EVEN MONEY

by Torre, Alessandra

  I pulled in, jerked the car into park and turned off the key. I cracked open my door and waited for the sounds of disaster.

  Seven

  My engine had no concept of danger. It ticked as it cooled, and when I pushed the car door open, it creaked. I crept out of the car and around its hood, moving carefully down the long garage, past the vintage Mustang, the Range Rover, jet skis, and motorcycles. I tried the door to the house, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

  The interior smelled like pizza and Pledge. The television in the living room was on, and I moved through the kitchen and to the front windows. Light streamed through the open curtains, and I sidled up to them and peeked out.

  The Tahoe was parked at an angle, too far away for me to see or hear anything. I saw a blob of person move, and they could have been a sumo wrestler or a six-year-old kid. I gave up my attempt to hide behind the window and just pressed my face to the glass, cupping my hands to shield the sun.

  Nope. Still couldn’t see anything. I hesitated, then moved to the front door. I gave myself a moment to consider the first option—staying inside like a good little girl. I tossed that to the side and turned the knob, stepping outside and into the situation.

  It turns out that the “situation” was waaaay back where Rick had parked his Mercedes. That was where the Tahoe had gotten wise of the situation, attempted to turn around, and got stopped by the front bumper of Lance’s Hummer. I headed toward their cars and made it two houses down before my feet started sweating in my heels. Another house further, I decided to pull them off and go barefoot. Another six steps and I realized the sidewalk was hotter than a skillet. I hopped to the side and put them back on. I continued, sweating through my sundress, and was practically wheezing by the time I approached the confrontation, one that had both of my boys out in the middle of the street, arms folded across their chests, a scrawny little white-haired guy between them. My fear took a nose-dive. This was the guy following me?

  I limped up to the threesome and Lance glanced at me. “God, woman, you are out of shape.”

  I ignored him and made eye contact with Rick, who nodded at the stranger. “He’s a private eye. Won’t say who he works for.”

  “It’s not against the law to follow someone.” The old guy spit on the ground, then looked at me as if I was the criminal.

  Lance stepped closer to the vehicle. “I’ve got his name and tag number. I’ll make some calls.” He yawned, obviously disappointed. No doubt he’d wanted a fight, a chance to liven up his Wednesday with something more than a senior citizen with a saliva problem. He opened the Tahoe’s passenger door and the old guy whirled around.

  “Hey!”

  “Easy.” Rick caught the man’s arm and held him in place, his fingers biting into the man’s leathery flesh. “Just stay right there.”

  Lance leaned inside the vehicle. When he straightened, he held an insurance card in his hand, satisfaction stamped on his face. “MJS Holdings owns this car.”

  The name meant nothing to me. I turned to Rick, who still had one hand clamped around the man, the other on his phone, his thumb working over the display. “Give me a minute... Got it.”

  He looked up. “MJS Holdings is an asset management company.”

  Lance shut the car door, the insurance card still in hand. “What assets do they manage?”

  “Looks like real estate across the state and casinos.” Rick’s last word caught my attention, the tightness on his face held it. “They own The Majestic.”

  “The Majestic,” Lance repeated. “So... Dario Capece.”

  Rick nodded. “Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife?”

  They turned to me, their eyebrows lifted in question. Between them, the old geezer smirked.

  * * *

  Rick put his hands on his hips and looked at me as if I had the key to the Dario Capece vault of understanding. “This is fucking bullshit. Following you? What the fuck for?”

  Lance ran a rough hand through his hair. “You think this is about us? Or her?”

  I sank into Rick’s couch. “It can’t be about me. I walked him in and brought him a drink. That was it.”

  “He hasn’t contacted you since?”

  I frowned. “Since a couple of days ago? No.”

  “You are pretty sexy.” Rick leaned against the stone column that helped divide the living and dining room. “Maybe he’s smitten.”

  I coughed out a laugh. “Smitten? What are we, in eighteenth-century England? No. But thank you for the compliment.” I blew him a kiss and he tipped an imaginary cap in response. Prying off my sweaty heels, I flopped my bare feet up on the couch. “Is this a valid excuse to be late to work? Because I still need to eat and shower.”

  Lance frowned and completely ignored me. “Maybe he’s trying to get dirt on us. Maybe we’re all being followed.”

  The room fell silent in the face of this new possibility. I shifted against the leather, half-pleased at the possibility that I wasn’t the main target. I was also half-disappointed, which made no sense, as there was no good situation that involved me being the sole focus of a surveillance operation.

  Rick shifted his attention back to me. “Bell, you said you were coming from a friend’s house, right? Who, specifically?”

  I lifted one shoulder and freed my hair, which had gotten pinned underneath me. “A guy I’m sleeping with. My stats professor.”

  “Wow.” Lance looked down at his hands. “We just dived right into that.”

  I shrugged. “It’s the age of sexual empowerment, Lance. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  Rick shook his head. “Dario Capece doesn’t care about a college professor, so it’s not about that.”

  In the back of my mind, something nagged at me. I tried to capture it, but Lance’s phone rang, and it was gone.

  * * *

  I laid in bed, my hair still damp from my shower, wide awake at four a.m. Somewhere else in the house, I heard the quiet sounds of a sitcom, one which would probably play all night.

  It had been a good shift at work. Some big winners, the sort who tipped heavy and laughed a lot. Some big losers, but the kind who didn’t bitch about it and could afford the loss. I’d earned just over three hundred bucks and had forgotten—for those ten hours—the creepy smile of the private investigator. Dario Capece. Or maybe… his wife? When the PI had smirked, I’d wanted to shove him against the car, wrap my hands around his neck, and force him to tell me everything. I’d almost lost control and ignored the fact that I was such a tiny, vulnerable kitten in a city full of beasts.

  I thought of Dario Capece’s loose and confident stance, the way he had stood at that railing and watched me approach, his eyes moving over me and stopping at my eyes, holding his gaze there. I couldn’t get that look out of my head, the moment between us, the pull of that contact.

  I’d met and served a thousand powerful men and been attracted to plenty of them. There had been sparks, flirtations, and chemistry, but none of which compared to that moment.

  There had never been anything like the way that connection had filled the air with heat, nor the way my breath had caught in my throat. I saw him and understood why Vegas had fallen at his feet, why the city’s heiress had married him out of all the possibilities. He had been magnetic and I had been almost helpless in the face of it. I had walked away and assumed he hadn’t felt the same, assumed he affected every woman in that way. I had continued with my life and pushed aside any other thoughts of him.

  But I couldn’t ignore him any longer. Not when someone from his company had followed me. Was it because of his interest in purchasing The House? Or was it a specific interest in me?

  Could he have felt the same connection I did and was now ... stalking me? I frowned at the thought.

  My phone buzzed on the bedside table, and I rolled over, glancing at the clock. Almost five in the morning. A little late, or early, for anyone to be up. The text notification was from an unfamiliar number, and I unlocked my phone.

  —B
ell, this is Dario Capece. I just found out what happened yesterday and would like to apologize. I hope he didn’t scare you.

  What the hell? I read it a few times, trying to understand it. How did he even get my number? I typed out a quick response.

  why was he following me?

  The minutes stretched along with no response and I reread his text, my initial surprise fading, curiosity taking its place. My phone lit up.

  —I needed to know more about you.

  I rolled onto my side, and repositioned the pillow, struggling with the emotions the text was enticing. I shouldn’t read that text and feel a burst of butterflies. I should be filing a restraining order and double-checking my locks. I should be blocking him on social media. I shouldn’t feel excited that a married man wanted to know more about me. I’d told Lance earlier that it’s the age of sexual empowerment. But a married man was a different animal, one I’d never wrestled with before and had no interest in tangling with now.

  I selected his phone number and scrolled through the options until I got to the “block number” selection. It would be so simple. One tap of the finger and no more texts, no chance of a phone call. It’d be the easiest way to send him a clear message.

  I backed out of the menu and went to his text.

  I hit reply and tried to find the strength to tell him off.

  Eight

  I didn’t return his text. I let it hang, the words taunting me as I fell asleep and dreamed of his eyes, the way they had feasted on me. In my dream, I had a long and twisted affair with the man, and woke up with my heart pounding, the high of our interactions still filling my chest with a dreamy, perfect sensation.

  I closed my eyes and tried to find it again, wanting to resurrect the feeling. Instead, I woke up three hours later, my mouth cottony, my heart empty, mind blank.

  I found my phone in the sheets and pulled up the text conversation. Nothing new had come in since I fell asleep, the ending note still his.

  —I needed to know more about you.

  Maybe I was reading it all wrong. Maybe this wasn’t a sexual, or even romantic, thing. Maybe Dario Capece needed to know more about me for a strictly business reason. I rolled onto my back and kicked the covers loose, my body suddenly warm.

  Dario Capece was trouble, I reminded myself. MARRIED trouble. Getting involved with him would be a disaster. I thought of the moment he had laughed, the flex of his hand on the railing, the way he’d peeked at me out of the corner of his eye ... I pushed it all from my head and forced myself to get out of bed.

  * * *

  DARIO

  Dario carefully folded his shirt in half and laid it over the metal folding chair. He walked forward and the man before him winced at his approach. Dario was a man of habit and dedication. Two hours each night in their personal gym. Four hours on Saturday and Sundays with the boxing bag and jump rope. As a result, he had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, one without an ounce of fat, the large build one that came from weights and genetics, his muscles properly proportioned without the side effects of steroids and supplements.

  He stopped in front of him and the man’s eyes darted to Dario’s, a plea babbling from his lips. His apologies were too late. The asshole should have thought about this outcome before he manufactured poker chips in his garage, then tried to toss them on a table and play.

  Dario closed his eyes, blocking out the sound of the man and taking a moment to picture a different man—someone older, his shock of white hair giving him an air of wisdom that almost hid his psychosis. Gwen’s father.

  He opened his eyes. When he swung his fist, it carried the impact of the two hundred and forty pounds of muscle behind it. The man’s head snapped backward and the crunch of teeth was strangely satisfying in their vulnerability.

  * * *

  BELL

  “The Palms sucks. And that bouncer will be there. The one we hate.” Meredith leaned against the bathroom counter, her face close to the mirror. “Help me with these fake lashes. I watched that YouTube video four times and I still can’t do it.”

  I gestured her toward me and she turned, the bits of fake eyelashes clumped together in a delicate pile on her palm. I pulled out a cluster of them and took the glue from her hand, squeezing a tiny drop on the end of one before leaning forward and carefully pressing it against her top lash. “Come on. It’s Ladies Night at The Palms. It’ll be fun.”

  “Right. Ladies night. An ovary-fest. Just what my libido needs.” Jackie spoke from her place on the bed, where she sat cross-legged, a bowl of cereal in hand. “B, see if you can call your sexy bosses and get them to go out with us.”

  “Hey, Lance and Rick are off-limits.” I untangled another clump of fake black curls and got them gluey. “We’ve discussed this. At length.”

  I decided eons ago that mixing my male friends and my roommates was a recipe for hell. I loved the three of them, but their relationships tended toward the dramatic and short-lived. If Lance and Rick ever decided to settle down, it needed to be with girls who could handle their lifestyle, personalities and sex drives. After living with these three for the last eighteen months, I could safely say that none of them qualified.

  “Yeah, B is keeping them as her backup plan.” Lydia spoke through a toothbrush, leaning forward and spitting in the sink before returning to her dental process—one that qualified as OCD to anyone who paid attention to it.

  I made a face at my least favorite roommate. “Another conversation we’ve had a million times.”

  “So, the Palms is out,” Meredith decides. “And Bell gets no votes because she’s got more men than she knows what to do with right now.” She met my eyes and winked.

  “You do know that your eyelash-batting future is in my hands, right?” I pressed on her next batch a little more aggressively than necessary.

  “Ouch. Stop.”

  “If not the Palms, then where are we going?” Jackie looked down, fishing out a spoonful of Fruit Loops and lifting them to her mouth.

  “What about the Gold Room?” Lydia piped in the suggestion while opening a new container of floss. “This girl at work said it’s amazing.”

  My body tensed at the mention of The Majestic’s latest club. It was the new hot spot among tourists and locals alike. Meredith’s eyes studied mine, and I looked away, focusing on the application of super glue to the end of false eyelashes. The sure-fire way to have a conversation I didn’t want, or guarantee our presence at the Gold Room, was to nix it as an idea. I stayed quiet and motioned for Meredith to turn and give me her other eye.

  “Yes!” Jackie hopped up from the bed, her bowl in hand, and headed to the kitchen. “I’ve been wanting to go there.”

  “I don’t think they have any drink specials...” Meredith ventured.

  I gave her a small smile in appreciation and, behind me, Lydia snorted. “Drink specials? I’m wearing my push-up bra. Tonight, drinks are on these babies.”

  Despite my silence, and Meredith’s casual attempts to save my ass, forty-five minutes later we were packed into Lydia’s car and headed north, toward Dario Capece’s newest crown jewel.

  It’d be fine. It was one club out of a dozen he owned, and the chances of him being there were slim to none. I put my phone on silent and slipped it into my clutch, fastening the clasp and leaning forward, turning the radio up, and belting out the lyrics to the song, hoping I was right.

  * * *

  DARIO

  The lobster was sweet and tender, the steak a little overdone. Dario cut into it and moved it to the side, the waiter instantly beside their table, removing the tenderloin and apologizing.

  “Let Robbie know.”

  His reference to the chef was met with a quick nod. “I’ll bring another one right out, sir.”

  “And another bottle.”

  “Certainly.”

  The man escaped, and Dario met Gwen’s eyes across the candlelit table, noting the tired way she rubbed the back of her neck. “Long day?”

  “God, they
all are lately.” She held her hand over her mouth in an attempt to cover up a yawn. “When did we get so old?”

  He chuckled. “I think about five years ago.”

  “Maybe we should just give up on everything.” She stole a piece of his lobster and dipped it into the drawn butter. “Sell it all and move to Tahiti.”

  “Tahiti?” He smiled. “You’d be bored stiff.”