He laughs, his warm breath feathering over my overstimulated clit, and then he resumes, his tongue circling my engorged nub while he pumps his fingers in and out of me.
My climax hurtles toward me at full speed.
Carter kisses the side of my neck, his stubble grazing my sensitive skin. He bites me there, and I writhe on his lap. This is so hot. Blindfolded, spread out, my hands wrapped around one man’s cock while another eats me out. I fist Carter’s thick, fat cock again, and it jumps in my grip. My fingers barely meet around his girth. I know, from experience, just how pleasurable it feels inside me. The shock of pain as he stretches me out. The slow burning slide as he pushes inside me, inch by inch… The X-rated images flash through my mind in a dirty, endless reel, and I pump Carter’s cock harder and squirm against Dominic’s mouth.
There’s another finger at my lips, and I open my mouth automatically and suck it in, and with another shock, I realize I’m tasting myself. My juices. This isn’t Carter’s finger. It’s Dominic’s, and it’s all so dirty and raunchy and naughty that I start to quiver… I’m shaking, trembling. My hands move faster, stroking Carter’s cock, steady and insistent.
Then Carter growls and explodes, thick ropey bursts of cum shooting everywhere, coating my palms, splattering against my back, pushing me off the edge. I cry out as my own orgasm rips through me, a storm of raw, powerful sensation.
Dominic rips off the blindfold and kisses me deep, his tongue fucking my mouth. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he growls. “And to think, we’re just getting started.”
I laugh, breathless and dazed. Dominic’s chin is glistening with my juices. My palms are coated with Carter’s cum. The scent of arousal hangs thick in the air. “I’m going to need a minute to collect my wits.”
Carter wraps a hand around my waist and pulls me against his chest. I lean against him, and he nuzzles my neck. I stiffen automatically. Sex is easier than cuddling—cuddling takes trust, and my shitty track record has made me wary. Then I remind myself that Dominic and Carter don’t have to pretend. This is a hookup, one with a clearly defined start and end.
I take a deep breath and make myself relax. If Round One was anything to judge by, Round Two is going to be spectacular. That’s all I should be thinking about. That’s all that matters.
On the dining table, my phone buzzes. Dominic looks up. “Do you need to get that?” he asks.
I shake my head. “That’s just my notifications,” I reply. “It’s the middle of the night. What could possibly happen now?”
Even as I say those words out loud, I know how idiotic my statement is. Because the middle of the night is precisely when things happen on social media. People have a drink or two. They get bored. They get lonely. The filters drop, and they post the real, unvarnished truth on social media.
And their publicist—me—is left cleaning up the mess.
My phone buzzes again. And again. And again. My notifications are going haywire. A sinking feeling goes through me, and I get to my feet, wipe my hands on a paper towel, and retrieve my phone.
Yeah, it’s not good. Jorge Almeida—Nicky’s ex—has a bitchy post on Instagram about how women drop guys the second they get famous. He doesn’t mention her name, but it’s obviously about her.
Asshole.
So far, Nicky hasn’t responded. Thank heavens. But I need to step in. “I have to go,” I say regretfully. “Social media crisis. I need to get to Nicky, pry her phone out of her hands before she posts something she’ll regret.” I was looking forward to Round Two, damn it. I really wasn’t ready to leave. “Can I take a raincheck on tonight?”
What I really want to ask is if I can come back once I deal with this crisis. But that seems like an imposition, and I’m not brave enough.
Dominic nods. “Of course.”
He’s still dressed. His sleeves are rolled up, but otherwise, you could look at him and you wouldn’t even realize that he just gave me one of the most amazing orgasms of my life. Even thinking about his mouth on my pussy makes my toes curl.
His reply feels like a polite dismissal. I’m about to wipe my face free of expression when I catch a glimpse of his cock tenting his trousers. His eyes follow mine, and his lips lift in a rueful smile. “I’m trying to be respectful of the demands of your job,” he admits. “What I really want to do is throw you over my shoulder, carry you to my bed, and pick up where we left off. I want you on your hands and knees, Gabriella. Your pretty lips wrapped around one of our cocks. Maybe with Carter spanking your ass.”
That’s a very vivid, very tempting image. I feel myself start to blush. “Carter? Really?”
Carter winks at me as he gets dressed. “I have hidden depths, you know.”
Dominic snorts a laugh. “Please. You’re a teddy bear.”
Carter responds by giving Dominic the finger. He grins at me. “I’ll walk you down.”
I shake my head. “We shouldn’t be seen together, remember? You don’t want Denton Mitchell to find out I know you.”
“Yeah, right.” He doesn’t sound happy about it.
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. “I have to go.” I kiss both men, one after the other, and feel very, very naughty as I do it. “I had a great time.”
“Come over tomorrow,” Carter says.
“Nicky’s performing.”
“After the show.”
A smile spreads over my face. “It’s a date.”
15
Dominic
I lie awake for hours after Gabriella leaves, staring at the ceiling, my cock aching, my thoughts bouncing from one topic to another. It takes more than the usual three cups of coffee the next morning to make my brain start working. I’m pouring myself the fourth when the phone rings.
It’s Andreas Papachristou, who owns the Hellenic, one of the other two independent casinos in town. After the initial greetings and small talk, he gets to the reason he called. “The votes are in, Crawford,” he booms. I hold the phone away from my ear. Andreas has two volume settings—loud, and louder. “Congratulations. You’re the Businessman of the Year. The banquet is in a month. Start working on a speech.”
What? I shake my head in bemusement, wondering if I heard the other man correctly, and gulp down my coffee. Nita is in view, and I hold up the mug in mute appeal. I’m going to be jittery later, but it’ll be worth it to feel awake now.
“Say something, Crawford,” Andreas prompts. “I’m honored, you shouldn’t have, I can’t believe it, thank you—any one of those things will work.”
Businessman of the Year. The honor makes me feel strange. “I feel old,” I blurt out. My parents won the local business association’s award five times in a row. The first time they’d received the award, I’d been sixteen, a bored teenager who’d been unimpressed by his parents’ contribution to the city. I’d gone to the banquet—I might have been a bored teenager, but I hadn’t been rebellious—but I’d skipped the speeches in favor of making out with Sneha Patel in the parking lot. “You sure you have the right person?”
Andreas laughs. “Yes, Crawford, I’m sure.” His voice softens. “Stuart would be proud of you.”
My heart pangs, as it does every time I think of my dad. Of the many days spent in hospital rooms, hoping against hope for a miracle. Some drug, some chemo, some radiation that would stop the tumor growing in his lungs.
The five-year survival rate for Stage Four lung cancer patients is less than five years. My dad hadn’t beaten those odds. He’d died quickly, all things considered, and with the clarity of time, I’d come to think of that as a blessing all on its own. He hadn’t suffered. He’d been surrounded by his family when he died. My mother, me, Aunt Patricia, Uncle Robert, my cousins, we’d all been there.
Mom had fled Atlantic City after his death. I’d understood her desire to escape the memories that haunted her. My own response had been different. I’d thrown myself into the Grand River. It wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t logical, but to me, the Grand River had be
come an extension of my father. And if it did well—if I did well—I would keep his memory alive.
Denton Mitchell will never get his hands on my casino. I will never let him take what my parents built and ruin it. I will never let my father’s memory be spoiled in such a way. Never. I will run the Grand River into the ground myself before I let that happen.
I’ve been silent too long. I say something to Andreas. Belatedly remember to thank him for the news he’s given me. Then I hang up, gulp down the coffee that Nita left me—I didn’t even hear her come into my office—and reach for my phone.
Yesterday, Raj told me that Randall Paulson had called off the sale of the diner. I promised him I’d look into it. I’d started out by checking in with Jerome and Maggie at the diner, and Raj had been correct—the two of them were definitely still planning on retiring and moving to Florida. Jerome and Maggie have one child, a daughter, Grace, who lives in Tampa with her husband Tarek and their three children. At the diner, Maggie couldn’t stop talking about being closer to her grandkids.
Which leaves Paulson.
I know Randy. Not too well, but we’re both members of the same country club. We’ve even golfed together from time to time. There’s no reason Randy shouldn’t sell to the Grand River. Our offer price is more than fair. Even at best of times, the diner never made a lot of money, and these are not the best of times. Most tourists come to Atlantic City to gamble, and they tend to eat in the casinos. The Grand River alone has six restaurants, catering to every budget. You want fancy chefs and expensive steak? We’ve got it. Award-winning Chinese food? We’ve got that too. Twenty-four-hour, All You Can Eat buffet? Yes, of course. We have everything a guest could want and more.
Jerome and Maggie stayed in business because they were popular with the locals. But a new business would find it hard to thrive.
Randy owns a trio of luxury car dealerships. He sits on City Council. He doesn’t have time to be messing around with being the landlord of a small diner.
He isn’t a fool. He knows all of this, which is why he was amenable to the sale in the first place.
So, what changed?
I’m willing to bet that I know the answer. Denton Mitchell has brought pressure to bear.
I dial Paulson’s number. “Randy,” I boom, doing my best Andreas Papachristou imitation. “How’ve you been?”
“Dominic,” he replies, a definite note of wariness in his voice. “I can’t complain. You?”
“Ah, you know how it is.” I stand up and cross the room to look out the window. It’s a glorious day. Clear blue skies, not a cloud in sight. “I’m looking outside and wondering why I’m not on the back nine right now, a cold beer in my hand. You in? I’m buying.”
He knows what this call is about, and it’s not about golf. There’s a split-second of hesitation, and then he acquiesces. “Sure.”
We avoid the difficult conversation as we go through the front nine. It’s only when we get to the more secluded tenth hole that I broach the subject. “So,” I say bluntly. “Raj tells me you’re not selling to us anymore. What’s Mitchell got on you, Randy?”
Paulson shanks his drive. His ball disappears into a thicket to the right of the fairway. I wince. “Sorry,” I murmur apologetically. “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen.”
He snorts. “Please. You are a terrible golfer. I don’t need any favors from you.”
I take my shot, which predictably rolls into the rough. Randy gives me a sardonic grin. We start walking toward our balls, and Paulson clears his throat. “Listen, forget about the parking lot, okay?”
“What the fuck does Mitchell have on you?”
“Nothing.” He sighs. “Crawford, I know the situation is fucked up. But Mitchell is cornered, and cornered men make foolish decisions. I just don’t want the hassle. Not for a goddamn parking lot.”
“Cornered?”
He answers my question with one of his own. “Your money isn’t just in the casino, is it?” He gives me a shrewd look. “You’re too smart for that. You’re diversified. Stocks, bonds, whatever. Then there’s online gambling—you have a stake in it. If the Grand River fails, you’ll be fine. Luster only slightly tarnished.”
My father loved the Grand River with his entire heart. The casino isn’t going to fail. “What does that have to do with Mitchell?”
“Mitchell isn’t diversified,” he replies. “He’s a big fish in a small pond, and with each passing day, the pond gets smaller. Every year, there are fewer tourists. His underground poker rooms aren’t bringing in a lot of money. His strip clubs neither—people get their porn on the Internet now. And then there was the Birks bust.”
Last year, Warren Birks, who was on the City Council, was caught on tape accepting a bribe from one of Mitchell’s people. The Feds hadn’t found enough evidence to charge anyone, but Birks was forced to resign, and Mitchell’s influence has been dramatically curtailed.
“Sure, he looks rich,” Randy continues. “He acts rich. But make no mistake, Mitchell is in trouble. The construction contracts from the city have dried up. Everyone on City Council is spooked. Nobody wants to be arrested by the Feds.”
We find his ball nestled in a clump of weeds. Randy selects an iron from his bag and hits it, and the ball cooperatively rolls onto the edge of the green.
It takes me two more shots to get there myself. I finish the hole at two over par, while Paulson smirks about his birdie.
We walk to the next hole. “Which brings us to the Grand River,” Randy continues. “Denton Mitchell likes to think of himself as a power player. He wants to be important.” He gives me a sideways glance. “He will escalate. You want to protect what’s yours; I get that. But what will you do when people start to get hurt?”
I ponder that question all the way through the next six holes, and the subsequent beer in the club house.
Mitchell looks prosperous, but scratch the surface and the money is Vittoria’s, and God knows the man has a chip on his shoulder about it. Randy Paulson is right. The parking lot is an opening salvo. This will get dirtier. Much dirtier.
I need an edge, and I need one fast. Something that will stop Mitchell in his tracks. Before people get hurt.
People like my employees, who will be collateral damage in this fight.
People like Ed Wagner, who is trapped in a no-win situation.
People like Noah, who is caught in the wreckage as the people he loves the most fight with each other.
People like Gabriella, who is at risk if Mitchell finds out about our connection.
Offer Ed Wagner a job, my conscience nudges me. Don’t let Gabby go to Mitchell’s poker rooms. Convince Carter there’s no need to spy on Noah’s father.
I could fix much of this situation with a handful of phone calls.
But I don’t, because Carter would view my actions as a betrayal. And I’m not sure if my friendship with him would survive.
Yesterday, Gabby told us a story about her boss not noticing that she hadn’t come into work, and I told her I could relate. I inherited my wealth. The local business association can give me awards till the cows come home, and there will always be people who think the only reason I’m successful is because of my family.
Money is a blessing. I’m not stupid; I know its power. But sometimes, money can be a curse. It pins labels on people. It erects barriers.
Carter is my friend. More so, he’s the only one who treats me like a normal person. Always has. When my father was dying, Carter had been there for me. When I was thrown into a position of responsibility, Carter believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.
This is my weakness, and I know it. I know what the right thing to do is, and that’s offering Wagner a lifeline. But if I do so, I would be risking the most important friendship in my life, and I can’t. All I can do is nudge.
16
Gabriella
It’s six in the evening on Thursday. I’m backstage, taking some candid photos of Nicky for her social media. She�
�s in a good mood today, the storms of yesterday forgotten. She’s already wearing her first outfit, a skin-tight golden catsuit, and she looks glorious, radiant, and bursting with pre-concert energy.
I take another picture. Nicky, the veteran of a million candids, holds her pose and smiles automatically. When I’m done, she walks over to the window and stares at the view of the sparkling blue ocean. “I’m never going to get used to how early I go on here,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s still daylight outside. Back in my club days, I’d rarely go on before midnight. I wouldn’t get home before four.”
“Do you miss it?” Performing in a casino is a far cry from the underground music scene. The audience is older. More homogeneous, less diverse. The concert is deliberately held earlier—after dinner, but still early enough that the concertgoers can hit the slot machines on their way out.
“Not even a little.”
That’s not what I thought she’d say. I look over at her, surprised. “You don’t?”
“Half the promoters would steal from me,” she replies. “And that wasn’t the worst of it. Steve Sinclair, who ran a bunch of clubs in Queens, would only book you if you blew him off. Every night, I would get groped. Pawed. And I had to tolerate it, because I needed the money for rent.” She doesn’t sound angry, just matter of fact. “It’s a dirty business. The struggle is constant and exhausting.”
I’ve never had to get down on my knees and suck someone’s dick because I needed to eat. I grew up rich. Nobody harassed me. The biggest problem on my plate right now—the debt I owe to Sammy—can be taken care of with one phone call to my parents. When Nicky talks about her past, I feel every bit of my privilege, and it is chastening.
“Here, I have a steady paycheck. Reasonable hours. I’m thirty-seven, Gabby. I don’t want to be partying all night long. If I drink more than one cocktail, I wake up feeling like ass. It’s not Oscar keeping me in line; it’s the hangovers. Some people live for touring, but me, I’m a homebody. I hate tour buses. I like to wake up in the same bed every morning. This stint is exactly what I needed. It’s doing wonders for my creativity.”
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