyth. Does it really surprise you that a system like this—” I gesture vaguely to the house at large. “—attracts and breeds the unconventional? Trust me, you and Killer will be nothing.”
She looks floored at first, and then fascinated, but before she can pull me too deep into the subject, I cup her cheek.
“Tomorrow’s going to be a bitch of a day, baby girl. Let’s get some sleep.”
She curls into me, her warm breath fanning across my chest. She feels safe here, which is more than I could ask for. It’s a shitty world outside these walls and she’s barely scratched the surface. I’ll protect her as long as I can, the only way I know how; by taking out anyone that threatens to harm her.
“Where’d you find this place?” I ask, eying the dark building as Tristian puts our rental car in park. It’s a shitty sedan, and we found out pretty early on that the heat doesn’t work, so our breaths billow clouds into the chilled air, making the deserted alley seem even more sinister. We’re tucked away behind an old strip mall far away from the Avenue, but still in South Side proper, which makes me twitchy. I scan around, looking for cameras, which is when I realize Tristian’s attention is fixed on his phone. “Hey,” I hiss, snapping my fingers. “Are you even listening to me?”
Tristian drags his eyes from the phone, finally looking at the drawing I’ve made of Daniel’s office. It’s a crude diagram I scrawled on the drive over with nothing but an old marker someone had abandoned in the glove compartment, and an abundance of imagination. Pure fucking art here.
A list of supplies is jotted down the side.
“I’m listening.” Still, he looks back down at the phone.
“Dude, what’s distracting you?” I yank the phone out of his hand, impatient and annoyed. In no universe should Pretty Nick Bruin be a better crime accomplice than my boy, but compared to last night, Tristian is looking slack as hell. I lower my gaze to the screen, trying to keep my face impassive at what I see there. “She’d better fucking know you’re doing this.”
On the screen, Story is crossing her room, zipping from her closet to her bed, and she’s wearing nothing but a bra and panties. She’s obviously getting dressed for the banquet, and from the flushed sheen on her face, is harried about it. Her hair is pinned up in wide rollers, and when she bends over to reach for something in the nightstand, I can almost see where the string of that thong is going.
“We have an agreement.” Tristian snatches the phone from my hand, a defensive crease forming between his brows. “She turns on the camera when she feels like it. I get an automated alert.”