"Is this about the other day? I told my sister to stay out of here," he says, voice quivering.
"What?" I didn't mean to snap the word so harshly, but he just mentioned her. She came here to deal with his inability to take care of her, and now he's going to blame her for his failings.
Not. Fucking. Happening.
I can practically see his weak heart beating out of his chest wall. The kid must be about a buck forty soaking wet. I'm over six feet of muscle and sinew, created by my penchant for kick boxing and a trainer that likes to hear me scream. Good. Let him stew in his puddle of fear. I deliberately delay, grabbing a pencil from my desk and snapping it in half between my fingers. I toss the shreds into my chrome wastebasket, never taking my eyes from my prey.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Caldwell. It will never happen again."
I raise my hand, and he clamps his mouth shut. One glance at Troy reveals that the corners of his mouth have turned upward into an evil little smile of delight. If he didn't like pissing all over the little people, he'd never have taken this job as my go-to guy. With most people, especially the lovely ladies, he's the perfect gentlemen. But not with scum. And people who sell out their family? They're the lowest of the low in our eyes.
"You've got a laundry list of debt in every casino in this city." I reach into the inside pocket of my Armani and pull out a paper, dropping it on the desk in front of me. "This is everyone you owe so much as a nickel to, and believe me, they want to collect. Right now."
"Wh-wh-what?" His face is red with shame, and his leg starts to tremble. "But they said I could make payments."
I watch his fists clench at his sides, but he's a weak little boy, and I'm twice his size. There's nothing he could do to physically threaten me, and we both know it. Even if I didn't outweigh him by a hundred pounds, I'm one of the most powerful men in Vegas. Just like my father before me.
"You've gambled away more than you'll ever be able to pay back. Not even if you live to be three hundred. But I'm a very wealthy man, Mr. Castillo, and your measly debt means about as much to me as if I found a warped penny on the sidewalk. Worthless."
I watch his throat move as he swallows but doesn't speak. Interest lights his eyes. I had him by the short hairs, and now I've got him by the throat.
"You may be asking yourself why I would care about helping you? And there's only one reason. You've got something I want, Mr. Castillo. Something I need, and I won't be denied."
"I don't have anything," he says through quivering lips and shakes his head.
How could he not remember the one precious thing in his miserable life? His confusion just reiterates my initial opinion of him.
"Oh, but you do," I say, leaning forward, and slapping my palms on the desk. I savor the sensation of watching him jump and then cringe. I want him so damn uncomfortable that this moment will haunt him for the rest of his days. But with his gambling habit, he'll be lucky if he gets much longer to grace this earth. There are vindictive men in this town. Mafia ties. And I'm ethical and fair. Except when it comes to Dante. "Something that's worth more than this casino we're sitting in. Something that's worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox.".
"Mr. Caldwell, do you need a kidney?" he asks, and I clamp my eyes shut. I've just added stupidity to the top of the list of his attributes.
I open them and spear him with a gaze. We're in a Mexican standoff, a staring contest. I'm not planning on speaking again until he figures it out on his own. It takes him two excruciatingly long minutes, but I see the second it dawns on him.
"Marcella?" he asks, confusion ringing out through the room. Troy's lips have now widened into a full-blown smile. With teeth.
"Ah, he does have some brain cells floating around in there. Deep down you know how precious she is. And I want her." I'll have her, I think, but I don't say that part out loud. "To work here."
"You need a maid?" he asks, clearly not understanding my ulterior motives. Good. It will be easier this way. The last thing I need right now is this diminutive kid copping an attitude and getting in between me and my end goals.
It makes my stomach churn to see the wheels turning inside his mind. He's considering how he can leverage his sweet sister for his own selfish gain. I try to remind myself that gambling addiction is an illness just like alcoholism or drug abuse, but it doesn't hit home because I don't believe in allowing personal weakness.
He doesn't immediately deny me what I want, which makes me believe he hasn't considered Marcella as a commodity to be leveraged before. Will he now that I've presented an offer? The folder told the sad story better than any Lifetime movie, which is probably why she hasn't been used as leverage before. Or worse yet, payment for his poker problem. But I also don't think his debts have ever been this bad before. There is a price on his head now, and I'm actually doing the kid a favor. I've gotten to him before Dante. My enemy's henchmen would eat a kid like this up and spit him out without even stopping to clean their fangs. Guilt doesn't even enter the equation. I'm doing the right thing. For her and for him.
"What do you really want with her?" he finally asks. I note that he hasn't said that he can't or won't help me hire her on here at the Armónico.
"I want her to work for me personally. I need a para for my brother, and I understand your sister has experience dealing with special needs kids."
His eyes widen. "How do you know that?" Some of his fear must have started to dissipate because he's starting to ask tougher questions.
"Since my brother has cerebral palsy, I have access to all of the best occupational therapists in the city. There's an internship program at the community college. My therapist recommended I use one of the interns as a para to supplement therapy. When I called the program advisor, she recommended your sister." The lie flows like butter off my lips. I can't imagine he'd have the gumption or the presence of mind to follow up and expose my real intentions. “Even though she was forced to drop out before finishing the degree because of you."
After a few seconds, he inhales, and I watch his puny chest rise and fall. "Yeah, she wants to go to college to become an occupational therapist. You've got that right."
"When is she leaving?"
He looks flushed again, like he's actually ashamed of himself. And he should be. I want to watch him squirm and enjoy it like it's a Saturday evening performance of "Hamilton" at the Richard Rodgers.
"She's not."
And you're the fucking reason why, you piece of shit. I wait for him to admit it. But he doesn't, so I push, and I press because I want to and I can. My hardened heart starts to ache for the dark-haired beauty who's consumed me. It's the first time I've felt any tender emotion outside of my own family. Maybe in forever.
"Why not? Her advisor told me she graduated at the top of her class. A National Merit Scholar with multiple scholarship awards. She scored in the top tier of the entrance exams. Why on earth would someone so talented and brilliant not be on the first plane out of here?"
He hangs his head in shame. I want to reach over the desk and place my finger underneath his chin to tilt it up. I want him to look at me when he says it. I want him to feel every last shred of disgrace over what he's done to her. And then when I finally feel he's suitably contrite, I'll forget all about him. But for her…I'll do anything. Anything she wants will be handed to her on a silver platter. Harvard. Yale. I don't give a shit. It's hers.
"She says she needs to save money for the books and stuff. The scholarships and grants aren't enough to cover everything. They don't work on supplies or living expenses."
"I see." But I don't fucking see anything besides his pathetic bullshit. "You'll talk to her about working with Lincoln Caldwell at five times her normal salary. She'll start Monday. If she doesn't show up, well…" I wave the paper in front of his face. "I can't be assured of your safety."
He nods, and a shudder of triumph and anticipation travels up my spine and spider webs outward. I've won.
"She'll be here, Mr. Caldwell. You can count on it."<
br />
Chapter Seven – Marcella
I stare up at the lunchbox sitting on the counter. It's only got a bologna sandwich and a few baby carrots inside it, but at least it's something. We can't afford to buy food that's not on sale at the bargain grocery store with the wilted produce and the expired meat. And I know Manny. He'll start making some tips and think he can afford to go to the food court. He can't. It's my day off, so I've got the time, but I don't have the extra gas. Last night on my way home from work, the gas gauge hovered just underneath a quarter tank, and I've still got two shifts before payday.
With a curse underneath my breath and a long-suffering sigh of annoyance, I grab the lunchbox and lock up behind me. More cursing follows all the way to the Armónico as I have to keep stopping in traffic, which I know is a fuel waster. Damn Manny and his habit of having his head up his ass. He's always thinking about the next big game and trying to come up with the buy in. I shiver as I imagine what it must be like to sell your very soul to the devil of addiction. I've never wasted one red cent wagering, and I don't even want to think about it anymore. He's in deep. Too deep.
I don't bother driving around in the self-parking since I've got more time than money. I snag the first empty spot and hoof it to the casino entrance hoping against hope that Ramone will be inside a vehicle in the valet ramp and not standing out front.
No such luck.
"Morning, Marcella. Manny forgot his lunch again?" For some reason, Ramone's happy-go-lucky countenance pisses me off today. It's like he wants to rain his special brand of sunlight down on me and open up the shroud of dark clouds I'm wearing around my body like a cloak of darkness. I want to reach up and slap the foolish grin off his face. I know just the sight of me makes him this way, but I don't reciprocate. I can't. The last thing I need is to be tied down to Vegas. As soon as I can afford to spread my broken wings, I'm going to fly.
"Morning, Ramone." I don't say anything else because I don't want to stand there and make conversation. Nixon Caldwell's henchman scares me, and he didn't look too happy the last time Manny and I got into it. Not that I blame him. I know getting pissy in a high-class establishment like the Armónico is a good way to get Manny fired.
"Bye, Mar…"
His last words fade into the dinging of slot machines. The cleaning solution of the marble buffing machine assails my senses. Probably toxic as shit but it's cheap, and it works because my tennis shoes are making squeaking noises as I try to reach the carpet. Once I'm close to the pit, I search for Manny. He narrows his eyes when he spots me, so I hold up the lunchbox and point to it. He nods, and I sit down again to wait for him. This time, I choose a spot farther away from the pit and the eagle eyes of Troy Cass.
After a few minutes scrolling through my Facebook feed, I look up in time to see Manny walking toward me.
"You forgot this," I say in my most annoyed tone, holding up the lunchbox. "And I had to waste precious fuel bringing it here."
He snatches it out of my hands. "Thanks. I would have gone hungry."
I snort and roll my eyes. "As if. You would have grabbed a burger, and you know it. Your stomach's like a bottomless pit."
"Hey, I'm glad you're here but not because I forgot my lunch."
I eye him because he looks all serious all of a sudden, and I wonder if he's going to ask me for money. I can't give what I don't have. All I have in my purse is my emergency dollar. The only reason we both have phones is because Maria took pity on us and gave us the basic plan for Christmas. After she crossed herself a dozen times, she said she'd go out of her mind with worry if she lost contact.
"What?" My wary tone reaches my ears, and I wince. It's probably not right that I always imagine the worst when it comes to my brother. Old habits die hard.
"It's about Nixon Caldwell."
I throw my phone in my purse and stand up, looking around, expecting the man of my illicit fantasies to jump out from behind the nearest slot machine and yell boo. What the hell could he want with Manny?
"Nixon Caldwell? What the hell?"
"Yeah, I could barely believe it myself. Since you worked late at the Heartbreak, you weren't up yet when I left for work today. I thought I'd tell you tonight, but now's a good a time as any. He called me up to this office yesterday. You should have seen it, Marsh. It looked like something out of a magazine. Our entire trailer could have fit on top of his desk."
My eyes widen as I imagine the luxurious private office of a dude that rich. And that particular. I can tell by the way he dresses and never has a hair out of place that the guy has exacting standards. I imagine he has high expectations, even of his furniture.
"I can believe it, but what's that got to do with us?"
"He heard about you from Mrs. Olivero over at the community college. Something about the internship you did last year. He's got a disabled brother that needs a para, so he asked if I'd offer you the job. Apparently, he worried that you'd freak if he called you. Wanted me to pave the way, so to speak."
No shit. I'd freak if I heard from Nixon Caldwell, but not for that reason.
"Work for Nixon Caldwell? Here?" My mouth puts up red flags and road blocks, but my panties flood with moisture at the possibility. This can't be happening to me. Nothing good ever happens to me.
"You didn't even ask me about the best part." Manny's eyes dance and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"It gets better?" I ask, mouth hanging open.
"It's five times your current salary. We could really use that money, Marshmallow. To pay the rent and all that."
Dollar signs dance across my eyelids. It's a no-brainer. Except for one thing. Hell, I can't even mention that to Manny, or he'll start in with his overprotective brother routine, even though he's the one who usually needs protection. Can I even be in the same room with Nixon Caldwell for more than ten minutes without him knowing that I want to throw him down and ride his rock hard body?
"Wow, that's something. Did he say anything about the hours and all that?"
His words sink in, yet they don't make sense. For some reason, I can't even imagine myself working in a high-class joint like this. God, I don't have anything to wear that's fit to be seen in polite company. Manny's eyes soften as he goes on to fill me in on the particulars, and I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I want to turn down the job on the back of my inappropriate desire alone, I won't have to. Nixon's only in his office at night and the brother attends therapy all afternoon. I'd only be needed in the morning, long before Nixon arrives at work.
Part-time work for a full-time wage seems too good to be true. My dad always told me that if it seems too good to be true, it is. But I can't see any reason not to give it a trial run. I can always keep my afternoon gig at the Heartbreak until I know for sure.
"I think you should take the job."
"I—"
Before I can finish my sentence, Troy Cass appears out of nowhere like some soundless, faceless hulk of man. He scares the living shit out of me. I know from the article that he's Nixon's right-hand man and best friend from childhood. He seems to know and hear every fucking little thing. I look up and see all the cameras overhead and remember how tight security can be in places like this. Is Nixon watching me? I stare into the lens of the one closest, imagining he has more than just his eyes on my body.
"Miss Castillo?" Troy says, breaking my trance.
"Yes?"
"Nixon Caldwell would like to work out the details of your employment. Right now."
"Details?" I ask, shaking my head. Does he think he can buy or have whatever he wants at the snap of his fingers? As attractive as he is, he probably does. But he can't have me. I may be poor, but that doesn't mean I'm easy.
"About the job as para to Lincoln." He turns to Manny and points a finger. "You told her about the job, didn't you?"
"I sure did," Manny says, turning to head back to work. "You should go with Mr. Cass, Marcella. He's a good guy."
In spite of Manny's glowing recommendation, the walk
to the private elevator feels like a walk to the gallows. The only thing missing is the beat of the drum and the masked executioner holding his sharpened axe. Troy puts his hand in the small of my back to lead me in the right direction, and I repress a small shudder. He has such strength in just the palm of his hand that I know he could snap my body in half before I could even scream.
The ding happens before I'm ready. I glance down at my tattered jeans and tank top. My nipples have hardened underneath the threadbare fabric due to the temperature difference between the inferno outside and the chilled interior. I cross my arms over my full breasts. The last thing I need is for Nixon to get the wrong impression. Had I known I'd be seeing the subject of my racy fantasies, I would have dressed better. Not that I have anything fancy enough for him, but better than this.
Troy stays behind and motions me out of the elevator first. It's like he's protecting me already. Is Nixon Caldwell that dangerous that I need protecting from him? Or do I need protection from myself and my roiling emotions? My heart pounds and my palms sweat. I want to wipe them on my jeans but leave my arms dangling at my sides.
I see him before he sees me. He's so huge and imposing in his leather chair facing the floor to ceiling windows. I stop in the doorway, and Troy almost runs into my back. Then, there's that hand in the small of my back again. He must think I'm a complete idiot. Troy gives a little shove, and I'm inside, watching him. Waiting. Stilted yet electric moments pass before he gives a slow twirl.
His eyes. They're so dark with unnamed emotion, they pierce my skin, and I swear they've captured something deep inside me.
"Miss Castillo. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I'm sure your time is valuable, as are you. Rest assured I won't waste it."
"No." The word pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. My time's not valuable, and neither am I. Well, maybe I used to be to my parents but not to a man like this.
His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. He looks even more breathtaking with the tinge of annoyance coloring his chiseled features. Why does he care?
Buyer Beware Page 5
