ordered Dallas, glaring. “You blindsided him with all this, and now you’re trying to use a conversation that has no bearing whatsoever on this case to humiliate him, and hoping, what, that you’ll shake information out of him that he doesn’t have? Don’t come at him now and allude to the fact that there could be more. There’s no more.”
“Oh? You know this for certain?”
“Yes, I do,” I growled at him. “So seriously, stop pushing before we go directly to him calling his fleet of lawyers, and you get no help at all.”
“What makes you think we need––”
“I know you do,” I told him. “Suárez isn’t leaving Mexico to come here, but he will send his number two guy, and whoever that is, he’s certainly not going to meet with Mr. Ingram or you, Special Agent Bauer. He’s going to want to speak to Brigham Stanton’s representative in these matters, someone they’ve seen with him, his own number two.”
Dallas scoffed. “And that would be who?”
I smiled wide and arched an eyebrow for good measure.
It was more than gratifying to watch his face fall.
Five
The suite was insane when we returned to the Bellagio. People were coming and going, the music was loud, and Kent was pouring drinks, with Todd close by, entertaining everyone in the vicinity, if the laughter was any indication. Quentin and Trey were holding court in a corner of the living room, and there were six women clustered around them. On the opposite side, Aiden was sitting in a large group of people, none of whom I knew.
They’d taken my instructions to see, and be seen—and heard—seriously.
I was going to ask Brig if he wanted me to clear the room, but before I could get the words out, Chase was there, all over him, wanting to know what had happened. He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder and stared into his eyes.
“Shit,” Dallas groaned under his breath, behind me, and when I turned to look at him, he winced, like hearing Chase fire questions at his friend was painful. “It is sort of obvious, isn’t it?”
It was awkward to watch, was what it was, and I was certain some of the discomfort could have been relieved by Brig answering the series of rapid-fire questions Chase shot at him—they could always claim attorney/client privilege, if needed—but Brigham Stanton was a hundred percent distracted. He wasn’t even pretending to give Chase his attention and was, instead, mesmerized by the man standing in front of one of the windows, staring down at the Strip.
“Brig,” Chase rasped, pained that he couldn’t get his friend’s attention, let alone get him to meet his gaze. I heard his voice shake as he took matters into his own hands—literally—and put them on Brig’s face, forcing him to look at him.
It didn’t work. Brig’s head might have turned, but his eyes stayed riveted on the man standing at the window. That was Eric Foster. When Brig took hold of Chase’s wrists, prying them away, never sparing him a glance, I watched Chase deflate.
Eric, for his part, had turned when we walked in, his dark brown eyes gliding over me, then Dallas, before returning to Brig, settling there for long moments. His arms remained crossed, only those deep, liquid eyes moving before he pivoted back and became, once more, a study in solid, immovable muscle silhouetted against the glow of the lights below.
Brig swallowed hard, took a breath, and then darted away, crossing the room, acknowledging no one. His singular objective only to reach Eric. Once there, he took hold of his bicep, and when he got no response, he pulled, turning his caretaker around to face him.
The man’s scowl was impressive, it would have easily intimidated anyone who didn’t know him and left them backing away from the potential threat of it, but Brig wasn’t bothered. He grinned crazily and then laced his fingers with Eric’s. When he tugged gently, Eric followed. They walked out of the room to the next closest one, which just so happened to belong to me and Chase. Eric closed the door behind them.
It wasn’t one of those Hollywood moments where everything stopped. There was no hush that fell over the crowd; it was doubtful anyone even stopped what they were doing to notice what Brig had done. In the grand scheme of things, it was a minor event…unless you were Astor or Chase.
Crushed didn’t do justice to the look on Chase’s face, and he staggered over to the bar