He'd brought up the screen from the front doors where we saw a very young, very pretty teenage Prue standing there in a simple black dress and heels, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping impatiently. Like her time was being wasted. Like she had a mission. Curious, John had told them to wave her in. It wasn't that fake IDs were uncommon in our business, but it wasn't every day you saw a single girl trying to get into the club with nothing more than a coin purse in her hand.
"Place your bets," John called to all of us in the room as we watched Prue take back her fake license and shove it in her coin purse as the door was opened for her and she walked inside.
"Working girl," one of the guys called.
"She's just a kid," another objected.
"When the fuck has that ever factored in?" the first guy shot back.
"Byron?" my uncle asked.
"Fuck if I know," I said, watching the screen as she stopped inside the main room, her shoulders slumping a little as she scanned the tables. Her hair was pulled up and twisted in a style way too old for her and she had her makeup done to match any other of the women in the building, heavy on the mascara and with a vivid red lip. Judging by the way she was chewing said lip, she was not someone who wore lipstick often, if at all.
"Well, I'm putting it on... looking for a job," my uncle said, throwing a fifty in the center of the table as we all stood back and watched the whole thing play out like a fucking reality show.
She moved forward, looked around, moved further into the room, looked around some more. Her arm was snagged as she passed a table by a high roller from the city who curled her young body into his side and held up dice to her face. And while most women in that situation would have played along, even just to diffuse a situation that didn't need to have a big deal made of it, her little body stiffened and she shoved his chest and wrenched away from him, saying something to the man who had the good sense to shrink away from her with a head shake. With that, she turned back to the room, body even more tense than it had already been.
Then, she spotted what she was after.
You could tell the second her eyes found what they were searching for. Her shoulders relaxed. Her eyes closed. She exhaled hard. Then she wiggled her shoulders a second and stormed across the room, moving in toward a blackjack table and slipping an arm around a man in middle age with deep brown hair and a smiling face.
Mack.
Everyone knew Mack.
Everyone who crossed paths with him, loved him.
He was actually a good gambler a fair amount of the time.
He just never knew when to quit, unfortunately.
Uncle John loved him for that.
When he lost, he lost big.
And we won huge.
"Told you," the guy declared. "Working girl," he said, jumping up and reaching for the pot.
"Not so fast," I said, shaking my head as I watched the screen. Prudence leaned up, resting her chin on Mack's shoulder as she spoke in his ear. At whatever words she said, Mack's smile faltered a little as his arm slid around her waist and he nodded at her. He reached for the still-abundant pile of chips he had, slipping them into a bag, then letting Prudence lead him away from the tables and out the front doors.
"Oh, fuck off. That was so a working girl!" he objected when my hand slammed down on his as he tried to take the pot again.
"That was Mack's daughter," I countered and I felt my uncle's gaze fall on me.
"How do you know that?"
I turned back to the screen, catching the outside camera where Mack was shuffled toward a old white beat-up sedan, incidentally it was the same fucking car that she had parked in my driveway, then shuffle Mack inside.
I reached for the pile, shuffled the bills together then went into my pocket and threw double the amount into the pot and put it on a shelf. "Give it a week. If she's not back fetching him from the table and dragging his sorry ass home before he gambles away their rent by the end of the month, that's all yours."
Needless to say, he didn't get his money.
Prue didn't lie to Aaron.
She'd never gambled in her life.
Because she had spent her entire life trying to get her father to stop.
And I had been there to watch the struggle either from behind the eyes in the skies or on the catwalk over the floor or sometimes even when standing just a couple of feet away.
Prudence had proved herself nothing if not determined. If Mack was at Mandy's, you were sure to see her storming in at some point during the night. Eventually, the boys at the front stopped scanning her, knowing she was a drop-in to drag out Mack and therefore no threat to either security or our bottom line. The older she got, the better she started filling out those black dresses she wore, the less she bothered with the makeup that she knew she didn't need for the errand. Some nights, I'd swear she rolled out of bed and into a dress and dragged herself down to the boardwalk to fetch her father. She'd roll up with puffy eyes and messy hair, grab her dad, then, presumably, fell right back into bed.
So, yeah, over the years, I had noticed her.
It simply worked out that Mack pulled some seriously fucked shit that got him, and therefore Prue, into my house. And it wasn't something as simple as him owing me loaned money. Oh, no. See, when Mack fucked up, like everything else in his life, he did it huge.
"What's with the fucking outfit, By?" Aaron asked as the echo of Prue's heels moved down the hall toward the laundry room.
I raked a hand down my face. Fuck if I knew. "Why are you asking?"
"Just curious. She hates your fucking guts."
"Been quizzing my employees?"
"Let's not bullshit each other. Prudence? Prudence Marlow? Mack's daughter? In your house? We both know she's not a fucking employee. She's more like an obsession. A decade-long one at that. "
Aaron was a lot of things- a good friend, the best security chief in the business, and a blunt bastard.
"Obsession is a strong word, Aaron," I said, reaching for my coffee. "I find her determination interesting."
"If she ever finds out what you have done..."
I slammed my coffee down hard, making him raise a brow but otherwise not react. "She's not going to," I said with finality.
She couldn't.
Case closed.
SIX
Prue
The next two days went pretty much exactly the same as the first two, sans the sex and jerking off, but with no less asshole-ish behavior. Not that I ever expected that to go anywhere. That was just how it was. And I was even maybe getting sort-of used to it. Cleaning his bathroom did, indeed, mean with me on my hands and knees. And, while not done with a toothbrush but rather a small hard-bristled palm-sized brush, I did have to do it with his ever-annoying presence in the doorway while I did so.
One would think that a man who ran a casino with a full bar and restaurant as well as some sort of illegal loan sharking business would have better things to do with his time than watch his bathroom get scrubbed. Alas, he didn't. And he had fun pointing it out if I missed so much as a centimeter of space.
I didn't find him any easier to deal with, but I had gotten more used to him.
"Miss. Marlow," he called as I stood outside the den where he had been sitting with a scotch that I had gotten him twenty minutes before.
"Yeah?" I asked, stepping into the doorway, trying to ignore the aching in my ankles.
See, my mind may have gotten used to Byron St. James, but my feet, yeah, they still had a bone to pick about the stupid f'n heels be made me wear.
"Come here," he said, back to me as his eyes stayed on the home screen of some movie he planned to watch. I moved into the room, noticing he had taken off his suit jacket and hung it over the back of the deep leather couch, leaving him in a crisp white dress shirt and dark blue slacks. When I rounded the couch, I noticed he'd even unbuttoned the top two buttons. "Take your knees," he said, not bothering to look at me.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, sure I misheard him, but also just as sure that I hadn't.
His eyes cut to mine, deep, dark, a little hypnotizing I was convinced if I looked for too long. "I said to take your knees." To that, I felt myself stiffen. As he noticed everything, he noticed that as well. "You had my word about that, so relax. And. Take. Your. Knees."
"You can't be serious," I objected.
"Can't I?" he asked, raising a brow as he watched my face.
I exhaled, shaking my head, and lowering myself down onto the floor. "Happy?" I snapped, sitting back on my heels.
"Turn to the TV, not me."
With that, he clicked the button and the music started for the movie. So... we were watching a movie together? That was almost... nice of him. You know... if he maybe would let me watch said movie on the couch like a human being, not on the floor like a dog. But still, I'd take what I could get. I hadn't so much as caught the news in the better part of a week.
Of course, I should have expected that there was nothing kind or benign about anything Byron St. James did.
Because while the movie was a movie, it was an erotic one. And it was well done. Meaning, when the hero and the heroine finally got between the sheets, I wasn't entirely convinced the actors weren't actually doing it. And, well, what could I say? I was human. Not only was I human, but I hadn't had a boyfriend in almost a year and a half. Being the kind of woman who couldn't have sex outside of a relationship, that meant I hadn't been laid in a year and a half. My body was painfully aware of that fact. So as I sat there next to Byron, his knee actually brushing my shoulder, I pressed my thighs tightly together to try to ease the throbbing there.
"Miss. Marlow," Byron's voice called, a little softer than usual, a little less cruel-sounding. "Come sit up here."
Oh, God.
Why... why why would he pick right then to be a decent person? Granted, my knees and ankles were screaming from the position, but the last thing I wanted to do was to move. But, given an order, I slowly pushed myself up, watching as the TV paused as I tried to shake some life back into my legs before very carefully moving onto the couch, sure to keep a safe six inches between us. But as soon as I sat down, the couch depressed, making me slip a few inches in toward Byron until my shoulder brushed his. I pretended to ignore it (while being acutely attune to it) as he lifted his hand and the sex scene came back on in vivid, loud, erotic detail, sending another jolt of desire to my sex, making it clench hard and, consequently, make my thighs press even tighter together.
"Not used to sex scenes?" his voice asked, making my attention snap to his face.
Which, well, was a mistake. "What?" I asked, shaking my head a little.
"Hundred bucks says your panties are wet right now," he said, his voice still doing that soft, not-cruel thing that was in some way or another problematic for me. One, because without the edge to it, his voice was really sexy. Two, because I absolutely, positively did not want to think anything about dickhead Byron St. James was sexy.
"I thought I made it clear that I don't gamble," I said, lifting my chin a little.
"You're not the one gambling; I am," he clarified over the very distinct sound of a slap from the TV.
I swallowed hard, looking for some way to evade. Because I was pretty sure he would know if I outright lied. Don't ask me how I knew that, but I did. "Maybe you should keep your money. You know... so you can further ruin sick people's lives."
"You blame me for your father's gambling?"
"I blame you for playing both sides against the middle."
"If he didn't take from me, don't you think he'd have taken from someone else?"
"Of course he would have taken from someone else. But no one else would let him take so much. No one else would take..." I started then snapped my mouth shut at what I was almost going to say. I got carried away. Fact of the matter was, I had never discussed my father's gambling with anyone save for the one time I sought out a counselor to help me understand his addiction. I never got close enough with someone to peel back that layer and expose the wound. Why I had been able to do that with the man who was responsible, at least in part, for my father's issues was completely beyond me.
"No one else would take you as payment," he finished for me, face passive.
"Exactly."
"And no one else would force you to dress like a whore and listen to him fuck another woman, and watch him jerk off and watch a sex scene with him."
"Right," I said, looking back at the TV which, despite still on a sex scene, seemed like a safer place to have my eyes than on his face.
Of course that was until his hand moved out and snagged my chin, using it to force my face back to his. "You really don't know much about the men in this town," he said, shaking his head a little.
I tried to jerk my head away, but his fingers just closed tighter on my chin. "You're not supposed to touch me," I reminded him. "You gave your word."
"I gave my word that I wouldn't hurt you. Am I hurting you?" he asked, his fingers moving out to stroke across my cheek then slightly down my neck. The contact made a small, involuntary shiver course through my system and I prayed it was the kind that felt physical, but wasn't visible. Of course that was shot to shit the second his eyes darkened a little. And I knew that look well enough to place it when I saw it: desire.
Desire?
He wanted me?
Of all people?
I mean, I knew I shouldn't have been flattered. It was asinine, completely and utterly absurd. He was the biggest jackass I had ever met. But that being said, and as much as it pained me to admit it, he was stunning. And his taste in women generally ran to the ultra-perfect female equivalent of his good looks. Case and point, Lyla. She was so freaking pretty that she made me feel like a red-headed step child who was born with a hideous, fist-sized mole on her cheek. So, yeah. Okay. I was a little flattered. Though really, it meant nothing if a guy was willing to fuck you. Hell, if the mood struck, I was pretty sure they could completely remove your face and body and pretend they were fucking Adriana Lima instead.
That was likely what was happening.
We'd just watched a sexy movie. I was close by. I had a vagina. He had a dick. It was that simple.
"Answer me," he commanded, bringing me out of my strange, swirling internal monologue and back to his den in his huge house on his expensive couch with his deep eyes on me, seeming to reach down into my soul and seeing all the parts of me I kept locked away.
"What?" I asked, shaking my head a little, not able to remember the question.
"Am I hurting you?"
"No."
"Then shut the fuck up about it," he demanded, making my eyes widen and my lips part. But before I could even voice an objection, I found my lips crushed by his. His hand moved to my jaw, holding firmly, as his other arm snaked around my back, crushing my chest to his. A jolt moved through my body at the sudden change, the tightness in my chest, the hands on me, the hard male body against me, the pressure on my mouth.
And, well, my stupid, traitorous body forgot it was supposed to loathe the very essence of Byron St. James.
And it reacted.
It started with a strong, almost painful clenching between my legs as Byron's hand sank into my hip and his head tilted, deepening the kiss I hadn't moved to stop. My hands had moved up instinctively, grabbing the material of his shirt over his biceps, holding on instead of pushing away like they should have.
Lips already parted because I had prepared to snap at him, his tongue traced the crease, sending a full-body shiver through me as his body rose up slightly, going on his knees, and leaning over me, pressing me back against the couch. He didn't come down on me though, pressing my thighs open and resting a knee there and the other on the other side of my thigh against the back cushions. His arm moved out from underneath me and he held himself up by one arm as his other continued to hold my face still for a long minute. Until his tongue thrust into my mouth, claim
ing mine. That exact second, his hand slid down and closed around my throat, pressing in just enough to make me start, unsure. My eyes snapped open even as the stroking of his tongue sent a rush of wet between my legs.
Sensing or feeling the reaction in my body, a low, rolling, rumbling sound moved through Byron, making his chest vibrate, making the sound settle with another pre-orgasm fluttering of my sex.
His tongue retreated, his lips crushing mine again.
Then his hand wasn't on my throat. It was gone, nowhere, for a long second.
Then as his teeth dug into my lower lip, it reappeared, pressing hard and insistent between my thighs, up my skirt, over my panties.
I cried out against his lips, my hips bucking up at the unexpected and needed contact, my hands moving up to grab his shoulders, sinking in so hard that my fingers hurt.
He pulled back suddenly, waiting for my heavy-lids to force their way open. "Tell me no," he demanded, his tone rough, almost desperate, like he wanted me to turn him down. And I should have told him no. I should have taken the opportunity and run screaming.
I should have.
But I didn't.
I wasn't even consciously aware of making the move until I felt my hips rise up against his hand, begging for more, asking for release, giving him the permission he didn't seem to want. He made the rumbling sound again as his fingers curled and pressed into my clit. There was no pretense at teasing. His fingers found the sweet spot and they worked it, exploited it, tortured it with exquisite, perfect pressure.
In the very back of my mind, my common sense was screaming at the top of its lungs to push him off, to run screaming.
But, what can I say, it was at the very back of my mind so the sound was drowned out among my whimpers and groans as my legs went up on either side of Byron's hips and started grinding into his hand as he kept working me, kept demanding things we both knew he had no right to take from me, pleasure, when all he had afforded me so far was anything but.
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