Page 17 of The Killer Card

Rowan hands me my bag, clicking the trunk closed. “A hawk, maybe? Do I look like David Attenborough to you?”

Carnivorous birds, cabins in the middle of nowhere, no weapons because airplanes. Oh, and look at that, no phone signal. “This is how every cult horror movies starts.”

“You made it!”

I turn toward Eli coming down the porch steps and intercept his hug with my duffel. “Before you try to make me join a sex cult committed to celebrity elitism values, you should know I have absolutely no boundaries and will do butt stuff to you in a moment of weakness.”

“What,” Rowan groans, gripping the bridge of his nose. “The actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“Just establishing expectations.” I catch my bag when Eli tosses it back.

“No one would invite you to join a threesome, let alone a sex cult, Graham—”

“You’d be surprised.”

“You’re literally a walking STD.”

Glaring at his back, I follow Eli and Rowan up the stairs. “My dick is clean as a fucking whistle.” And whistle I do when I pause to take in the elevated perspective of the lake. “Not as clean as this view though, damn.”

“Nice, huh?” Elias smirks from the doorway. All the windows and the slider are thrown open to the cool summer breeze. “I bought this place for Poppy last fall. An anniversary present.”

“You bought your fiancée a cabin for your anniversary?” I snort, elbowing Rowan. “Tell us your rich without telling us your rich.”

Eli’s grin widens. “I didn’t just buy the one cabin, cabrón. I bought all the cabins.”

Blinking, I lean in. “Qué?”

“He bought the entire vacation estate,” Rowan explains. “This whole venue is his.”

“Puta madre- Wait, then why’d you say I had to sleep on the couch when I asked to room with you?!”

“Other cabins were already rented.” He shrugs, turning back inside. “I’m not kicking out paying guests for your freeloading ass.”

“Pendejo…” I turn to Rowan. “Where are you staying?”

He points a thumb over his shoulder. “Clara and I are down the hill.”

“How’d you get your own cabin?!”

He holds up his left hand where his black wedding band glints in the light, then shrugs. “And I negotiated a timeshare into my contract.”

Right, bodyguard privileges. “Shouldn’t his muscle be closer than three hundred yards?”

“Their room is upstairs.” He claps me on the back. “Any assailant would have to get through you and Cristian first anyway.”

“What the fuck is Cris gonna do?” I ask as I follow them inside. I drop my bag by the couch I assume will be my bed for the next week. Leather. Awesome. My back immediately gives a sharp twinge of protest. “Last I checked, your nepo baby doesn’t exactly have self-defense skills.”

“Pa’l carajo tú Tambien, pendejo,” the nep baby in question says as he comes through the side slider.

“Language, Crissy,” Elias sighs as his nearly thirty-year-old son sets down a drink caddy of coffees on the dining table.

Cristian just rolls his eyes, taking a sip from his cup as he settles into the matching armchair to my bed. Rowan goes in the opposite direction, following his wife’s bright laughter.

“Where are you sleeping?” I ask Cristian, noting there’s another bedroom at the end of the hall under the stairs. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks for the bedroom.”

“I don’t need twenty bucks, and certainly not from you.” He props his very expensive sneakers on the coffee table. “Nor can I help you,” he points up. “I’m in the loft.”

“Then who the fuck is in the bedroom—”