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“You ever gonna tell me what you really come to these parties for?” Rachel murmurs, totally watching me watching them.

“Nope.” My gaze shifts again, sideways this time, to the third unmoving rock in this sea of eddying motion.

I’m not the only one watching something other than fireworks here. My beautiful new blond friend stands at attention against the wall, anchored despite the storm around us. Fascinating. Why is he even here? Who’s he come to watch anyway?

If one of them makes a move, will he follow?

And . . . why haven’t they made a move? What’re they waiting for?

Somewhere in the background, a high-pitched whine nags at my ears. No, not a whine. In the space between the crackles and pops of gunpowder I track it. More of a warble—

“Is that a car alarm?” Rachel peels her shoulders off the wall, brows knitted with concern as another wailing alarm joins the melee. “It sounds close.”

A youthful whoop of glee follows on its heels.

“It sounds like kids.” I track another crowing shout. “Fucking around with a bunch of rich people’s cars stashed in a backyard lot.”

“Dammit!” Rachel mutters. “My car is back there.”

“So’s everybody’s here.” I can’t help the faint—surprising—flicker of amusement in my chest. I give in to the feeling. Grin. “Clever, Nicky.”

Something I might have done, at least a few years ago, when my style was a little less Rogue and a little more Joker. Most of the people have handed away their keys to the valets, and at least one of the valets is batting for Nick’s team. Should keep some turmoil going.

“Motherfucker,” Rachel mutters. “I gotta go see if that’s my car.”

She scurries off, already digging through her gold clutch for her valet tag. A handful of other men and women follow in her wake. Between the concerned guests and the overpaid hooligans, the valets and security guards are about to have their damned hands full.

Once again, everybody’s looking in the wrong direction.

Which means, of course, that I look the other way, the way I’m not supposed to be looking. So I’m just in time to see Beanpole slip out the side door.

I don’t think.

I follow.

Behind me, fireworks crack across the night in a blitzkrieg of ripping rapport. Ahead, Beanpole sweeps down the hallway, not even the slightest inkling I’m on his heels.

We plunge deeper into the bowels of the house, so I reckon I know where we’re headed from my little preview exploration last week. Down one hall, around a corner, up another. I keep to the shadows behind him, feet soundless on sleek wood floors covered in plush throw rugs.

He pauses outside a plain white door which, if my recollections are correct, leads to the basement. I fade into the shadows as he throws a furtive glance over his shoulder—shifty as fuck, even if he wasn’t sizing somebody’s basement at a party. Still doesn’t spot me. Seeing nobody, despite the fact that I’m right fucking here, he nudges the door open and slips inside.

I start forward—

“Dennis?”

I freeze at the call of the deep male voice from down the hall. My heart slams into overdrive, a sharp zero-to-sixty to really get the adrenaline pumping. I snap my head toward the sound, as Jerry lumbers into view, filling the entire hallway with his presence.

My racing heart slows only slightly.

“Jerry!” I unfurl a wide grin, the big, friendly bro-style grin you reserve for your very best of friends, and I march up to slap a hand down on his enormous shoulder. “How’ve you been man?”

Jerry’s having none of it, though. His dark brows furrow low, and deep lines crease his cheery face, even leaching some of the pinkish hue. “What are you doing here, Dennis?”

“I’m a guest.” I pluck at the collar of my jacket, flatten the lapels down with a quick flick of my wrists. Resist the urge to glance at the door Beanpole disappeared through mere seconds ago. Precious seconds. “Well, my girlfriend Rachel is a guest.”

Jerry’s face softens only slightly as he muddles through that.

“But.” I lean in a little closer, drop my voice a notch lower. “You want to know a secret—the truth? I feel like I could tell you.”