Bells emerges to find me still prone on the hardwood like a crime scene outline, arm extended toward the bathroom at an angle that's probably going to ache for days.
"Thanks," she says, stepping over me.
I get to my feet with what little dignity remains. Which is none. Zero fucking dignity. I have been reduced to lying on the floor so my blackmail victim can pee without unchaining me.
Nash would laugh his ass off if he could see this.
I shove the thought back down.
"Phoenix and Raf should be back soon," Bells says, checking her phone on her way into the hall, tugging me behind her. I growl automatically, but she ignores it. Like I'm her dog. "We need to figure out how we're explaining these." She lifts our connected wrists, the fuzzy cuffs catching the light.
"We're not."
"Rex—"
"We show up. We deal with Carmine. We don't explain shit about why we're handcuffed together because it's none of his fucking business."
She opens her mouth—probably to argue, because she always fucking argues—but the penthouse door swings open before she can.
Phoenix and Rafael spill inside with coffee carriers and a bakery bag that smells like sugar and butter. Phoenix is saying something about traffic, Rafael is bitching about the line at the coffee place, and then they both stop dead.
Stare at us.
At the handcuffs still connecting our wrists.
"Still attached, I see," Rafael says flatly.
"She still won't take them off."
"He's still a flight risk," Bells says without missing a beat.
Phoenix's mouth twitches like he wants to laugh but knows better. "Coffee?"
He holds out a cup. I take it with my free hand, ignoring the way Rafael's eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
The coffee is black and scalding. Perfect. I drink half of it in three long pulls, ignoring the way it burns going down.
"Car's out front," Phoenix says, already moving toward the door. "We should go. Carmine doesn't seem like the type who tolerates tardiness."
He's right. Carmine strikes me as exactly the kind of corporate clockwatcher who considers five minutes early to be late.
A man after my own fucking heart.
The elevator ride down is silent except for the mechanical hum of cables and counterweights. Phoenix keeps side-eyeing Bells and me. Well. Side-eyeing the cuffs, at least. I curl my lip slightly in his general direction and he stares straight ahead instead.
Rafael's car is parked at the curb. Phoenix takes shotgun without discussion, which leaves Bells and me in the back seat.
There's not enough room.
The Impala's rear bench is spacious by classic car standards, but I'm almost seven feet tall. And Bells is chained to my wrist andthe chain doesn't stretch far enough for us to sit on opposite sides unless we get out and rearrange ourselves.
We end up in the middle, thighs pressed together, shoulders touching. The handcuff chain pools across our laps.
Rafael catches my eye in the rearview mirror. His expression is carefully blank.
"Don't," I say flatly.
"Didn't say anything."