If there was ever a house I’d expect Zach Covington to live in, it would most certainly be this one. Where Baz has his mansion and other rich people accolades, he doesn’t flaunt them. There’re always two types of rich people: the up-in-your-face ones and the ones like Baz—all it takes is one glance, and you know they’re loaded.
Zach is very much the former.
His sprawling home isn’t as big as Baz’s, but all the sports cars parked conspicuously near the garages tell enough about the man. He’s a show-off. I guess not much has changed over the years. My hand grows clammy in Baz’s as he guides me out of the car and toward the entrance. A few other vehicles are here, which I assume belong to the rest of the guys and any other invited guests.
The home is a modern masterpiece—I’ll give him that—that sits just minutes from the Sunset Strip, so as you’d imagine, the views of West Hollywood and the ocean are incredible. On the outside, everything is white and sleek, mainly glass. I can’t help but think of the irony—Zach living in a glass house.
The looming door is masculine and black, and much to my surprise, Baz pushes right through. As soon as you walk in, everything is dynamic, what with the designs and the shapes. When I glance up, there’s a two-story living room with a fireplace that extends all the way up to the second floor. The foyer we’re standing in leads up to a blinding white staircase. The weird metal and chrome chandelier lights up the entire staircase as if it’s the stairway to heaven. My lips twist into a frown.
More like the stairway to hell.
Baz guides the way up the steps, and I follow, silently taking everything in. I can hear masculine laughter and even some feminine giggles interspersed.
I’m not the only woman here? Interesting.
On the upper level, it’s an open space plan. There’s the second living room and down the hall are what I’m assuming are the bedrooms; on the other side of the staircase is a billiards room with a bar. A large poker table sits in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that boast the impeccable views of downtown LA.
All easy conversation comes to a halt when we walk in. My wedged heels clicking on the marble are like a blaring alarm to their ears. I focus on keeping my expression light and neutral, which isn’t easy, considering I’m standing in the home of one of my sister’s killers while surrounded by the rest. Slowly, I survey the room and its grandiosity. The money literally drips from its walls. I curl my free hand into a fist as I try to suppress the anger that’s simmering just beneath the surface. Because these assholes are all part of society’s elite, they got away with murder. Now, they’re rolling in the lavish lifestyle while my sister rots in the ground.
It isn’t fair.
It doesn’t make any sense.
My nails dig into my palm, the stinging of my flesh slowly calming me when all I feel like doing is screaming like a banshee and ripping everything off the walls, watching it crash and shatter onto the floor.
“Well, well, well, look who we have here,” Zach says with an infuriating smirk on his face. He looks like an absolute idiot, sitting at the head of the table as the dealer with one of those stupid green gambler visors on his head. He’s wearing a polo, all the top buttons left open, revealing the gold chain around his neck that I’d like to strangle him with. He has a toothpick hanging lazily out of the side of his mouth, and I keep my fingers crossed that he’ll accidentally swallow and choke on it. “Looks like someone made the cut, boys.”
Vincent scoffs, shooting a spiteful glare my way. “Don’t give her too much credit. The night has only just begun.”
A cold chill travels down my spine, and despite how angry I am and how determined I am to make them all pay, I find myself stepping closer to Baz. For comfort or protection, that I don’t know.
“That’s enough. Wouldn’t want to scare her off.” The dark undertone in Baz’s voice prompts me to look his way. He’s glaring at the rest of the guys, a silent conversation happening right in front of me that I’m not privy to. I can’t tell if the warning is for them to truly back off or something else.
“Turn back now, Mack. There’s still time. You’re not ready for this. They’ll eat you alive, tear you to pieces. He won’t be able to save you from them, Mack.” I hear Madison chanting. She sounds afraid, and she’s probably right. I should turn around and say to hell with everything, but that’s not what I do.
“All right, all right. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” Marcus rolls his eyes. He lifts his arm, beckoning me over. “C’mon, Scar, you can take this seat right next to me. I’ve had my bitch keep it warm for you.”
One of the women at the bar laughs, and the burning in my gut returns with a vengeance. What kind of man talks about a woman that way? What kind of woman even allows the man she’s sleeping with to talk about her that way?
I glance up at Baz, needing to take my cue from him. Do I sit here, or wait till he makes his move? He jerks his head toward the open seat next to Marcus. There’s another one open, but that one is on the other side of the table, next to Zach and Trent.
“Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right here at the bar getting a drink.” He bends down, kissing my neck, and before standing upright, he whispers for my ears only, “Remember, their goal is to make you uncomfortable. Prove them wrong.” He smoothly turns on his heel, toward the bar, and it doesn’t escape my notice the way the busty blondes perk up when they see him.
Once again, he certainly has a type, and it’s not me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I strut toward the open spot next to Marcus, feigning confidence I surely don’t feel. I lower myself into the chair, and I try not to stiffen when Marcus tosses his arm over the back of my chair. His cologne wafts around me, and disgust burns in the back of my throat. It’s not that it’s bad or disgusting, but it’s him, and that’s enough.
“I gotta admit, Scarlett. You’ve got balls.” Zach chuckles, shaking his head as he shuffles the deck of cards.
“And range, apparently,” Vincent pipes in, still glaring daggers at me. I glance toward Baz who’s deep in conversation with one of the women at the bar. She’s laughing and doing her absolute best to keep him entertained. At least he looks bored out of his mind and doesn’t seem to be enjoying the attention.
“He’s fucked her, you know.”
I stiffen at the sound of Trent’s voice. I’ve tried to avoid him, especially after what happened at the gala. I can see why Baz let me sit here instead of on that side next to him. When his words register, I try not to let my anger show. I dig my nails into my thighs, inhaling through my nose.
“Range?” I ask, dismissing Trent when I look toward Vincent. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He leans back. “Well, it just means you’re quite the actress. You’ve got range. First, you show up as this sexy, irresistible woman at the club, then you’re like a bombshell celebrity at the gala, and now look at you, all virginal and sweet. How long did it take you to decide what to wear?”
My eye twitches with frustration.
Fucking bastard.
“Paying an awful lot of attention to someone who isn’t yours,” I quip, and Vincent’s body goes rigid. I watch closely as the smug expression morphs into something more sinister. He leans forward, resting his forearm on the table.