Page 6 of Venomous Games

Boston stops in front of us, close enough now that I can see details—the sharp lines of his face, the controlled set of his mouth, the complete lack of wasted movement. He looks at me—really looks at me—as if he’s measuring me. We hold eye contact for a beat too long for strangers.

Then—

“Not interested.” His words are immediate, final. I blink once, slowly, my head tilting just slightly as something cold settles beneath my skin.

What? No hello?

My lips press together, the faintest edge of a smile threatening, not amused, not warm.

How fucking rude.

“Boston, come on, man. Loosen up a little. Tonight is all about fun,” Bailey argues lightly.

“No,” Boston says, his gaze sliding over me one more time before he moves to the doors that wouldn’t allow us in when we arrived. They open for him, and he goes straight through.

“He’ll warm up to you,” Bailey says to me. “Let’s go, ladies. Are we ready to have some fun?” he adds, and slides a hand across my shoulder.

Instantly, my skin crawls. I stiffen, a subtle flex of muscles preparing for attack. My fingers twitch along my leg, moving stealthily toward the knife tucked in my garter, just in case.

Carrie glances at me and forces a smile. Her eyes silently beg me not to make a scene.

I let out a slow breath, trying to keep my equilibrium. I walk at a sedate pace as the doors swing open, but inside, my mind is a storm. Every instinct is on high alert.

Disgust simmers beneath the surface, Bailey’s hand lingering too familiar. How Carrie can stand it, giggling at whatever line he just delivered, is beyond me. I notice the way she leans into him, the way she laughs at all the right times, and I can’t stop my eyes from narrowing. Why? I think. Why her? She’s smart. She knows the game. And yet … she lets this happen.

Bailey continues into the venue, oblivious or arrogant. His hand drops from my shoulder, but the tension doesn’t leave me. Not even a fraction.

If he touches me again, he’s going to lose his fingers, I think.

The space itself feels … off. Too controlled. Too quiet beneath the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses that you can hear coming from inside.

The room opens before me, and I halt at the sight. It’s chaos dressed in silk and diamonds, an open make-out session. Some women are dressed to impress, and others are … naked. The faint smell of perfume and alcohol mingles with something darker, metallic almost. I catalog it all without missing a beat, noting exit points, security positions, who’s armed, who’s drunk, and who is worth paying attention to.

Why the fuck did I agree to this?

Is this what Carrie does to get me clients?

Surely not.

Walking through the crowd, my heels click against the marble, the low thrum of music vibrating underfoot. Murmurs, laughter, and soft moans mix with the faint clink of glasses, forming a chaotic rhythm I instantly analyze.

Servers weave through the guests, trays balanced, heads down, but mostly offering food to men. Interesting. I slip to the bar and lean against it, scanning the room while ordering a stiff drink. Carrie is easy to spot, pushed against a wall while Bailey presses in too close, his hand on her breast, and my stomach tightens.

Fucking hell.

I need to leave.

“Still not interested.”

I tap my black stiletto nails on the counter, not even looking up. Then the low rasping voice moves closer, and I glance at him to find those piercing, predatory eyes locked on me.

“I know you might find this hard to believe, with your top-of-the-line narcissistic personality disorder,” I say, voice flat but cutting, “but the only thing I want down my throat this evening is an expensive, quality whiskey.”

He smirks, like he thinks what I said is cute. It isn’t.

“So why are you here then?” he asks, leaning in like his proximity gives him authority.

“I’m here for a drink,” I snap, gaze flicking past him. My stomach twists when I spot Carrie pressed against Bailey, his hand sliding up her dress. Perfect. I frown, jaw tightening, the corner of my mind noting that this is exactly why I didn’t want to come.