Because Phoenix didn’t win this altercation. He might have felt like it, left thinking himself the big dog.
But while his fingers were a vice at my throat, my free hand went steady. I’d palmed the tracker that morning—a little thing the size of a tic-tac, stupidly expensive and stupidly effective. I’dthought I’d attach it to his car if he didn’t come out when he did. But when he leaned in, when he tightened his grip, my fingers slid, felt leather and mesh and zipper teeth.
It didn’t take much of a tug to open whatever pocket that was. The tracker dropped in silently.
Phoenix didn’t notice. He pulled his hand away. He smiled. He walked to his car and drove off.
He walked away thinking he’d humiliated me. He walked away without knowing the tiny spy in his duffel had already begun talking.
As I walk toward the exit of the parking garage, I fish my phone out and thumb the tracker’s app open. The little dot blips into life, headed north like the heralding angel of death.
By the time I step out of the garage and into the daylight, adrenaline rolling off me in hot waves, I’m methodical again. Phoenix might find my tracker. It’s little, but if he’s paying attention, it’ll be obvious it doesn’t belong. But it should be twenty-four hours or so before he looks in that bag again, before he goes back to the gym.
But that’s twenty-four hours I’ll get to see where else Phoenix Marrow goes. Twenty-four hours to figure out where he lives. Twenty-four hours to make my plan, to plot his end.
The tracker ticks. Andfinally, the game is on.
Thirty minutes later,I have plans to attend to.
The moment I walk into the theater, I feel Lucky’s eyes on me. He’s midair on the silks, body flipping like gravity owes him an apology, but the second he spots me, his whole face cracks into that unhinged grin. He drops down in a smooth, controlled slide and hits the mat like he’s been waiting for me all day.
I walk to the stage, matching his lunacy grin for grin.
But he’s not alone. This is a rehearsal, so his entire crew is around, busy working, adjusting, tweaking, instructing. But they all stop the moment they see me approach. It’s obvious in a big hurry: visitors during rehearsal doesn’t happen.
“Everyone,” Lucky says, wiping sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt, green eyes glinting with trouble, “I want to introduce you to someone. This is Willow. My girlfriend.” He reaches for my hand, grinning with mischief and lust as he meets my eyes.
The word ricochets through the room like a bullet.
A guy with a clipboard hugged to his chest, blinks once, twice, like Lucky just told him he’s giving up oxygen. “Girlfriend?” His voice is flat, skeptical. “You’re not pranking us?”
Lucky flips him off. “Not this time.”
Another woman whistles low. She gives me a head-to-toe look and smirks. “Finally explains why Kade’s been distracted. You’re gorgeous, by the way. Please don’t break him—he’s fragile.”
Lucky, or, to them, Kade, barks a laugh. “Fragile, my ass.”
“Thank you,” I say to the woman, blushing.
Another guy wanders through, carrying a bottle of flammable stage liquid. He’s raising an eyebrow at me, impressed bafflement on his face. “You should give yourself a pat on the back. I mean, Shade doesn’tlookat women. Ever. We thought he was married to the stage. Or to himself.”
“No one loves Saint Shade like Saint Shade loves Saint Shade,” the woman says with a smirk.
“She’s got you there,” I tease Lucky. “I mean, have you ever seen one of your TikToks?”
“Have you ever seen one of your comments?” he fires right back, his gaze turning molten.
“Oh, you’re @valetarot!” a woman with blonde hair and a camera says. She looks genuinely excited, like she’s witnessing the internet unfurl in real life, but I just blush and want to shrivel up from embarrassment. Apparently, my thirsty comments for the man beside me are well known.
“Damn straight,” Lucky replies for me, looking down at me with hunger in his eyes.
The first guy with the clipboard chuckles as he observes us. “Well. That explains the over-performance. I thought he was just trying to impress me.”
Lucky smirks. “Still am, Marco.”
The laughter that follows is sharp, good-natured. They’re razzing him, but there’s something loving about it. They really are happy for their showman.
Lucky looks back at me with that grin, and for a second, the whole world narrows down to the sweat dripping from his temple, the manic energy in his eyes, and the word still ringing in my ears.
