The Pact Read online

  The Pact (Winslow #2)

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2021, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Cover Photo by Wander Aguiar Photography

  Cover Model: Gil Soares

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author's Note

  Dedication

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  The Bet Excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  The Pact is a full-length romantic comedy stand-alone novel in the Winslow Brothers Collection. This book is outright hilarious, as you might expect, but also, Flynn is the kind of hero who brings a little something extra to the table—hot, mysterious, dirty-talking, this man will make your ovaries explode.

  Honestly, we’re highly tempted to add a disclaimer about using protection while reading, but apparently, Trojan doesn’t offer condoms for electronic devices. So, just consider this a warning. A big warning. The Pact is going to make you laugh your ass off, but its HOT LEVEL is so OFF THE CHARTS, there’s a chance this book could get you pregnant via osmosis.

  Also, due to the hilarious and addictive nature of this book’s content, the following things are not recommended: reading while waiting in the carpool lane at your child’s school, reading in bed next to a light-sleeping spouse and/or pet and/or child, reading on a first date, reading this book at your mother-in-law’s Thanksgiving dinner instead of lavishing her with compliments about her broccoli casserole, reading during your child’s sports game/recital/school event, gifting this book to your mother-in-law for Christmas (unless your mother-in-law is a horny mofo who loves romantic comedies), reading while eating and/or drinking, reading at work, reading this book to your boss, and/or reading while operating heavy machinery. Also, if suffering from bladder incontinence due to age/pregnancy/childbirth/etc., we recommend wearing sanitary products and/or reading while sitting directly on a toilet.

  Happy Reading!

  All our love,

  Max & Monroe

  To dirty-talkin’, mysterious men: Dayuuum, we like your style.

  To the word that starts with an F and ends with U-C-K: Keep up the good fucking work.

  Saturday, April 6th, Las Vegas

  Flynn

  The four Winslow brothers in Vegas. What could go wrong?

  Ha. Pretty much every-fucking-thing can go wrong when all three of my brothers decided a boozy brunch to start the day was a grand idea.

  Although, so far, their only drunken sins revolve around stumbling steps and being a little too loud for the early afternoon casino crowd, but my track record of knowing them for my entire life predicts this day to be one hell of a chaotic ride.

  Says the bastard who always chooses to be the responsible, sober brother of the group.

  “What time is it?” Ty asks, but he quickly answers his own question when he glances at the time on his phone. “Holy shiz, it’s only noon?”

  Jude snorts from behind a blindfold that’s tied around his face. “My dudes. I feel pretty fuggin’ drunk for noon. How’d that happen?”

  I almost laugh out loud. How’d that happen? Most likely, the bottomless margaritas the three fools drank at brunch is the root of the cause. Not to mention the round of tequila shots Ty ordered…three fucking times.

  “Took the words right outta my mouth, bro,” Ty agrees and locks arms with Jude in a sloppy attempt to lead Mr. Blindfold through the casino.

  These clowns’ need for a chaperone is so real it’s nearly violent.

  Unfortunately, I am that man, and there’s only one person to blame—my brother Jude. The very bastard who decided to fall in fucking love, and late next month, he’ll say those two infamous words—ones that will sure as shit never leave my lips—and marry his fiancée, Sophie.

  “Alls I gotta know,” Jude slurs, “is where we goin’ and when can I take this blindfold off?”

  Is he getting drunker by the second? Fuck.

  My eldest brother—and currently least drunk brother—Remy lets out a deep, heavy sigh that perfectly showcases how I feel. “Jude, you put the blindfold on.”

  “What?” Jude questions, glancing from side to side, even though he can’t see shit. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Actually, yeah, man, you did,” Remy states, annoyance more than apparent in his voice.

  “I blindfolded me?” Jude scoffs. “That doesn’t make any-fucking-sense, bro.”

  No shit, Sherlock.

  Frankly, I don’t have a clue why Jude insists on wearing that blindfold. What was meant as a one-time use when we surprised him with a trip to Vegas to celebrate his upcoming nuptials has turned into him putting the damn thing on in the name of “staying true” to his fiancée, Sophie like it’s some kind of chastity belt for his face. It’s beyond me how walking through the Wynn’s casino could pose any risk, but I’ve never pretended to understand my youngest brother’s mind.

  In quite the turn of events, he went from a steady stream of women to what some would call “whipped,” otherwise known as completely and undeniably in love with his bride-to-be. I might not be the type of guy who buys into relationships and marriage and shit, but I can’t deny my baby brother is one-hundred-percent committed to Sophie.

  So much so that he proposed four times before she said yes.

  Four fucking proposals. If that doesn’t prove commitment, then punch me in the dick
and call me the craziest Winslow brother.

  Jude just laughs off Rem’s words, still leaving that stupid blindfold on, and mumbles something that apparently only Ty can hear.

  “Puh-lease,” Ty comments through a sarcastic chuckle from behind me and stumbles arm in arm with Jude. “Remy probably spends most of his time picturing himself makin’ women look like toaster strudels.”

  Jude cackles, and Remy turns around and punches Ty in the shoulder.

  “Ow,” Ty howls obnoxiously. “What was that for?”

  “For saying shit about me I don’t understand and probably don’t want to know either.”

  My eyebrows lift, and a tiny smirk curves the corner of my lips. I know exactly what Ty’s talking about—though I wish I fucking didn’t—and he better write a personal letter to God, thanking him for Remy’s unexpected innocence, along with a request to forgive him for all his past and future sins. I guarantee if Remy knew what Ty was really talking about, I’d be making an unscheduled trip to the hospital. I don’t know what it is about Ty and alcohol, but mix the two together, and you get one of the most inappropriate men on the planet. It’s almost like a disease.

  Currently, we are on day three of my youngest brother’s bachelor party extravaganza, and leading up to this day, I’ve endured over forty-eight hours of drunken debauchery, chaotic-as-hell nightclubs, and overly friendly strippers.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than happy to celebrate Jude; I just wish I didn’t have to be surrounded by the obnoxious Vegas party scene in order to do it.

  Personally, I prefer quiet surroundings. Relaxed vibes. Sober people. And while I’m probably in the minority when it comes to most men, going to strip clubs has never been my thing. Of course, I can appreciate the beauty that is the female form. I just prefer to enjoy it when it’s a consensual situation devoid of money and tips and fucking lap dances to songs that helped make Magic Mike a box office hit.

  This is exactly why Ty shouldn’t have been in charge of planning this weekend.

  Hindsight is a real bitch, isn’t it?

  You’d think, since all four of us Winslow brothers are over the age of thirty-fucking-five, a trip to Vegas wouldn’t be a shitshow, but yeah, it’s been the very definition of that.

  After two days of subjecting myself to my brothers’ shenanigans, I honestly can’t believe I showed up to the third. If I’d been smart, I would have taken off on my motorcycle and left them to their own messes without looking back.

  Hell, I might be based in New York like the rest of my brothers and baby sister, Winnie, but I have a house that’s about twenty minutes outside of the Strip. I could’ve easily sequestered myself away from their antics for a few hours to get some sanity.

  But no, here I am, subjecting myself to the circus. Sometimes my love for these jokers comes at the price of my own mental detriment.

  Drunken, sloppy, cackling brothers in tow, I head to the casino table that looks the most promising, the buzz of excitement and flashing lights ringing out all around us. I slide more than I probably should in cash across the felt to the dealer and sit down. It takes Ty a couple tries to land his ass on the chair, and the motion of its teeter throws Jude off-balance on his feet. Overwhelmed by dizziness, he finally removes his blindfold and tucks it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  I snort and shake my head as they sit next to me and start digging in their pockets for money to make bets of their own. Unfortunately for them, I emptied their pockets right after I watched them take tequila shot number three at eleven in the damn morning, knowing just how far down the gutter their ability to make sound decisions would go as this day progressed.

  “Damn,” Ty huffs, turning his pockets inside out and picking at the thin white material. “I could’a sworn I had some more chops—haaa—chiiips in here.”

  I flash the dealer a look that conveys “Please ignore them,” and his eyebrows rise only slightly as he takes my money and stacks up chips on my behalf. Jude immediately reaches over for some of my stack, and I slap his hand like a mom who’s just taken the turkey from the oven on Thanksgiving.

  Remy laughs. “Ohhh! De-nied!”

  I clear my throat, and the three of them straighten in their seats mockingly. “I think Flynn wants us to behave, fellas,” Jude says in his normal, jovial voice. Despite their teasing, I can’t help but kick up one corner of my mouth as I watch them all comply.

  Carefully, I flick a five-hundred-dollar chip at each of them. Jude and Remy practically fall on the table to claim theirs, tapping the felt to get the dealer to count them in, but Ty takes his and carefully, almost methodically, tucks it back into his pocket.

  “Not playing, Ty?” I ask slowly, almost like a parent would to a toddler. It’s really the only way to handle people when they’re this drunk.

  “Nope. I’m saving it for somethin’ special.”

  I nod. Fine by me. With the group finally settled, the dealer starts flinging cards.

  I’m not much for gambling, not much for taking unnecessary risks that aren’t in my favor, but given a weekend of choosing between hanging out in clubs or playing cards, I’ll pick blackjack every time. I know the game, know the strategy, and I have a ninety-nine-percent lower chance of being grazed by an unknown, dirty cooch. It also means my brothers are at least trying to be on their best behavior to keep from getting kicked out of the casino.

  If I’m being honest, I’d admit that I’m also capable of counting cards to the point of having a pretty good idea what’s left in the dealer’s decks and making a goddamn killing, but I’m in Vegas, and as most people know, counting cards is highly illegal.

  Acknowledge that you can count cards out loud? You might as well prepare yourself to be dragged into a windowless room and play Fight Club with a couple of muscle-headed, steroid-taking casino security.

  The dealer shows an eight of hearts, and I show two tens, one of spades and one of diamonds.

  Blackjack odds place me in a position to hold at a strong twenty.

  Now, some people might think it’s a good idea to split the tens, but I’m here to tell you that splitting tens will bring you nothing but bad blackjack juju and will almost always fuck you out of money. A lot of money if you double down.

  The rest of my table—including my two participating brothers—play their hands. Remy and Jude hold at eighteen and nineteen, some guy wearing a gold ring busts by getting a seven on a soft sixteen, and the last one, an older gentleman with a Yankees baseball cap who looks like he’s been playing for three days straight, manages to pull a blackjack out of his back pocket by getting a seven of spades added to his jack of hearts and four of clubs.

  The dealer flips over his cards and showcases a ten, which means I’m in the money on my hard twenty and Remy and Jude break even. All in all, good for the table, not good for the house.

  And the game pretty much rolls in a similar fashion. The same guy who busted on the first hand continues to bust three out of the next five hands. The guy in the baseball cap makes risky choices against the typical odds that end up paying off. And I base all my decisions on actual statistics to keep my chips steadily multiplying.

  When another guest joins our game, the dealer pauses to cash in the new player’s chips, and I relax back into my seat while the people at my table make chitchat about random things, like where they’re from, what their plans are for the night, and which casino has the best buffet. Basically, a whole bunch of useless chatter that I have no desire to partake in.

  I’m anything but a small-talk kind of guy.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a wild mane of light-brown curls walking down one of the long, carpeted casino paths and grow intrigued. The owner of the curls is a petite female dressed in jeans, white sneakers, and a white T-shirt that showcases just a hint of a trim stomach. She looks to be late twenties, and everything about her outfit, even down to the white luggage on wheels in each of her hands, matches perfectly.

  My first instinct is to writ
e her off. All that perfect coordination screams of anal-retentive tendencies and impossible standards for every man she meets. She probably expects expensive gifts and flowery words and no food on the couch, even snacks.

  “Ah, dammit,” Jude shouts, tossing his cards down on the felt and startling me out of my surveillance. “This hand’s about as good as a pair of saggy old nuts.”

  Ty snorts and tips his chair back, accidentally teetering on two legs until Remy smacks him forward with a straight arm, making him bump into the table. The dealer’s nostrils flare accordingly.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize, though I doubt drunken idiots are anything new for someone who works in a casino on the Las Vegas Strip. “They missed obedience training when they were puppies.”

  Placated enough to not call security, the dealer lets out a long sigh and goes back to his job, and my eyes bounce back over to the woman with the wild curls. They’re blithely out of place from the rest of her.

  As she pulls her two small suitcases behind her, her eyes grow big with delight when her gaze locks on to a slot machine.

  Instantly, there’s a pep in her step as she hurries over to the empty seat and plops down, and it doesn’t take long before she’s sliding money into a machine with gold lights and pictures of buffalo all over the front of it. When the big screen lights up, she giddily taps her finger on one of the buttons to bet money on her first spin.

  My brow furrows as I watch her, and I almost startle when she claps her hands and outwardly shouts, “Let’s go!” as the slot machine starts to do its thing. She’s completely on her own, completely by herself, but she acts as though she’s at the center of a crowd. It’s entirely at odds with what I expected—it’s not at all refined or uptight or worried about keeping up appearances.

  She doesn’t seem to have a care in the world—a lone wolf in a sea of sheep that are worried about what other people think.

  Frankly, she’s a breath of fresh air.

  She taps the button again and raises both hands in the air for a brief second to cheer, “C’mon, buffalo! Let’s do this! Move your big hairy asses, and show me the money!”

  I fucking loathe slot machines. They’re the biggest waste of money that anyone who steps inside a casino can engage in, and if I were a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve, I’d probably be shaking my head at her blind enthusiasm for the stupid game.