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I point to the luxury vessel. Its loud music is almost as obnoxious as the party of men howling on it.
“We all hear that,” Silas agrees before going to the bar for another round of beers and shrimp baskets.
I could turn and watch his sexy, shredded back of tan muscles. And that cute ass in navy board shorts.
But I don’t. I surveil from behind my shades.
The name of Gentry’s yacht—After Tail. It makes me wanna fire rounds into its hull and watch it sink… with all onboard.
“You know,” Scarlett says, “it’s doing shit like this that makes me want the job working security. I got a company, HGR Security, they cover high-profile clients: CEOs, celebrities, and such. They’re after me hard to come work for them.”
“You’d be great at it.”
Jameson admires Scarlett while my stare won’t leave the men on Gentry’s yacht.
I count four so far, jumping onto the dock, bottles in hands and voices booming for all to hear.
“Maybe so,” Scarlett says, “because I can tell you with one look at those men—they’re big trouble in expensive leisurewear.”
“Good instincts,” I reply to her before swallowing down my gasp.
Holy shit. It’s Derek Baucom, the bar manager from The Pelican. He emerges from the lower deck.
“Well fuck me,” I mutter. “He doesn’t just work for Gentry. They’re friends.”
Jameson seethes at the intel while I start connecting dots, drawing a disturbing picture in my mind of how this is all coming together.
Senator Gentry Evans owns the perfect places to hunt for vulnerable victims—rental units, a nail salon, a beach bar.
Derek Baucom pours the drugged drinks for them, controlling his staff and the cameras not aimed at their crimes.
And I know it with no evidence…
TJ provides the drugs, the GHB so powerful they remember nothing while he reels in the victims from the floor.
But TJ’s not on the boat today—he’s not invited to this party because of his criminal record. Not appropriate company for a conservative state Senator.
Still, behind closed doors, I know how far Gentry and TJ go back. You can’t keep them apart.
I get it now. These three are a vile triad with enough power, position, and poison to get exactly what they want… and not get caught. Yet.
Minutes later, I’m at the bar, leaving my friends behind and knowing these jean shorts and yellow bikini top work like a lure.
More like a curse, really.
“Sergeant Bryant”—Gentry’s high-class drawl drags through my depths of disgust—“I see you’re enjoying your time off.”
He’s standing too close to me. His freckled arm brushes mine leaning on the bar.
“I’m making the most of it.”
I sip my beer, clocking Derek behind him and sneering my way.
Derek’s wearing short sleeves today, and I fight the snarl of my lip at how it reveals a tacky tattoo.
A mudflap girl.
It’s so sexist I want to chew it off his flesh. Because, fuck, I hate the way he looks at me; all-knowing.
