Page 60 of Victorious
“I guess you’ll find out,” she said, leading him back into the suite.
Music filled the room like smoke.
Bills littered the marble floor, and lines dusted the glass table, and everyone was having a good time. Or at least pretending to.
The Man at the Window was slow dancing with Grace, his hands pawing at her skimpy dress, while the Man on the Couch was still on the couch, Bella in his lap. The Man from the Doorway was perched on the back of a chair, where he alternated between leering at the other two girls, and leering at June, who’d posted up behind the bar cart in the corner, making drinks.
He’d ordered a sidecar, but she didn’t know how to make one, so she was going with a whisky sour. He might have noticed, if he’d been looking at her hands instead of her tits. She rattled the cocktail shaker, the ice inside making a sound like static. She held it to her ear, relishing the brief white noise.
The other two girls smiled and laughed, their voices too high, too bright, as they toyed with the men’s hair, slid their hands along their pants. Telegraphed just how happy they were to be there. Pretended to ignore the gun sitting on the table’s edge. The fact that anyone rich enough to reserve this kind of suite was also rich enough to make them disappear.
The men didn’t notice their nerves.
They were too busy celebrating. Congratulating themselves. Toasting the success of their new venture. A rival club. A hostile takeover.
“Harry never saw it coming,” gloated the Man on the Couch.
June smiled as she used the paring knife to slice a perfect orange curl.
Because, of course, he had.
That was why he’d hired her.
When she looked up, the Man in the Doorway was ambling toward her. He’d clearly gotten tired of being left out. He came round to her side of the bar cart, and squeezed her borrowed ass, and that was her cue, thought June, turning in his grip.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him the drink.
He looked down and crinkled his nose. “What the hell is this?”
June shrugged. “Fuck if I know,” she said, sweeping the blade across his throat. He staggered, blood speckling the marble, tried to shout, but she’d cut deep.
Across the room, Grace screamed.
The Man from the Doorway collapsed onto his hands and knees, and the remaining four heads turned toward June as she rounded the bar cart.
Bella shot up from the sofa and stumbled toward the door, half dressed, as if she was in any danger. June didn’t have a chance to reassure her because the Man on the Couch lunged for the gun on the table, and she had just enough time to trade the blonde she’d been wearing right before he fired three shots into her chest.
Only it wasn’t her chest.
It was his.
Just in time, she’d swapped sweet Ginny for the good old boy in his half-buttoned shirt. June registered the dull force of the bullets nudging her back a step before the Man on the Couch staggered, blood blooming on his chest. The gun tumbled from his hand, skating over the marble, and he crashed, lifeless, onto the table, which shattered beneath his weight.
As he went down, so did her hold on him.
She couldn’t wear a dead shell—but that was okay, she was already shifting, abandoning the body for the mustachioed concierge she’d met on her way in, the one who’d sneered when she handed him her coat, like he knew what she was there for.
She swept up the fallen gun, and turned toward the Man at the Window, who was still clinging to Grace, only now, it was to use her as a shield. Which might have worked, if he wasn’t twice her size.
June rolled her eyes and shot him in the shoulder.
He roared in pain, and let go of the redhead, who dropped to the floor, where she seemed genuinely torn about which one of them she should be running from. June flicked her weapon toward the door.
“Off you pop,” she said. When Grace didn’t get up, June cocked her head, and changed back into Ginny, hoping that would jar her loose.
“Go on,” she said, as kindly as she could.
Grace eyed the cash littering the floor, hundreds curling like dead leaves. June shrugged. “Take it.”
