Rogue (Real #4)(56)

“Yep,” Pandora says, nodding and nodding.

Grinning, I text Brooke: Holeeeeee sheet! Thank you! I miss you so much!

Brooke: I miss my BFF and Pandora told me you’re having man troubles.

Me: Sort of. I’m just terribly confused and terribly hooked on him and worried that he’s not. I need my BFF! I can’t wait to see you.

I tuck my phone away and grin at Pandora.

“Yeah, I know, you love the hell out of me,” she mumbles.

“Well, I do,” I say. “I love you and Brooke so much. Are we watching a fight?”

“Of course, ninny! Who do you think paid for our tickets?”

Smiling at that, I turn back to my computer and absently stroke my diamond necklace, and suddenly the feel of Greyson’s diamonds under my fingers makes my heart wrench with new pain. A fresh, wild hope claws at my insides as his words come back to tease and torture me.

Melanie, when you’re waiting for me to call, look at these stones and know for certain that that phone will ring.





SEVENTEEN




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MORE


Greyson


Seething inside, I look past my shoulder at my half brother Wyatt.

I shouldn’t even be here. I’ve got better things to do than babysit him, and the thought that I ended up driving around town for twenty-four hours with C.C., looking for my “lost” brother instead of spending the weekend in Seattle makes me want to hit something.

Slamming on the brakes, I park the SUV, turn around, and slam my fist into Wyatt’s face.

“Ouch!” he cries.

I then get out and go around to pull him out of the car and shove him toward the old bar-turned-warehouse where tonight’s Underground fights will take place.

“You can’t hang out with our fighters, much less with that twisted motherf*cker Scorpion,” I growl as C.C. climbs out of the front-passenger seat and follows us. “There’s no such thing as friendship between them and us—only business. Do you understand me, Wyatt?”

“I understand you’re a f*cking *, Grey,” he says, wiping blood from his nose.

“I’m not running a grade school here. You either get the gist of things or get off my f*cking floor. C.C. won’t be bailing out your ass anymore—nor will I. I’ve got f*cking stuff to do.”

“Yeah, why don’t we talk a little bit about that because you’re moodier than a chick with f*cking PMS!” He smirks. “So, what’s her f*cking name, huh?”

I grab him by the shirt and lift him so our eyes are level, my patience at its limit. “You can’t rough up the police chief’s son over a f*cking cockfight! He was drunk, you were drunk, and the Scorpion was stoned out of his mind. We’ve got something much bigger going on here, Wyatt, and you’re going to get us all exposed.” I let go and jerk the door open while Wyatt storms inside.

“Those weren’t even my f*cking roosters, I was just helping attach the bladed claws.”

“That’s just sick, Wyatt,” C.C. says as we enter.

“Nobody gives a shit what you think, C.C.,” Wyatt snaps.

I look at my half brother. Banged up. Reckless. Careless. If it weren’t for C.C. bailing his ass out the years I was gone, Wyatt would be either dead or in jail. “I’m so sick of you trying to prove yourself to him,” I tell him with an angry shove. “Now get inside and get to work before our father finds out about this.”

“You won’t tell him?”

I clamp my jaw and shake my head in angry silence. God knows I should. I should tell him. But watching the kind of punishments my father would dole out to him would give me no pleasure.

“Don’t tell the Big E either, bastard hates my guts. Hell, I can’t see why since you’re the one who poked his goddamn eye out.”

We watch him storm away, and C.C. looks at me. “Sorry I called. Figured he needed to get the ultimatum from you or E. But E’s got his hands full with your father as it is.”

I head over to stash the cash from two of my latest marks into the accounting records in the vault, ready to get out of there and work on some of my last targets.

I need the job done, and I needed it done yesterday.

Outside the long hall where we’re set up, the screeching of dragged scaffolding blends with the noise of men working to set up the space. The Underground’s fighting season has started. Two or three fights per week, each week a different location. Before my flight to Portland, home of one of my last targets, I check on the team.

Wyatt is surveying the cameras while a half dozen men set up the fighting ring.

Through the monitors, I see Leon is helping make sure the stands are set.

I can also see Zedd is out by the entrance, making sure the exit doors work.

Harley, he’s eating pizza.

Thomas’s voice is audible down the hall, along with some female voices of a couple of groupies, I suppose.

In one of the biggest rooms, Father sits quietly, all his medical equipment surrounding him. I pause as I walk by. A nurse is feeding him, and he looks slimmer. A slither of remorse hits me as I wonder if this man—a man I saw torture and kill, yet also protect me—is actually dying. I stand by the door and Eric rises. He’s been by my father’s side for days, and he looks beat. “Didn’t expect you here.”