Not being a girlfriend. At least, not to Ian.
I was becoming less sure of how I felt about everything else.
* * *
“Who’s hungry?” Lance kicked open the door to the control room, then maneuvered in, his hands full of bags from…. I leaned sideways on the couch in an attempt to read the ticket. Thai Garden.
I raised a hand. “Me. Feed me now, oh great leader.”
“About time. I’m starving.” Rick grabbed a bag from Lance and started pulling out mini boxes of takeout. I heaved myself off the couch and grabbed a handful of paper plates. My phone buzzed from the coffee table, and Lance snagged it, glancing at the display before he handed it over. His brows raised.
“What?” I snatched it from him.
“Nothing.”
I glanced down, saw Dario’s name on the text message notification, then swiped open the message.
—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch. Sitting down, I used chopsticks to pull out a chunk of noodles.
“Dario Capece?” Lance asked.
So much for him not commenting on it. I ignored him, scooping up a mouthful of Pad Thai.
“What about Dario Capece?” Rick chomped on the bait like a rabid raccoon.
“He’s texting B.”
“What about?”
Rick’s question hung in the air and, with only three of us in the room, was impossible to ignore.
“Stupid stuff.” I shrugged. “You know guys like him. They think they can take what they want. It’s not anything serious.”
“It’s not anything serious?” Lance repeated. “B, I’m pretty sure that every fucking thing Dario Capece does is serious.”
Rick followed suit. “If Capece is interested in you, you’ve got to keep a lid on this. You know who his father-in-law is, right?”
I finished chewing and took a sip of my soda before answering him. “Super-rich guy. And … let me guess—some mobster?”
Lance and Rick exchanged a look that had me setting down my paper plate. “What? Spit it out.”
Lance leaned forward, pressing his palms together before speaking. “He’s not connected, it’s more that he’s a fuckin’ psychopath. He cut the fingers off his last GM when he suspected him of embezzling. Had the guy so scared, he didn’t even press charges.”
Rick nodded. “A decade ago, before Dario came around—The Majestic was losing cocktail waitresses. Not because they were quitting, but because they were disappearing. Rumor on the Strip was that he liked to keep them as pets.”
“Pets?”
Lance jumped in. “Chained up in his basement. A few parents called the cops, reported their daughters missing, and LVPD sniffed around Hawk, but they could never find anything. Plus, you know those guys. They got half the department in their pockets.”
“And you guys don’t?” I smiled, but they didn’t take the bait, the somber expressions on their faces causing me to change tactics. “Fine. You’ve scared me, okay? I’ll stay away.”
Rick wasn’t done. “And don’t talk to anyone about this. Not your roommates, or Britni, or anyone. You need to gush over Capece’s gigantic cock? Tell us about it.”
“A modified version, please.” Lance grinned at me. “I can’t have my ego damaged by some Italian asshole.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to need to share any sordid details. Like I just said, I’ll stay away.”
“Sordid?” Lance laughed before popping a crunchy noodle into his mouth. “You can’t use big words like that in here, B. Rick gets confused.”
Rick flicked a soy sauce package toward Lance in response, and I stood up, reaching for it and dropping it into the takeout bag.
“You. Guys. Are. Pigs. Are those small enough words for you?” I dropped the bag on the table before him and smacked Lance on the back of the head.
He laughed in response. “But seriously, B. Watch your back.”
“Forget watching your back. Just don’t let Capece put you on your back,” Rick added.
I thought of the fantasies that had plagued me ever since that kiss in the club. His eyes, burning across my skin, my legs open, his fingers and mouth strumming over me in sweet concert. Don’t let Capece put you on your back. I winced and tried to redirect my thoughts, turning to their stories of Robert Hawk, chopped-off fingers, and missing cocktail waitresses. Waitresses like me, serving drinks, counting tips, and trying to get from one week to the next. Girls kept and probably killed by a psychotic billionaire whose daughter was married to Dario Capece.
Girls like me didn’t have a great track record with luck, and a dinner on Sunday night would be hell on my odds.
“I don’t like to waste my time, Bell. If you don’t want me to chase you, I won’t.”
He had said the words with such solemnness. Maybe he would leave me alone. Maybe all I had to do was tell him to go away, and he would disappear. Problem over. Fates averted.
I sat down on the couch and reopened his text.
—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I ignored the barb and settled back against the cushion, thinking of my promise to the boys, to stay away from Dario. I typed out a response.
please don’t contact me again
I reread the text before sending it. Moved my thumb over the Send button and paused. It was short and sweet, with no room for confusion or misinterpretation. Polite yet firm. I sent the text before I had a chance to change my mind.
Twelve
For the entire shift, the text followed me, taunting me, and I was almost sick with nerves by the time I watched the last customer stumble out. I should have felt resolution. Peace. Instead, it felt like a mistake. A mistake I couldn’t talk to anyone about. A mistake that had Dario’s voice whispering in my ear, the phantom brush of his fingertips on my shoulder, his kiss on my neck. A kiss I’d never feel again.
I had lost control with him, my stability seeming to dissolve the longer I’d stayed in his presence. It was all just as confusing as the conflict I’d seen in his eyes.
I carried empty glasses and wiped down the bar, thinking of his hand closing around my waist, drawing me against his body, the soft give and dominance of his mouth against mine. The look of torture in his eyes when he’d stepped away from me.
“The women don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”
Had it all been bullshit, lines of seduction that a dozen Vegas brunettes had heard? I stacked my tips, then handed them through the cage. Maurice spread the chips, then counted out my bills, passing them over with a smile.
“Thanks.”
He nodded, then locked the drawers. On any given night, there was a few million in the cage. I’ve watched them count out the stacks, had seen the nights when the armored truck had to deliver extra, and nights when they carted away the profits. It was a good business to be in. I tucked my cash into my pocket and moved to the control room. Grabbing my phone, I held my breath as I unlocked it and opened my texts.
Nothing. No text and no missed call. I’d sent out a grenade, and he hadn’t responded at all. I should be thankful.
I moved past everyone and out to the parking lot. I unlocked my car, got inside, and swore, hitting the steering wheel with enough force to hurt my palm.
I told him I didn’t want him to contact me again. He hadn’t, and the result was one that made me want to tear out my hair and scream.
I knew what I liked. What I wanted. Emotion-free, orgasm-filled sex.
While Dario Capece might be looking for the same thing in a side piece, I could already tell that—with him—my emotions wouldn’t behave. A physical relationship between us might take my cold and lifeless heart and actually cause it to beat. To hum. To swell with blood and emotion. To hurt.
* * *
It was Sunday afternoon and I was in full pity-party mood. In bed at three o’clock. Class assignments finished, I was bingeing on reality TV with impressive
dedication.
If I hadn’t sent the Worst Text Ever, I’d be prepping for tonight’s date with Dario. Instead, I was elbow-deep in some housewives show where everyone seemed to be broke and bitchy.
It was ridiculous. Ian asked me on a date, and I blew him off without a second thought. I did the same thing to Dario Capece, and I was chewing through my fingernails like a meth addict in rehab.
My phone buzzed and I catapulted over the covers, frantically tossing aside pillows until I pulled it out. Ugh. A text from Ian. I closed it without reading it and settled back against the headboard and pulled my bag of Doritos closer. I was being pathetic. I hardly knew the man. I shouldn’t think twice about turning down his dinner invitation or never speaking to him again.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
My mom hadn’t raised a starry-eyed weakling. I reached for the remote and clicked on the next episode.
* * *
A few minutes before eleven, there was a soft knock, and I turned my head as the bedroom door creaked open. Meredith stuck her head in.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
I paused the show and lifted my soda to my mouth, waiting to see what she wanted.
“There’s some old guy here to see you.”
She couldn’t mean Dario. While he was in his mid-to-late thirties… “old guy” wouldn’t be the terminology she’d use. Not for him, and not by her—a girl who’d recently dated a forty-two-year-old surgeon and didn’t take any of our shit about it. I pulled back the covers and stood, her eyebrows raising at my messy hair, hot pink leggings, and Save the MF Whales shirt.
“Sexy.”
“You know it.” I stretched, mentally flipping through my visitor possibilities.
“Guy looks like a cop.”
I passed Lydia in the kitchen, the smell of microwave popcorn thick in the air, and swung open the front door to—bonus points to Meredith—an old guy. Six feet tall, in a suit, with thinning hair and a military-precise stance. For a senior citizen, he was in shape, thick and muscular, with a glare that would get me to confess almost anything. “Can I help you?”
The man’s eyes moved to Meredith, who peered over my right shoulder, then back to me. “Miss Hartley, if I could have a word in private.”
I looked past him and saw what Meredith missed, the Rolls Royce idling behind her car, its headlights dimmed. I elbowed my roommate back, lowering my voice. “I got this.”
I stepped out on the porch and pulled the door behind me, ignoring the man and heading toward the car, my socks moving silently down the concrete drive until I was beside the Rolls and knocking on the window, the glass moving beneath my knuckles. Dario Capece was unveiled, and my heart both cracked and soared at the sight of him.
I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted to appear aloof. “Too fancy to ring your own doorbells?”
The window stopped, and the glint of his watch caught the streetlight. I couldn’t see him well, his features dim, but his voice was clear and firm, and tugged at every string of arousal I had. “I was trying to be discreet.”
Behind me, there was the snap of a lighter, and I turned to watch the older man lean against our front porch column, his cigarette glowing to life. I looked over the glossy curves of the Rolls. “This car isn’t exactly discreet.”
It was small talk, useless words that danced around what I should be saying. I told you not to contact me.
He nodded to the passenger side. “Get in. I want to show you something.”
I tucked a chunk of dirty hair behind my ear and cursed myself for being so slack. I should have showered. Brushed my hair. Should have been at least slightly optimistic that Dario Capece would put up a bit of a fight.
His eyes caught the movement, and I watched as his gaze moved down my body, taking in the outfit. “Nice socks.”
My socks didn’t match—one gray, one white, and I huffed in irritation. I’d bet someone laid out his socks each morning. I’d bet they were in perfect neat rolls in their own special drawer in his closet.
“Come on. You don’t need shoes. Get in.”
I frowned. “Your mom ever teach you how to say please?”
His mouth twitched, and the playful glint in his eyes almost melted my panties right off. “Please get in the car.”
I opened the door to a car worth more than my life and entered an interior that reeked of wealth. I shut the door and locked myself in with the one man I should avoid, the one I had promised Lance and Rick to stay away from.
I should be afraid of him, of everything in his world and the risks that he carried. Instead, I got into his car, without my phone or purse or shoes, and trusted him to keep me safe. He waved at his driver, then rolled up the window and turned to me.
“I’m sorry for coming by so late.”
I said nothing, tucking my palms underneath my thighs and watching as the driver got in. A divider rose with a quiet hum, blocking him from our view. I nodded in the general direction of the front seat. “Who’s the guy?”
Dario stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle, and I peeked at his socks. Yep. Matchy-matchy. Dark with a pattern.
“That’s Vince, my head of security. He’s worked with me for a long time.”
I thought back, to the first night I met him, and tried to remember if he’d been in the front room. Maybe he had. I’d been distracted by the two big guys, linemen who had practically snarled when Tim and Jim had approached them. I felt the car shift into gear and looked out the window, the night too dark to see anything. “Where are we going?”
“Not too far. Don’t worry.”
“Somewhere that doesn’t need shoes?”
I ran my hands along a group of controls on the door, finding and activating the seat heater and a massage function. Underneath me, the leather minutely shifted, a soothing roll of action that felt heavenly. I sank into the seat and Dario chuckled.
“Having fun?”
“This massager is much nicer than the one at the pedicure place.”
“I’d hope so.”
He reached forward and pressed a button, a footrest appearing, my chair reclining slightly.
“Wow.” I closed my eyes and let my arms hang limp. “I don’t know why you scowl so much. This is all I’d need in life to be happy.”
I heard the shift of him, felt the brush of his arm, but didn’t open my eyes.
“Do I scowl?”
There was humor in his tone, and I risked a peek, turning my head to see a hint of a smile on his lips. “Oh yeah. Big time.”
“I only scowl when I’m being tormented by a beautiful woman.”
“Oh please.” I reached forward and found the seat control, returning it to the upright position. The car rolled over a speed bump and barely rocked. I wanted to ask him why he showed up at my house in the middle of the night. I wanted to ask him where we were going. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “tormented.”
I swallowed my questions, and looked out the window, watching neon signs pass, their colors muted by the tint. I suddenly felt like a kid. Next to Dario’s powerful presence, I felt so young so…inexperienced.
It was unnerving, but in an entirely different way than I’d felt that night at the barn. While I felt powerless in his presence, I also felt protected, his strength giving me comfort instead of fear. As the Rolls hummed down the Strip, I felt another foreign emotion. Excitement.
This was his turf. His domain. The car slowed, and I straightened as it turned into the entrance of the last place I wanted to be.
Thirteen
“The Majestic?” I turned and looked at him, panic starting to thump through my chest. We shouldn’t be here. I thought of Thursday, just three days ago, and how brazenly I’d followed him into that private alcove in the club. Then, I’d only been thinking of his wife. I hadn’t thought about her father, and all of the danger that being Dario Capece’s fling might put me in. “Why are we here?”
&nbs
p; Dario cocked his head at me, a question in his eyes. “You’re worried. Why?”
My hand tightened on the door handle, as much to hold the door closed as it was to shove it open and escape.
“I can’t walk in there. People will see us together. They’ll—”
The Rolls Royce continued through the valet area and down a hill, slowing before a gate, which slowly opened.
“We aren’t going anywhere that anyone will be able to see us. Trust me.”
EVEN MONEY Page 8
