Stuck With The Four Hotties

But when Myron comes back, he’s got a tattoo machine in his hand, a box of gloves under his arm, and a small plastic bin with bandages and other various first-aid supplies in it.Content © provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Remove his mark,” Creed says, moving away from the edge of the deck as the crowd ripples, and the whispers start up. On his way back inside, those blue eyes land on mine and stick there. Something strange travels through me, but I don’t know how to identify it, so I ignore it. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. “Come upstairs with me,” he says, and my eyes widen to marbles. Come upstairs?! Is this asshole propositioning me? “We’re going to start a game.”

The crowd mumbles appreciatively, but then Derrick is back up and coming for Creed again.

“You’re just as much of a bitch as your whore sister,” he growls, spittle and blood from his fall flecking his lips. “Next time I get a hold of her, it’ll be more than just a few pictures I’ll be taking.”

Creed turns around oh-so slowly, but he doesn’t get a chance to step in before Tristan’s there, just inches from Derrick’s face.

“You’re finished with the Club, Derrick.” Tristan’s blade gray eyes narrow, and I almost-almost-feel sorry for Derrick. Being on the receiving end of that stare is not a pleasant experience. “Your father’s already being investigated by the FBI for money laundering.” Tristan smiles like a shark, all teeth and primal, driving hunger.

“You …” Derrick stutters, eyes widening. “You set this up.”

One of those perfectly arched dark brows goes up, and Tristan’s smile morphs into a sneer.

“You think I forced your father to divert the interest from his clients’ accounts into a trust in the Cayman Islands? Mm, that’s a little beyond my paygrade I’m afraid. Unfortunately for you, Derrick, you’re about to be friendless, moneyless, and outcast, and I didn’t have to do a thing.”

Myron steps forward, a pair of black latex gloves on his hands, and nods toward a chair that’s been placed in the center of the deck.

“Sit down and comply willingly, or see how easily it is for you to be overwhelmed by a mob.” Tristan just stands there, waiting, as a muscle works in Derrick’s jaw, and his eyes dart back and forth across the crowd. Nobody’s smiling anymore, and a distinct icy chill sweeps over the group.

For a minute there, I think Derrick’s really going to do it, that he’s going to make a run for it. But eventually he sits down and tears his jersey over his head, scowling and shaking, his teeth clenched so hard they look like they might crack.

Myron kneels down, and starts to swab at the area above Derrick’s right hip with a disinfectant wipe. That’s when I see it: the infinity tattoo. A tingling starts in the base of my neck, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as I watch the scene unfold. Myron cleans the area, and then positions the tattoo machine near the infinity symbol, turning it on and filling the sudden silence with the mechanical buzzing.

I stand up on my tiptoes, straining to see what design he might be inking into Derrick’s skin. It only takes a few minutes, and then Myron’s wiping the excess ink off with a clean paper towel. He stands up and hands his tattoo machine over to someone else before bandaging up the spot.

A dark black line runs horizontally down the center of the infinity symbol, slicing it in half. As simple as it is, there’s something violent about it, severing the original design like that.

“Get up and get out.” Tristan stands stone-still as Derrick replaces his jersey and heads inside, an entourage following behind him to make sure he grabs his duffel bag and leaves. I beat the crowd by running around the side of the lodge, so I can get a sneak peek at the parking lot.

Derrick climbs into a yellow Aston Martin and peels out of the driveway with the shriek of his horn, and a middle finger. I stand there in the shadows as the dust settles, and then jump when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

Spinning around, I find Tristan standing far too close to me.

“What … was that all about?” I manage to choke, trying to understand why I feel equal parts terrified and excited at being alone in the dark with him. He just stares at me, silent and cold and unreadable. It makes me want to crack his facade and see what’s lying underneath, if anything.

“Come upstairs and play a little game with us, and maybe we’ll tell you.” He runs his palm over my shoulder and down my bare arm. I shed my leather jacket a long time ago, but now I’m wishing I had it on. His skin is too hot where it touches me, sending this violent little thrill through me that has nothing to do with fear. “I assumed you were Furious beFause you wanted to know what I Fould do for you.” His words thunder in my skull, but I push them away.

My mother lost her virginity at age fourteen, and just before I left home to come here, she stopped by for her first visit in years. “You won’t last long at that sFhool. You’re too muFh like me, Marnye. You’ll be sniffing around those filthy riFh boys like a dog in heat.” I’ve made it a whole year past her mark, and I plan to make it a few more at that.

Not … that I’d be interested in losing my virginity to Tristan Vanderbilt anyway. He’s beautiful, I can’t deny that, but he’s too cold on the inside, too cruel. Even though his hands are wiFked hot.

“What sort of game?” I ask, and he smirks, looking me over with a flicker of heat in his eyes that surprises me.

“Poker.”

The way he sneers as he says that tells me definitively that I’m witnessing a very big mistake.

Poker, huh? The way he says it makes me think he’s a damned good player. I bet they all are.

The thing is, I grew up in Lower Banks, the poorest neighborhood in Cruz Bay. There’s nobody that can outdo me at a round of Texas hold ’em.

Holding back a smile, I follow him back inside and up the stairs.

There’s a second lounge area on the top floor with its own wet bar and series of round tables. Creed and Zayd sit at one, each with an empty chair beside them, while the other partygoers take up the rest. Zack is already there, seated at a different table, but his dark eyes follow me as I move across the room.

Cards and chips are already set out, but I get a feeling we’re going to be betting more than money here. The Idols don’t give a crap about money. Well, I mean, in all reality, they care a lot, they just have so much of it that playing for cash probably doesn’t excite them much.

And that … scares me a little.

“Take a seat, Working Girl,” Zayd says with a smirk, reaching up to smooth his palm over the gelled spikes of his hair. I sit next to him, watching as he downs another full cup of beer. After how much he’s had tonight, I’m surprised he’s still standing. Then again, practice makes perfect, and I’m guessing he’s built his tolerance up over many, many parties.

Creed deals a hand, and then distributes the chips evenly amongst us. “Texas hold ’em?” I ask, and he flicks his eyes my direction, barely

acknowledging me with a slight tilt of his chin. He’s still clinging to that anger from outside, his rage toward Derrick only partially satisfied. Tristan sits across from me, and folds his forearms on the table, leaning in close.