Tommy looked down at his drink—that expensive whiskey he'd been celebrating with—and something shifted in his expression. The drunk haze cleared for just a moment, replaced by something sharper.
Something that looked almost like clarity wrapped in liquid courage.
Then he looked up at Jack Morrison.
And laughed.
Not nervous laughter. Not the kind that came from being cornered or afraid. Full, genuine, alcohol-fueled amusement that carried across the club like a fucking air raid siren.
Jack Morrison stood there with his usual entourage—seven boys of them total, all holding pool cues mid-game like they'd been frozen in time. The football team's elite. The guys who thought Lincoln Club was their personal territory because their daddies had money and their families had influence.
Our arch-nemesis and his pack of followers who existed solely to make him feel important, to laugh at his mediocre jokes, to provide backup when his mouth wrote checks his ass couldn't cash.
