Page 10 of Dissonance

“Yes.” There’s no ego, no flexing, just Cooper setting a boundary.

“You’re really okay with this?” Zane presses, glaring at Tyler, waiting for the part where he laughs and tells everyone to relax. “Cuz, seriously?”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

A muscle in Zane’s jaw pulses. He mutters something under his breath, practically growling, shoulder clipping mine deliberately as he passes before the door slams behind him.

Declan whistles low, stretching his arms above his head. “Well, I’m gonna head back to the hotel and take a nap. Dinner later?”

Cooper leans into him, chin tipped upward. “I love you.”

“Damn right you do,” he replies, stealing a quick kiss before waving to Thea. Cooper’s gaze tracks him until he disappears outside.

Stepping toward the small table near the door, Thea grabs her bag. “I’ll be next door if you need me.”

She turns to leave, pausing when her eyes find mine. The corner of her mouth lifts—an almost-smile, gone as quickly as it came—the same look she used to give me across crowded rooms. The one I could never quite talk myself into looking away from.

And I— I should stay where I am.

I shouldn’t follow her.

But the pull’s still there. It’s always there.

Chapter Four

Lockie

Twelve years ago, Miami

I hate charity galas. Not because of the charity aspect—donating money for a good cause is never a bad thing—but there are too many suits. Too many people with too much money in one room, with an over-inflated sense of importance that makes them think the rules don’t apply to them.

The ballroom in the Four Seasons, Miami, sparkles like someone bought an industrial size bag of glitter, stuck it on the end of a leaf blower, and went to town. Crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, actors, singers, athletes—every corner of the room filled with someone who could buy the hotel twice over and still have change to spare.

Which means security is tight.

Standing just off to the side of the crowd, one hand in my pocket, I hold myself relaxed enough that nobody looks twice. That’s the point; blend in, be inconspicuous, just another guy in a tie holding a glass of water.

My eyes keep moving, clocking everything. Entrances, exits, hands, faces. The same quiet sweep I’ve been running since forever. Old habits don’t die just because you’ve traded desert heat for tuxedos.

“Still look like you’d rather be anywhere else, Highlander.”

“Thought you were covering the back entrance,” I mutter, not turning to look at the man in the purple suit.

Marcus Gunnerson—Gunner to anyone who’s ever served with him—sidles up beside me, shoulder to shoulder, watching the floor with an ease that comes from years of working a crowded room.

“Used to this yet?” he asks, nodding toward the dance floor, where the flavor of the month model dances with the highest-earning actor of our time.

“To rich people?”

“To rich people pretending they’re normal.”

My mouth twitches. “Pretty sure this is the part you forgot to mention when you talked me into taking the job.”

“Yeah, yeah, cry me a river next time you’re sent to the Bahamas.” Gunner snorts. “Speaking of which, guess who’s going there tomorrow.”

“Aye?”

“Some actor’s flying out and apparently he needs a babysitter.”