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His friend stands on the other side of the table, his stance wide, leaning on the cue like a crutch. He’s extremely tall, a thick wool beanie half-covering his shaggy, dark hair. A week’s worth of scruff adorns his face, and his caramel gaze is filled with mischief.
Two disgruntled-looking men sit on the larger couch to my right, their blackened eyes and split lips seem to speak of a story I’m dying to know about. Their postures are rigid, scolded, almost as if they’ve been sent to the principal’s office. The one closest to John appears to be worse off, his Romanesque nose bloody and dripping onto his white T-shirt. His dark hair is in disarray as if he’s tried ripping it out recently.
His couch buddy runs a hand over his shorn light-brown hair, the fingers of his other hand probing the purpling discoloration of his jaw. His knuckles are bruised, the skin broken across his second and third joint. He shoots a steely glare as he tongues his split lip, one side slightly puffed where the flesh has ripped.
West and the last guy are sharing a joke, and from the bits I gather of their conversation, they’re quietly discussing my kicking the king’s ass a few weeks ago. This guy is the biggest of them all: easily six foot seven or eight, with a full-scale lumberjack beard. He’s built wide and sturdy, with thick arms and thighs, black hair, cut close to his nape and left shaggy on top. His deep laugh resonates throughout the room.
A sense of loneliness fills me, even in the throng of people. An unfortunate realization dawns, that with Rhys across the room, I feel more alone than I have in a very long time.
Ain’t this a kick in the teeth.
I’m nursing the beer West slung my way when I sat down, contemplating how vile I think hops are, when the hot, suit-wearing, Portuguese-speaking man approaches. His posture is friendly and unassuming, and while he’s smiling, I get no hint he’s trying to flirt.
“I’m Carver Lee,” he introduces himself, thrusting out his hand to shake.
“Aurelia Constantine,” I say as I take his palm in a sure grip.
Many years ago, I would turn my fingers in his like the lady my mother wished I’d been. But I’ve found people take you seriously when you give a good handshake—not too soft or people think you’re weak, not too hard or people think you’re an asshole. His grip is firm without being rude.
“Pleased to meet you. Have you been introduced to the rest of these bastards, or are you running blind?”
I’m never blind. I fought hard for these eyes.
“Blind as a bat,” I say demurely, lying my ass off.
I’m trying exceptionally hard to say the bare minimum. I don’t know if these men are my friends or enemies, and given my track record, I have every right to be wary. The only person I can trust completely is myself. My gut says they are on my side, but any one of these gentlemen could be swayed.
It doesn’t take much.
My parents taught me that.
“Allow me, then. This is my husband, Javier Cabal.” He gestures to his companion on the couch, and Javier salutes with two fingers. “The two jolly bastards playing pool are Aidan Keenan and his brother, Ian Moran. Aidan is the one wearing the beanie like a twenty-year-old hipster.” This earns him the finger from the beanie-wearing man himself.
“The two crybabies pouting on the couch are Cameron O’Connor and Asher Crane. Asher won, by the way,” he says as an aside behind his hand, but Cameron seems to hear him, his battered face pulling in a distorted frown. “And last but not least, this big son of a bitch is Kyle Brennan.” He slaps the giant man on the shoulder.
“You sure are being awfully nice to someone who kicked the crap out of your king. Should I expect an ambush later?” I say more to myself than anything, but he answers me.
“You and I both know you only won because he let you. Games are afoot, my dear, and they don’t stop just because you call a timeout. But war’s a funny thing—you gotta make friends where you can.”
Coyly tilting my head to the side, I ask, “And I’m a friend?”
“No. But you’re not an enemy.” He taps his lips like he’s trying to decide. “Let’s call it an acquaintance with the option for friendship.”
“How very lawyerly of you,” I grouse, rolling my eyes. “I can agree to that. I take it that’s your Jag outside.”
“Well, it’s no fair playing guessing games with a seer.” He straightens the knot of his tie before brushing invisible lint from his shoulders. “Did my impeccable fashion sense give me away?”
“Absolutely.” Yeah, we’ll go with that.
He narrows his eyes a smidge, likely irritated by my vague answers. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“The line between intelligence and stupidity is easily crossed with an open mouth.” I shoot him my most saccharine smile.
“Too right. Take these poor bastards over here”—He gestures to the pouty men sitting on the couch like scolded children—“filled with piss and vinegar over a mere difference of opinion.”
“And that would be?”
Carver pauses, and I see the debate play out behind his eyes before he answers me.
