By seven am, I was dressed and heading downstairs to meet the team for breakfast. The celebration hangover hit the dining room like a plague—half my teammates looked like they'd been run over by the Zamboni. Bae was wearing sunglasses indoors, and Max kept wincing every time someone clinked silverware.
"Rough night?" I asked, sliding into the seat across from them.
"Speak for yourself," Max muttered. "You look like hell, Armstrong."
I probably did. The mirror had shown dark circles under my eyes and a jaw tight with residual anger. "Didn't sleep well."
"Should've taken advantage of all that free whiskey," Max said, then immediately regretted speaking as he pressed a hand to his temple.
I picked at my eggs, not really hungry. The dining room buzzed with quiet conversation and the occasional groan of someone regretting their choices. Through the glass partition, I could see the bar area being prepped for lunch service.
"Ash's got a dislocated shoulder. Not sure how long he'll be out for," Max informed me, and I was ashamed I hadn't thought to ask, before movement caught my eye. A familiar figure moved behind the counter, setting up glasses with efficient precision.
The bartender who'd been pouring heavy all night, who'd helped orchestrate whatever sick game my father and Phoenix had been playing.My appetite disappeared entirely. I pushed back from the table.
"Where'r you goin'?" Adar asked, his strong American-Irish accent sounding almost musical.
"Need to handle something."
I walked through the partition into the bar area, my footsteps echoing on the polished floor. The bartender looked up as I approached, and I saw recognition flash across his face, followed immediately by wariness.
"Mr. Armstrong," he said carefully, straightening up. "How can I help you?"
"You can start by explaining what the hell you thought you were doing last night."
His hands stilled on the glass he was polishing. "I'm not sure what you mean, sir."
"Cut the shit." I leaned against the bar, keeping my voice low but letting the edge show through. "The heavy pours, the coordination with Phoenix. Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?"
His face went pale. He set down the glass with shaking hands. "Look, I don't know what you heard, but—"
"Phoenix didn'ttell me anything. He didn't have to." I watched him carefully, noting the way he flinched at Phoenix's name. "What I want to know is whether this was your idea or if someone else put you up to it."
"It wasn't—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Shit. Shit, I'm so fucked, aren't I? I need this job, man. I've got a girlfriend, a baby with asthma, and the bills are killing us."
The desperation in his voice made something twist in my chest, but I pushed it down. "You should have thought of that before you decided to help set me up."
"It wasn't supposed to be bad," he said quickly, glancing around to make sure we weren't overheard. "Phoenix just needed money, and I thought—I don't know what I thought. That maybe you'd help him out, give him some cash or something. Your dad is loaded.” He trailed off, looking sick.
His shoulders sagged. "I fucked up. I know I fucked up. But Phoenix isn't some con artist, okay? He's just desperate. He's been living rough for months, can barely afford food most days. Look, I'm not making excuses. I know what we did was wrong. But Phoenix isn't a bad person. He's just got nowhere else to turn. His last job screwed him over."
I stared at him, desperately trying to click the pieces together in my mind. Had I been wrong? I knew most of the reason I was so bitter was because I thought Phoenix had been in bed with my father…
When I really wanted him in bed with me.
"What's your name?"
"Ricky," he said, defeated.
"And where is he now?" I asked.
"Phoenix?" He looked confused by the change of subject. "I don't know. Why?"
"Because I threw him out of my room last night," I said, watching Ricky's face closely.
The color drained completely from Ricky's face. "You threw him out? Last night? What time?"
"Around midnight. Why?"
