The whiskey tasted like peat and burnt money.
"To patterns," Nathaniel Reed said, raising his glass. The crystal caught the low light of the private room, fracturing it into a dozen tiny rainbows.
"To patterns," I echoed. I took a sip. It burned going down, settling in my stomach like a hot coal.
We were in a VIP suite at the back of the lounge. It was smaller than the main floor but infinitely more expensive. The walls were padded with acoustic foam covered in red velvet. It felt like the inside of a heart valve.
Nathaniel sat opposite me on a leather sofa. The two rugby players—his muscle—stood by the door. Their jackets were unbuttoned. I could see the matte black grip of a pistol tucked into the waistband of the one on the left.
Guns. Of course there were guns. Why wouldn't a high school student council president have armed guards in a secret underground casino?
I hated this plotline.
