The Inheritances Game (Jameson Hawthorne)

The Devil's Mercy

He was on a roof; how does he always find a roof to sit on the edge of every single time he needs to think. "You know I think this is trespassing."

He turned to me, "Don't worry we can run before the police come."

I rolled my eyes and sat next to him; my voice turned serious. "Jamie, I think you forget I know you very well. Something is troubling you, now you can either tell me or we can sit her in silence until you eventually do something stupid or need help."

"I never need help." he said looking offended. After a minute he took a deep breath and said the last possible thing I thought he would ever say. "I met my father today."

"You what?" My mind was a mixture of shock, curiosity, worry, and annoyance that he didn't tell me until now. 

"Ian Johnstone-Jameson." I observed the way it rolled off his tongue, he didn't want it to matter. "Professional poker player. Black sheep of what appears to be an extremely wealthy family."

"Appears to be?" I repeated the words sinking in. "You haven't searched his name yet." 

He caught my gaze, "I don't want you to, either, Cal." 

It was silent, I knew what he was thinking. Nothing matters unless you let it. "So...." I didn't know what to say. I should say something to comfort him but that's not the option I chose. "Your name could have been Johnstone?"

He narrowed his eyes at me, "Don't you dare."

"At least Skye did one thing good for you." I smiled.

He smiled at the comment, "After meeting Gray's asshole father I promised myself that I would never want to meet mine." 

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it, "How was it?"

Jameson looked up, before looking at me with half of a grin, "well he hasn't kidnapped or killed anyone yet so that's a plus." Grayson's gather set the bar pretty low. "He wants something from me."

At that my smile dropped any happiness I felt was replaced with anger. "Screw him, he doesn't get to ask you for anything."

"Exactly."

I gave him a look, I knew him. "But. . ."

"What makes you think there's a but?" Jameson retorted.

"This." My fingers brushed against his ace. "I know you Jameson."

"Jameson swallowed, "I don't owe him anything. And I don't care what he thinks of me. But. . ." She was right. Of course she was. "I can't stop thinking about what he said,"

Jameson stepped back from the edge; I followed him not wanting to let him stand by himself too long. He bent down and murmured in my ear. "There's an establishment in London whose name is never spoken." This piqued my interest; he grabbed my arm and pulled me down the stairs and into our shared room. He told me everything and the more he said the more I could feel the adrenaline radiating off of him.

He liked to play. He likes to win. "You want to say yes."

"I said no." 

"You didn't mean it."

He sighed, "The Devil's Mercy." There was a thrill that came from the name. A centuries-old secret. An underground gambling house. Money and power and games with stakes.

"When are you talking to him again?" I asked.

"We?" he said raising his eyebrow amused.

"No way I would let you do this on your own."