Page 94 of The Finish Line

Just fifteen minutes in a hotel room and we’ll be half a million richer. The kicker? If caught, Elijah will take the fall no matter where the money lands or how it’s spent. That’s the perk of robbing thieves.

Elijah is precisely the kind of prick we target. His greed and misdeeds make him easy money and a job none of us will lose sleep over. Along with the half-million, we’ll gain a list of contacts and co-conspirators that will secure us a new list of targets to smoke in the future.

Dom sits next to me, posture rattling, his eyes fixed on our mark as sporadic shouts sound around us for the two men in the ring. The reigning champ is a bit larger in comparison to his contender, Lance Prescott, an up-and-comer I read about with an impressive record—a wildcard with an evident chip on his shoulder, who seems to be dancing with the devil in his eyes. And my literal money is on him. Scanning the arena, I spot Sean as he strolls up with a fresh beer and takes his seat at my right.

“All set,” he says, before sipping his beer, Elijah’s hotel keycard tucked away in his pocket as he eyes them across the ring. “Is he still fucking with her?”

Our view is obstructed by two women in spiked heels as they saunter past us, their eyes trailing over the three of us with blatant interest. I shift my attention past them to the fight as Lance nails his opposition with a sick combination, stunning him.

“Damn, man,” Sean says, elbowing me, “are you fucking asexual now, or what? I haven’t seen you with a girl since—” he snaps his fingers—“what was that chick’s name?”

“Chesty-toria,” Dom supplies with a smirk.

Sean closes his eyes. “Yeah, man. I remember those titties well.”

I roll my eyes as Sean nudges me, the foam of his beer dangerously close to spilling on my suit.

“You were what, sixteen?” Sean goads. “Seriously, man, it’s time to get a back scratch, at the very least.”

“He’s got a couple of girls in France he sees to itch it,” Dom supplies, earning my glare as he cants his head to get a view of Sean past me. “You forget Christian Louboutin here is a double agent. Maybe he prefers French women.”

“Maybe I prefer privacy,” I snap. “End of—” I turn to Sean—“and you’re annoying me.”

“That’s what little brothers do,” Sean snarks. Ignoring him, I glance over at Elijah, who’s focused on the fight, relieved that I won’t have to pry my brother off him for the moment. Mark or not, Dom’s not going to last much longer.

Sean lets out an exaggerated sigh, fidgeting next to me until I cut my gaze his way. “What?”

“We’ve been in Vegas nine hours, and you haven’t had one taste of that pathetic girl drizzle you call a drink.”

“I don’t drink on the job.” I eye his beer. “You should try it sometime.”

“Live a little, man. Don’t you think we deserve it?”

“I’ve got plans for later.”

“Oh, yeah? Did you schedule your first smile?”

My glare lands on the side of his head, his smirk disappearing in his cup before he obnoxiously gulps down his beer. “Ahhhhh, delicious.” He sloshes the liquid around. “I would offer you some, but you’re probably allergic because it tastes a lot like a good time.”

Dom chuckles next to me and shakes his head.

Spending time with Sean and Dom is completely different from dealing with Antoine in his pit full of vipers. As relaxed as I am with the two of them for the most part, it’s sometimes hard for me to acclimate from one role to the other.

Here in the States, I’m not constantly on guard the way I am in France, but the stakes are just as high.

Sean plants his elbow on his knee, cupping the side of his face as he gazes over at me, batting his lashes. “I just can’t at all understand how you don’t dazzle the ladies with your glittering personality. Wait, Dom—” he palms my chest, brushing my nipple with his thumb, and I slap his hand away—“I think I saw the twitch of his lips.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh.

I snatch his beer and tip it, smiling into the cup as Sean’s own smile vanishes.

“Anyone else noticing a pattern here?” He looks between the two of us as I down his drink, and he narrows his eyes. “Every fucking time I have a bottle, you take it away,” he growls when I hand him back his empty cup. “Do you know how fucking long I had to wait in line for that, asshole?”

“Appreciate it.”

Dom chuckles next to me, and I glance over at him, noting the rare smile on his face. At twenty-two, his future is so much brighter than mine, his worries fewer these days, making all of my efforts worth it.

It was all worth it, just to see him thrive. Dom looks back at me and draws his brows.

“What?”