Page 127 of Stealing Blinds

“Lemon Wilkeshire,” Liam parrots in my ear, and the eye roll is audible. “Of all the uppity-ass names.”

She wasn’t one of our projected guests, but as I catalog her well-cultivated summer suit, pearls, and French twist with lash-grazing bangs, it’s plain that she’s old money, though not billionaire status. She’s tagging along with someone.

“I’m Sylvie Palmer.” I take her hand, noting her firm shake. “It’s nice to meet you. Maybe we can be escape buddies this weekend.”

“Oh, I’d love that. Who are you here with?”

“The Noires,” I say, and her green eyes flash with something, so I grin and peer over my shoulder at my man. “Cash is mine.”

“Wow.” She whistles quietly, but drowns it in her salty gin. “The Noires are … intense.”

I slant my head, feigning innocence. “How do you mean?”

“Just … they’re pretty open about what they do.”

“That they are,” I concede with a hint of mirth. “But maybe that’s better than the others here who pretend to be driving a straight and narrow path.”

That strikes a chord.

She bobs her head, her shoulders pulling back with the slightest shadow of ire coasting across her made-up face before she snaps practiced shutters over it. “When they’re doing a hundred fifty on the wrong side of the highway. Backward. Yeah.”

“Who did you come with?”

“I’m with the Spencer group. Elliot is my brother-in-law.” She pins her lips, debating something.

Elliot Spencer? I wonder if Lemon knows anything about the group her brother-in-law is with or that he’s a keyholder for some sort of duplicitous information. Maybe that’s the root of her attitude.

“Jackpot,” Gage hoots into the comm. “Doing my recon for me.”

Finally, regarding whatever internal war Lemon was enduring, she picks a side. Her eyes connect with mine, emeralds shimmering with conflict. “I’m here to enjoy a getaway with my sister, but my husband was a Fed. So”—she chuckles without a stitch of humor before polishing off her martini—“I don’t think we’ll make great escape buddies. He was corrupt. But I am not.”

She wipes her mouth and saunters off without sparing me another glance.

Division is everywhere. Old money and new money. Ethical and crooked. And I must be guilty by association—because as far as she knows, I could be as virtuous as they come.

“Wilkeshire is her maiden name,” Wells announces as I’m vacating the barstool. “Lemon is the widow of Agent Glines. He was killed in the field a few years ago.”

Agent Glines—the FBI agent who visited my father in prison.

I’m not sure if that’s useful or if it’s a bad omen, but my gut stirs.

“So, the guards fucking love me,” Maddox boasts while I head for his brother. “If anyone needs theme-music inspiration, I’m currently going with ‘All Along the Watchtower’ by Jimi Hendrix.”

“Fitting,” I deadpan.

“Kinda doomsday,” Tessa counters.

“So, fitting.” Cash flashes his dazzling smile at me—all suave and golden and steeped in celebrated duplicity—as he beelines through the hordes of people in the throes of either frivolous discussions or nefarious scheming. “There does indeed have to be a way out of here.” That’s in reference to the chorus.

“Well, guys”—my gaze flits from person to person, aware that so much more lies beneath what we’re witnessing here, but our time is ticking—“let’s start taking the steps toward it then.”

“You heard the boss,” Maddox croons. “Operation Chaos has commenced.”

JAX

Her blouse is orange, but I won’t hold that against her.

After some covert internet stalking, breaking the no-social-media rule, I mosey around to the back entrance, finishing my joint until a pair of employees exit, whispering about a musician who just arrived.