Mr. Whiskey

by Tessa Layne

Her mouth quirks. “It’s my superpower.” Her eyes soften, and she cups my cheek. “Thank you for this.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.” Understatement of the year. “Believe me,” I add wryly. “You slip out first, I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

  She presses a kiss to my cheek, and a twinge arrows straight to my heart. “I’ll never forget you, Danny,” she whispers as she steps to the door.

  “Wait,” I call before she turns the handle.

  She glances back.

  “At least tell me your last name.”

  Her sly smile returns. “It’s Rickoli. Roxi Rickoli.”

  “Nice meeting you, Roxi Rickoli,” I say, wanting to say so much more but knowing I can’t.

  She turns the handle and slips out without a backward glance.

  Fuck. Me.

  Chapter Four

  I wait three minutes before slipping out the door and heading back to the gala. Harrison pounces on me as soon as I re-enter Kirkwood Hall. “Where’ve you been, man? We’ve been looking all over for you.”

  “Taking care of business,” I deadpan. “Do we have a table?”

  “Stockton’s out tonight. But I’ll be there, and so will Templeton.”

  “Who else?”

  “Ferrari’s in.”

  My gut clenches. “I didn’t know he was in town?” Vincent Ferrari is a dirty, slippery sonofabitch. I’m pretty sure his real-estate company is a shell organization. But he pays his dues on time, and as far as I’m concerned, his money is as good as anyone else’s — even if I think he’s a bigger asshole than me — which is saying something.

  Harrison’s lip curls in disgust. “He’s over at the poker table. Honestly, I don’t understand why you don’t give him the boot.”

  “You should know the answer to that,” I growl. Money is power. Information is more power. Business and emotions don’t mix. All lessons I learned too young. Harrison has no clue about the people I’m responsible for, and that alone keeps me hustling. Tom Pendergast saved Kansas City from the Great Depression. His grandson is doing hard time for a laundry list of crimes. Money and influence are as fleeting as the spring storms that pile up to the west every season, unless you were lucky enough to be born into a billion-dollar fortune like Harrison and his cohorts. I might be as wealthy as they are now, but they’ll never understand what it’s like to wonder where your next meal is coming from. So, it doesn’t matter what I think of Ferrari — only that I help him part with a fraction of his fortune.

  Harrison stares at me for a long second, then shakes his head. “Your business, man.”

  “Which has benefitted you greatly,” I point out. He knows it too. He secured sixty-percent of his startup funding for Steele Conglomerate from deals he made at the Whiskey Den.

  He nods grimly. “I know, I know. It’s just…”

  “Just what?”

  “Don’t you want more?”

  I scoff. “Do you?”

  “More than my business?” His face pulls tight for a fleeting second. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.” There’s surprise in his voice, as if he’s just discovered this.

  “Jesus. Whoever she is, she must have your cock in irons.”

  Harrison snorts. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Tell me about it over a whiskey after the game. Who else is in?”

  “Dmitri, and some mutual friend of his and Vince’s. Ivo Rostyak?”

  “Number Thirty-Five.” I see him about once a year and I like him about as much as I like Dmitri and Vince. I’m pretty sure Ivo is Russian mob. He flies in about every six months from New York, and meets with Vince or Dmitri, sometimes both. Never brought a guest, not very talkative. He’s sat in on games when he’s been in town. “Pays his dues on time.” Tonight’s game feels very East meets West, although Vince is based in Chicago, and I see him monthly. I’d like to see him less. “Any lady companions?”

  Harrison shakes his head.

  “I’ll let Lisa know.” I pull out my phone and begin typing.

  “Has she given you any indication who knocked her up?” Harrison growls, hand curling into a fist.

  “Calm down, I have first dibs on the asshole. And no, wild horses won’t drag it from her.”

  “I’d like to help out when the baby’s born.”

  “What — are you offering to babysit? I’ve already told her that her expenses are covered, and she can take as much post-baby time as she needs before she comes back.” I recognize we may be talking years, but I take care of my own, and Lisa’s been my right hand from the get-go. I still haven’t figured out what I’m going to do once the baby comes. But I’ll work it out. I always do.

  Harrison snorts. “I’m not volunteering to change diapers, but I’d hire help for her.”

  And this, in a nutshell, is why Harrison and I remain friends. He takes care of his own, too. And he knows how valuable Lisa is to the Whiskey Den. I clap him on the shoulder. “I appreciate the offer, and I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Harrison scans the crowd. “Isn’t that your redhead dancing over there?”

  I look to where he points, and fight the stab of jealousy that slices through me. She’s dancing with someone who looks to be as old as her grandfather. I don’t like that his hand drifts perilously close to her ass. Her naked as fuck ass. But we agreed. Just sex. A knot presses against my sternum. For a split second, I wish my life was other than it was — that I wasn’t emotionally stunted, that I didn’t carry the name Pendergast, that at the end of the day I’d get the girl. But that’s not my life, and I’ve accepted that. Mostly.

  I take my leave from the gala after promising Muffy a significant donation. Earlier than I’d intended, but this night has been nothing like I expected, and I want an hour to myself before I have to put my poker face on. I pull into my spot in the West Bottoms, within sight of the Whiskey Den door, pleased to see my favorite bouncer, Oscar, manning the door tonight. The West Bottoms is a neighborhood still in transition, but my great-grandfather got his start just a few blocks from here, working at his brother’s bar. Locating the Whiskey Den here seemed fitting, like I could rewrite history somehow.

  It’s quiet in the Den. I wave to a couple of members holed up in the leather wingbacks in the corner, and slip behind the bar to pour myself a drink. “I didn’t expect you for another hour.” Lisa, my bar manager gives me a healthy dose of side-eye. “Everything okay?”

  I shrug. “Sure. I just needed to clear my head before the game tonight.” Because I can’t get a certain redhead out of it.

  “Who’s coming tonight?”

  I tell her, then take my drink to the office, my private sanctuary. I do my best thinking in the small room I’ve decorated in dark paneling, leather wingbacks, and an enormous oak desk that belonged to grandpa Tom — the only physical connection I have to my family legacy. It’s clear but for my laptop, folded shut in front of a high-end swivel chair. In my mind’s eye, I can see Roxi spread across it, head released back, wearing nothing but stilettos and that lacy thigh holster. Just like that, I’m hard again. I regret not pressing for her number. If I shut my eyes, I can still taste her. But it’s best Roxi Rickoli stays nothing but a sexy memory, albeit one I’ll be revisiting for a long time to come.

  Lisa buzzes me when the first of the players arrive, and I make my way to the back room, taking my seat at the far end of the circular table, directly across from the door. Behind me is a bookcase that holds among other things, a box of Cuban cigars, two boxes of poker chips, and multiple sets of unused cards. The men filter in one by one, drinks in hand. Ferrari takes a seat to my left. Harrison pulls out a chair next to him, a move that surprises me, given his dislike for Vince. Dmitri takes the seat to my right, Robert Templeton chooses the seat next to Harrison. Ivo is the last to enter and takes the remaining seat.

  I spread my arms. “Welcome gentlemen. To recap, the buy-in for each round is fifty-thousand. The house keeps thirty-percent of the buy-in. We’ll take a break between each round for you to
make your payments.” I hold out my hand. “Phones?”

  With a nod of agreement, each man drops his phone into my hand. I place them on the bookcase behind me, then pull out the box of chips. Once they’ve been passed around, I sit. I make a show of unwrapping the brand-new deck of cards and spreading them across the table for the players to see, Vegas style. When no one objects, I sweep the cards up and begin to shuffle. The group is quiet tonight, no doubt because of Ivo’s permanent scowl, and Vince’s posturing. I don’t like the way Vince is staring at Ivo — with something akin to avarice, and I especially don’t like the way Ivo’s eyes are shifting around. Something is definitely up between those two, and I’ll be watching like a hawk tonight. I deal two cards face down, and the next card face up. Robert has the highest card on the table and opens the bidding. An eerie silence settles over the table that I don’t like. Energy is crackling between Vince, Dmitri and Ivo, and it’s impacting the play. Harrison bows out after I deal the fourth card. Robert drops out after the fifth. I deal the sixth card. Dmitri is showing a pair of sevens, Vince, a queen, and Ivo the beginnings of a Jack high straight. Vince raises the ante, and the other two follow.

  “All in?” I ask before I deal the final card face-down. They nod. I deal. Ivo drops his cards in disgust when Vince shows three queens, then rakes up the pile of chips. Harrison wins the second round, as Ivo becomes more agitated. I stare at him hard. He rakes a hand through his hair, and it’s soaked at his temple. “Need a break Ivo?”

  He aims a glance at Vince that looks almost frightened, then he shakes his head. Does he owe Vince? Rumor has it that Vince has been known to ‘lend a hand’, and then collect brutally if the lendee came up short at the agreed upon time. Now I wonder if the rumors have merit. I call for the ante. Ivo pulls at his collar, but pushes in his chips.

  Dmitri folds when the betting opens. Harrison and Robert drop out after the fourth card. After the fifth, I expect Ivo to fold. He’s showing junk — a two of clubs, a four of hearts and a six of spades. Instead, he doubles down. “Are you sure?” I ask, incredulous.

  Ivo glares at me and nods once, hand fisting on the table.

  “You’ve got three of a kind at best. Vince is working on a flush.” I don’t like to see people waste their money. I look to Vince, who looks like a cat in front of a bowl of cream. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but this is it for tonight.”

  “No.” Ivo rasps, eyes widening like a caged animal. “One more round.”

  I shake my head, mouth drawing into a thin line. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen the clutch of gambling addiction choke a player. “One more round isn’t enough to cover your losses,” I point out. “Give it up. Play another day.”

  He shakes his head staring at Vince. “I’ll be good for it. You know I will.”

  Vince’s expression is hard. Implacable. Every muscle in his body is tense, poised to spring. I make the call because I’ll be damned if this devolves into a fist-fight.

  “No. Please,” Ivo begs. “I’ll give you Ana. She’s yours.”

  Vince’s eyes light hungrily as I leap out of my chair and drag Ivo to his feet. “Like hell you will,” I shout, seeing red. “We don’t deal in humans. Ever.” I shake him hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Do. You. Understand?” Behind me, chairs scrape as everyone stands. “You’re out. Banned. You’re lucky I don’t beat you to a pulp,” I say as I push him around the table and out the door. “Oscar,” I yell, tightening my grip on Ivo. I dimly register the main room has gone silent. Oscar meets me in front of the bar, and I shove Ivo at him. “Throw him out. He’s banned. See to it he never comes back.”

  “I can explain—” Ivo stutters.

  I cut him off. “I don’t give a shit. There are no do overs. Ever. Take care of him Oscar.” I spin on my heel and stalk back to the poker room. “I’ll cover Ivo’s losses.”

  Harrison speaks first. “No worries, man. It’s not your fault he’s a douchebag.”

  “I want my money,” Vince states flatly.

  Of course he does. Disgust rises up, burning the back of my throat. “Give me five minutes.” I leave the room again and walk down the hall past the stock room, to my office. Once inside, I initiate a Venmo transfer to Vince. It’s the right thing to do, but Harrison letting it go was also the right thing to do. Vince doesn’t need the money. This is about ego. I grind my molars, waiting for the transfer to go through. From here on out, I’m applying a new layer of vetting to my members. No assholes or douchebags.

  Chapter Five

  I oversleep. I never oversleep. Worse? I never even made it to bed. A glance at the coffee table shows a half-full tumbler of whiskey, now watered down with last night’s ice. Next to me, my laptop screen is dark. The last thing I remember was putting it aside to shut my eyes while I waited for a database return. But it doesn’t matter. This one, like all the other searches I’ve made in the last two weeks, came up empty.

  I stretch, working out a kink in my neck, and glance at my watch. If I hustle, I can still make my eight a.m. training session with Mariah Sanchez, the personal trainer and coxswain Harrison and his crew buddies have hired for their boat. She might barely top five-feet, but the woman is a beast. And even though I refuse on a daily basis to take up rowing again, I’ve at least agreed to train with the team. Mostly for the entertainment value of seeing Mariah boss the titans of tech around like a Marine sergeant. I’ve never seen giant men whimper like they do when she gives them the evil eye and tells them to multiple sets of burpees, mountain climbers, and one-armed pushups.

  Today, that evil-eye is trained on me when I walk in at eight-oh-five. “You’re late.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Rough night.”

  “Nothing a little sweat won’t cure.”

  Or a lot. Buckets full. I bite back a groan when she tells me to warm up with a three-mile jog. “Meet me back here in fifteen.”

  “That’s not a jog, that’s a goddamned sprint.”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  Fuck yes, I do. I’m exhausted, pissed-off, and the worst case of blue balls. But I’m not a whiner. I glare back. “See you in fifteen.”

  “If you hurry you can catch the rest of the team.”

  My mind whirls as I rush to catch up to Harrison, Stockton and their team. Mariah is exactly the kind of no-nonsense person I should hire to work my bar when Lisa goes on maternity leave in a few months. Even though my legs protest, I manage to catch the guys. “Hey,” I say by way of greeting.

  Harrison raises a hand, and I match my pace to his. “So I’m going to need to hire someone when Lisa has her baby. Think Mariah’d be interested?”

  “No,” he growls. “Absolutely not.”

  “She’d be perfect. Didn’t you say she has catering experience?”

  “I said no.” Harrison shoots a glare my way before turning his eyes back to the road.

  “Why the fuck not?” I ask, exasperation and exhaustion getting the better of me. “I need someone I can trust. Someone who won’t take any shit.”

  “Ask that red headed lady then.”

  “Roxi?” I nearly stumble to a stop. “I’ve been looking for her for two weeks. She’s a goddamned ghost. I’ve run searches for her, made inquiries, and keep coming up empty handed.” I hate to admit it, especially to someone like Harrison, but I think I got played. Even though the sex was fanfuckingtastic.

  “Then find someone else. Sparky’s off limits.”

  “Jeezus. What crawled up your ass and laid eggs?” I snipe.

  “Nothing,” he snaps back.

  “Sounds like you’re overdue for a fucking,” I taunt.

  He makes a strangled sound and shakes his head. Then it hits me. He hasn’t been getting laid. Steele fucks more women than anyone I’ve ever met, and for him to have dried up… well, let’s just say I no longer give a shit about making it back to the gym in fifteen minutes, because this development is hilarious. I stop, and bend, the laughter making my sides hurt.
Harrison jogs a few more paces and stops too. “It’s not that funny.”

  “Oh yes, it is,” I say once my laughter has subsided. “Who is she?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Oh yes it does. This is the same chick that ditched you, isn’t it? And now your blue balls are worse than mine.”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “I’m gonna find out, you know. I always find shit out.”

  “Like you’ve found Roxi?”

  That’s a low blow and he knows it. But it shuts me up, and my dark mood returns. “Let’s go. I don’t want extra pushups.”

  “Too late for that. You screwed our pace.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I’d love to,” Harrison’s wry answer comes from behind me, as I push myself trying to catch the pack. If I can’t get laid, I might as well be sore all over. At least it will take my mind off my aching balls. Mariah works all of us extra hard today. Apparently I’m not the only one in a foul mood. By the time I pull into the parking lot it’s after ten-thirty. I greet Oscar and tell him I’m not to be disturbed until after noon today. And no clients inside until one, because I need to count stock. Lisa’s too pregnant to be standing on ladders taking inventory, so I’ve agreed to take over keeping the bar stocked until she comes back from maternity leave.

  I trail a hand along the vintage mahogany bar that lines one side of my place. There’s a vibe that never ceases to calm me — even on my worst days. An escape from the troubles and pressures of the outside world. Here is a haven where the whiskey is magic, and the leather chairs embrace you like a pair of loving arms.

  “Lisa?” I call as I head for the stock room. “I swear if you’re on a ladder…”

  My smile dies as I round the corner. Someone’s precariously perched on the top of the stepladder — just like the manual warns you not to do — and it’s definitely not Lisa. No, I recognize those long legs and lush curves, and the long red hair that accompanies them. “Roxi?” I say, incredulous.

  She squeaks and turns, losing her purchase. I rush to break her fall, trying my best to catch her and the bottle of whiskey she’s holding. We tumble to the floor with a crash. I brace for the sound of breaking glass, but none comes. She’s stretched out on top of me, and I run my hand down her spine, mentally checking for broken bones. “Are you okay? Did the bottle break?” Frustration at the lack of anything I’ve found on her returns, and with equal force, so does my arousal. I cover it by yelling, because Christ, her tits are pressing into my chest. “What in the hell are you doing here?”