Buyer Beware (Caldwell Brothers Book 1)

by Colleen Charles

"Hi. I'll take a white wine if you have it."

  I nod to the bartender, and he pours her a glass along with a neat scotch for me. I had the bar fully stocked because I wanted to be sure I'd have whatever she wanted.

  The bartender delivers our drinks, and I watch her take a tiny sip. Her eyes light up with pleasure, and a flash of her naked and beneath me infiltrates my mind. She's wearing the same damn look and reaching for my throbbing cock, directing it toward her sweet pussy. Before I even know for sure, I know how it will look and how it will taste. I shake my head.

  "Yummy."

  Oh. My. God.

  "I'm glad you like it," I say, proud of my choice as I try not to allow my rising lust to gallop out of control. We're not alone, but fuck, I so wish we were. "We're serving the Evening Land 2012 tonight."

  She stares at me as if I've sprouted two heads.

  "It was rated the number three Pinot by Wine Spectator magazine recently. It's the top-rated US wine. I don't serve Italian wines here at the Armónico."

  She takes those perfect full lips and sips again but then they pucker at my words. "Why not? Isn't Armónico an Italian name?"

  "I don't like Italy."

  She narrows her eyes and looks at me. "I've never been out of Nevada, but I did a school project about Italy once. All I remember is how beautiful it was as I sifted through all the information on the internet. How can you not like a place like that?"

  I contemplate how to answer her without sounding like an arrogant asshole. Dante's superior mug floats before my eyes, and I want to get away from this uncomfortable conversation that I started without thinking. No way am I explaining my true meaning. If I went there, I'd have to see censure in her eyes directed at me far before I'm ready to.

  "I guess it's the people I don't like and not the place."

  "Oh." She doesn't seem to accept that answer, but she doesn't argue or question me further. Is she afraid of me? Dammit, I hope not. Jill appears with two domed plates. It's unusual for a chef to serve, but I'm exacting and want to impress Marcella at the same time, so Jill's capable presence calms my jangling nerves.

  I move to the velvet-seated chair and hold it out for her. As she sinks down on the cushion, her subtle perfume assails my senses and my cock twitches in my pants. It has vanilla laced undertones. She smells like sin and innocence all wrapped up into one perfect package. I've never wanted a woman more than this one. And I'm not even sure I can have her.

  Yet.

  Jill sets the appetizers down in front of us. "Cast iron cilantro lime shrimp, Mr. Caldwell."

  "Thank you, Jill."

  Marcella stares down at the dish in front of her and doesn't move. Shit. She hates shrimp. What if she's allergic? I move to take her plate, imagining her going into anaphylactic shock, and she slaps my hand away. I yank it back in surprise. "You don't want shrimp?"

  "I don't want you trying to control me all the time," she says, finally meeting my eyes. Hers are fiery and sparkling, and I realize I'm already blowing it before we've even taken the first bite. As much as seeing the passion in her gaze gets my blood pounding, it isn't my intention to annoy her. "I love shrimp. I was just staring because this is the most beautiful food I've ever eaten. I just wanted to appreciate it and savor the first bite."

  I shut up and eat my shrimp, promising myself to keep my hands and my assumptions to myself. The conversation flows, and I'm enjoying getting to know Marcella. She's honest and open, a real straight shooter. There's also a maturity about her, as if she's already wise beyond her meager years. An old soul adrift on a sea of glitzy pleasure seekers, and a breath of fresh air among all the scheming and manipulating gold diggers that I come into contact with during my daily life. I behave all through the roasted beet salad, the fennel and leek soup, and the main course of cedar plank filet mignon. Before I want the meal to end, Jill delivers the last course, her famous cherries jubilee.

  Marcella lifts a bite to her lips and tastes. She moans and shuts her eyes, and I about lose it. The sounds she makes when she eats are lustier than a lot of the dead lays I've had in the past few years. The guttural sounds tug at my groin, making me uncomfortable. As I lean forward in agony, I'm in desperate need of a distraction. I nod toward the bar, and a violinist appears as if from nowhere. She drags the bow across the strings, and Marcella's head snaps up.

  The server pours champagne, and I lean back in my chair again, ready to drink in the delight of providing pleasure to all of her senses. When her linen napkin snaps onto the table, I'm confused.

  "What's that?" she says, pointing toward the violin.

  I frown, not expecting her to question the obvious. "I thought you might like some after dinner music. Isn't it beautiful?"

  "What do you think this is?" she fumes. "Some kind of warped attempt at seduction? I thought we were going to discuss Lincoln and his care over dinner."

  The violinist shrieks to a halt on a sour note that causes me to cringe, and the silence between us rings even louder than the strains of the classical music. I don't know how to turn the situation around. Why am I always doing everything wrong where she's concerned? I just don't get it.

  And I don't fucking like it.

  "We did discuss Linc. You're doing a great job, and I'm really happy. So is he."

  She softens a bit, her face and shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. "I'm already falling in love with him."

  I'm falling in love with you.

  The tender words falling from her lush lips don't coincide with the anger lacing her expressive eyes. It's because those caring words are directed toward my little brother while her ire is solely directed at me. I'm losing her. Before she was even mine to begin with.

  I stare at her, at a loss for words. I want to defend myself, but then I know there's really no defense. I manipulated her for my own selfish wants and desires. Anything more I say will only deepen my lie and dig the hole until it's a canyon. Out of sheer desperation, I take her hand in mine and run my thumb across the tender underside of her wrist. Electricity crackles between us until she snatches hers away as if it's been burned.

  "He really likes you, Marcella. Please don't do anything drastic."

  She stands, and her fork clatters to the china. I want to stand. I should stand as well since a lady is leaving the table, but I don't want her running and hurting herself by face planting to the concrete on her sky-high sandals.

  "You know what, Nixon Caldwell?" She lifts her chin, her dark eyes flashing down at me. "You may be able to buy everything and everyone. But you can't buy me. Even though I think your little brother is one of the most beautiful souls I've ever met, the price of being in your employ is just too high. You can take your fancy job and your fancy dinner and your fancy clothes and shove them straight up your ass!"

  Chapter Eleven – Marcella

  I hold the used condom up in my gloved hand, and a wave of nausea rolls over me. How can people be such pigs? If you can't hit the waste basket with your own biohazard, get your fat, lazy ass out of bed and pick it up yourself. The things I do for minimum wage and minuscule tips. Sometimes, I feel like staying in bed in the morning and pulling the worn sheets over my head. But I have only myself to depend on, and that's a fact.

  "Miss Marcella," a deep voice calls from the doorway to the two-room suite. No, God. Please, not today. I'll take vomit and dirty Kleenex. Anything but him. "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, baby."

  I take a deep breath and face him. "Hey, Bob. How's your day going?"

  Now, he'll interrupt me, talk my ear off, make vague come-ons, and keep me from finishing my work so I can get my ass home. All I want is to take a hot shower and wash the dirt of the day along with any lingering fantasies about Nixon Caldwell from my weary body. I wish Lita was here, but she'd needed to leave early.

  "Did you know that Johnny Carson used to say that if we lived in a perfect world, all the impersonators would be dead and Elvis would still be alive?" Bob asks as he gyrates his pudgy hips into the room. He's wearing
his typical spandex polyester suit with dull, plastic jewels inlaid into the cheap fabric. It's like he's a walking advertisement for a hybrid of Savers, Walmart, and Zazzle.

  "Who's Johnny Carson?" I have no idea what he's rambling on about. All I know is he's a lonely old man with too much time on his hands, and it's not my job to fill his life with stimulating conversation.

  He laughs and gives another hip shake. "Ah, Miss Marcella, the bloom of youth is all over you. How can you not know the greatest talk show host of all time?"

  I really don't give a shit, but I humor him because he's my boss. At his core, he's harmless, and I need this job now that Nixon has taken away the only job that's actually fulfilled me. I suppose I could do a lot worse. I tried working in fast food but found that jobs without crazy drunks and homeless people as customers made my life a lot easier. I have enough on my plate when it comes to dealing with Manny.

  "I'll check him out on YouTube," I say in my most placating voice.

  Bob executes a perfect twirl and stops in place to play his air guitar. His cape swings around his thick torso, and I can't help but smile. He's a man who's in love with life. His life. There's not a soul alive who would be in love with my sorry life.

  "I'm doing my act at a hot hotel and casino. You and Miss Adelita should stop by and check me out sometime. I'll sing my favorite rendition of Heartbreak Hotel just for you." His smile fades, and he looks at me with genuine concern. "Miss Marcella, you look like the weight of the world's on your shoulders. You could use a cocktail and dance with The King."

  His concern is touching and as annoying as he is, emotion pricks the backs of my eyes. "We'll have to think about that, Bob. By the way, I appreciate you giving me my job back. I know you didn't have to do that."

  He stops playing guitar and shoves his hands in his pockets, leaning back on his heels. "Hey, what are friends for? Besides, this place needs you to make it sparkle." He doesn't even glance around the room of his ramshackle motel. It's as if he's wearing rose-colored glasses and can't see the threadbare carpet and seventies plywood furniture.

  I peel off my rubber gloves and toss them onto my cart. "Well, I'm sure you need to get over to the casino for your gig,"

  "You're right." He moves past me and toward the door. "Remember this, Miss Marcella. Jesus said love thy neighbor, but the true King said don't be cruel."

  To a heart that's true.

  I wonder if I'll ever find that kind of a love for myself. In my present situation with nothing positive in front of me and hope dwindling, I'm starting to wonder.

  I strip the bed and change the sheets, throwing the soiled ones into the hamper on my cart. Only the bathroom remains, so I trundle the cart toward the door so I can have access to my supplies. Something on the floor catches my eye.

  It's yellow and chunky. Fuck me. I don't even go into the bathroom. Sinking on the hard bed, my ass practically bounces right off it, nearly causing a face plant. I guess it's good for screwing but not for sleeping. Luckily, it's rarely used for sleep. My phone burns a hole in my apron. I pull it out and search through my contacts.

  I'm about to eat crow, and I know it's going to taste like shit. My pride leads me almost everywhere I go. It's a fault, I know. I'm a work in progress.

  Once I find what I need, I hit the tiny handset and listen for a ring tone. It only rings once before a deep, male voice answers.

  "Troy Cass."

  I only wish I had a fork and a knife to stab the ugly black bird and put it out of its misery before ingesting this fantasy meal that involves swallowing my pride. My breath catches in my throat. "Mr. Cass, it's Marcella Castillo."

  "Miss Castillo, how can I help you?"

  I'm not sure exactly what to say. How to beg. I've never done this before. Actually, you have begged. Back when they…

  I shake my head. That's the last thing I need to be thinking about in this uncomfortable moment. "I was wondering if…if…if my job as Lincoln's para was still available? I'm sure you've already filled the position, but I just thought I'd check. Just in case you…hadn't?"

  A long pause ensues before he speaks, and my heart's pounding so hard against my chest wall I can feel the thump, thump, thump.

  "As far as I know, the position's been posted internally. When I checked in on Linc this afternoon, he was with his therapist. Hang on a second, I'll fire off a text to HR."

  I wait in agony. I am absolutely not going to clean up vomit again another damn day in my life. I don't deserve much, but surely, I deserve a little better than this. And if working with Lincoln means dealing with his controlling, manipulative, and rude brother, then that's what I'll do. It has to be better than this, I think, my eyes sweeping the room.

  "Miss Castillo?" Troy's voice comes back on the line. "Be here tomorrow morning at eight."

  Sweet relief floods my body. Thank God my actions haven't screwed me completely. "Thank you, Mr. Cass. One more thing…"

  "Yes?"

  I'm about to embark on another mission of open mouth and insert foot, but it has to be said because I can't hold it in. "Can you make sure when I'm working with Lincoln that Mr. Caldwell isn't involved? It would be better for Lincoln's therapy that way."

  I think I hear a chuckle on the other end, but that can't be possible. I know that Mr. Cass is Nixon's friend as well as his employee. At least that article in Vegas magazine said as much, and this isn't a laughing matter.

  "I'll make sure he stays away. Most days, he's so busy with meetings, he doesn't even make it to the casino floor until the afternoon. But Miss Castillo…?"

  "Yes?"

  "I know his lunches with Linc are very important to him. You'll probably see him in passing at lunch time. Other than that, I doubt it."

  I heave a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

  I inhale a cleansing breath and stand up, rolling my cart outside the room and to the door marked housekeeping. After stowing it away, I run to the office and jot down a quick note to Bob stating that I decided to give the Armónico another shot. There's puke in Suite 201, and I'm not cleaning it up. He can dock my wages.

  Once I drive home, I see Manny's car parked outside. I can't believe he's home at this time of the afternoon and not playing poker somewhere. I throw my old beat-up Honda into park, trot up the dirt path to the trailer, and with a friendly wave at Maria, slip through the front door.

  "Manny, you here?" I call out.

  "In my bedroom," he says, and I head in that direction, if only to find out why he's home.

  I stand in the doorway, and my gaze sweeps the messy room. He's such a slob. "You'll be happy to know that I called Mr. Cass today and asked if I could have my job back. I'm so sick of jizz and puke, I can't stand it another second. That and Bob and his constant Elvis jokes. I feel like my head's going to explode. But that Nixon Caldwell—"

  "Shut up, Marcella!" Manny screams, popping off the bed as if someone had lit his ass on fire. "That's my boss. He's a good guy."

  I look at him closely, doubt causing me to take a step back. "If you say so," I spit out, not believing it for one second. He's a rich, arrogant douche just like all the other casino owners in this town. They all think their shit doesn't stink, and Nixon Caldwell's no different. He'd rather take my brother out at the knees than look at him at the first sign of Manny doing or saying something he doesn't like.

  My brother takes my hand, but I snatch it back. What the hell is he up to?

  "Marshmallow, please,” he says, softening his tone as he tries to placate me. “You need to understand that Nixon's heart is in the right place. He just wants what's best for his disabled brother. I think their father's death has been hard on him. He's a good guy, I promise. Would it kill you to cut him some slack? Shit, we know what it's like to lose both parents. Even though he's rich, he's still got emotions just like everyone. He's the oldest of five, and he's got the weight of the world on his back."

  Yeah, just like me, even though I'm the youngest. Because you won't stop your damn gambling.
r />   But I don't say that out loud, as much as it burns to keep it down.

  "I guess I can try," I agree. "But I don't like him, and you need to know that. He's arrogant and controlling. And he may own the casino, and he might be my boss, but he's not the boss of me."

  Manny flops back down on his bed with a laugh. "If you say so. He owns the place. He's the boss of everybody and everything, whether your stubborn ass likes it or not. Just don't ruin the best gig you've ever had. If you give it your all, the job could lead you toward your goals. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  I inhale as I ingest Manny's words. He's right. I should probably just make an attempt to push my pride aside and do what's best for my future. "It is. So why aren't you out tonight?"

  He pushes the mute button on the TV. Some damn baseball game with announcers that sound like snorting pigs. "Nothin' much goin' on tonight, ya know? Besides, I work in the morning. They put me on the early shift for some reason."

  "Okay." I nod and then turn toward the bathroom. All I want is a hot shower to rinse away the filth of the Heartbreak Hotel. Besides, tomorrow is a new day, and Monday looms ahead. I'll deal with Nixon Caldwell and my turbulent emotions then.

  Chapter Twelve – Nixon

  "You fucking piece of shit!"

  I want to grab the rat bastard by his expensive merino wool suit lapels and shake the shit out of him until his corpse falls on my office floor. My fingers itch, and a light sheen of sweat breaks out on my forehead. He's ruined my day before it's even begun.

  "Watch it, whelp," the condescending voice says, not even piercing through my anger. "You'll raise your blood pressure. It's not a good look on you."

  Dante leans back in his chair and tents his hands as if we're discussing the weather and not the fact that he's just asked Pink Autopsy to break their iron-clad contract with the Armónico. And they've agreed to take a huge financial hit as well as a black mark against their stellar reputation. I wonder what the hell he has hanging over their head to make them do something detrimental to their career. The Mona Lisa isn't a place for a band like them. It will most certainly hurt their street cred.