by Ella James
Apparently, the plane is landed. I catch a glimpse of lights outside the window, then point weakly to the bags, and Esmerelda nods. “We’ll get them to Mr. West’s room. Don’t worry.”
“Thank you.”
As I float toward the plane’s door, she says, “Go have some fun!”
I tell her I will, and hold on tightly to the railing as I make my way down the stairs in my sexiest jeans, red Lanvin ballet flats, and a flowy white Marc Jacobs blouse I got last time I went shopping on Rodeo Drive.
I wander toward the glossy-looking high-rises with only my purse on my shoulder, and it’s then I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’ve only been to Hunter’s penthouse once, and in my drunken state, I can’t seem to understand how the trees and grass around me will lead me back there.
I look around. I’m past the airport now and on a…golf course? I giggle. This is not good. I suck at golf. I can’t see Hunter West in a golf shirt. Pretentious Casual—that’s what I’ll call his style. Lizzy sold her clubs when her dad left so she can’t play, either. Golf sucks! I twirl around. There are palm trees strung with lights. So many lights! They make me dizzy!
I ended up sitting on one of the greens, but a rescuer arrives! A golf cart is here. There’s a man in a suit. He’s saying, “Can I help you?”
I blink up at him and grin. “My prince charming!”
We strike a deal, and he says he will take me out of the palm tree forest, to the Wynn.
“And you work here?” I ask him for the first—or second?—time.
“Yes, miss. I’m a ball boy.”
I giggle. Balls.
“Golf balls.”
He chuckles. “Golf balls.”
He presses the pedal, and I get dropped into the rabbit hole. Lots of lights and pools that glow and other lights, and umbrellas and stuff hanging over gardens, and I see some dancers wearing feathers on their butts and I think I saw a waterfall peeking through the brush.
There’s this lighted path, and we drive down it, and then we’re standing in front of this Zen-ish garden place, and there’s a bunch of tropical trees and a stone path and tables with candles where people are eating stuff that smells good, kind of like tuna, and my guide is biding me au revoir. I’m out of the cart, standing along a tree-lined path. My legs feel shaky.
“Wait—but what do I do now?” I turn around. My guide is gone. I’m by myself.
Oh, God.
I’m not sure how I make it to the penthouses. I’m on the 46th floor, and the view from the back of the glass elevator makes me dizzy. I step onto the shiny chocolate marble, under big, round, gold chandelier things, and I have a hazy memory of tipping someone pretty generously and mentioning Hunter’s name.
But uh-oh. There’s a problem. This hallway, where the elevator dropped me off, only has one door, and it’s guarded by a solid gold lion. I blink my bleary eyes and try to see it in a different light, but I know décor, and this does not say ‘Hunter’ or ‘Lizzy’ to me. Not at all.
I sink down against the wall, stick my cold hands into my bag, and give my fine motor skills a challenge by searching for my makeup. I giggle as I pop open a compact and refresh my lipstick—see, I don’t look drunk!—and stumble as I get back to my feet. I drop the makeup back into my purse and fish my iPhone out. I dial Lizzy’s number, still smiling stupidly, but when it goes to voice mail, my stomach starts to feel sick.
I’m lost.
I’m lost in a big casino. Not just a casino. A casino wonderland, with an Alexander McQueen boutique and waterfalls and flashy lights and steam and marble and glittery diamond lamps.
“Where is Lizzy?” I whisper to myself.
I’m back at the big, brass elevator, repeatedly banging the ‘down’ arrow. The doors open a couple seconds later, and I ride to the main floor, where I’m dizzied again by the sights, sounds, and smells of the casino.
The décor is glossy and rich, with bold, bright colors, varied textures and fabrics, gazillion-foot ceilings, and expansive, art-lined corridors. If I’m not mistaken, Roger Thomas did the last remodel, and I think it’s…amazing. I’m scrutinizing his extravagant potted plant choices when it dawns on me that I should try to call Lizzy again.
I do, and it’s the same as last time: no answer after several rings, then voicemail.
I pick a comfortable looking, bumblebee yellow couch and sink down onto it. “Lizzy,” I hiss into the phone, “I’m down in the casino, and I need you. Where are you?”
I hang up, feeling tears burn in my eyes, and decide I’m not going to be some drunk girl crying in a casino lobby. Maybe I can walk off my buzz and figure out how to get to Hunter’s penthouse.
Figure it out?
I should just go ask!
Du-huhhh.
I cut through a few private casino rooms filled with people doing special things—oops—and finally make it to an information desk, where I ask a stern-looking middle-aged guy about Hunter West’s penthouse.
He frowns at me. “Ma’am, we don’t give out our residents’ information without prior resident authorization.”
“But…can’t you just call him?”
“I suppose I can try.”
No dice.
When he hangs up the phone, I’m feeling desperate. “You’re sure?”
He nods.
I narrow my eyes at the man, then press my lips together and lean forward a little. Lower my voice, in case bad people are around. “Sir…I don’t mean to be a diva, but…I’m not a bad person. I’m not a criminal. That’s what I mean.” I’m floundering. I stand straighter, throw my shoulders back. Pretend I’m not drunk. “My father is Trent Dalton. You know, the computer guy?” I raise my eyebrows.
“I know who Trent Dalton is, ma’am. Everyone does.”
I smile a little. “Okay, so, then, it’s okay to let me into Hunter West’s room. Up to his room, I mean. Up to. Not into.”
“I’m sorry ma’am. Not without prior resident authorization.”
I nod a few times before turning away.
I call Lizzy two more times without success.
“This is a bad day,” I murmur to myself. “Bad night. This is a bad month.”
A few minutes later, I’m dawdling near a vast room decorated like the pages of a Japanese manga and filled with slot machines, when a bulky man in a staff suit grabs my elbow.
“Ma’am, may I help you?”
I shake my head, removing my elbow from his presumptuous grasp. “No, I don’t need anything.”
He frowns at me, looking suspicious, and I sigh. “I’m looking for some friends, but I’ll find them eventually. Maybe.”
His eyebrows—dark, I notice—scrunch like fuzzy caterpillars. “Ma’am, are you intoxicated?”
I blink, surprised by the question. “Is that abnormal? This is a casino!” I hate to be terse, but I don’t appreciate his manner.
His hand grasps my elbow again. “Please come with me, Miss. We can get this sorted out at the security station.”
“Is this a joke?” I tug against his grasp, trying to wrap my addled mind around what he’s telling me. “Did I get paged or something?”
His fingers, locked around my wrist now, are almost crushing. “Come with me now, Miss. We’ll get this sorted out when we get there.”
I bite my lip, looking him over as he walks half a step ahead of me. My eyes dart all around the hall, crammed with thrill-seekers of every nationality, gender, and age. I can’t find anyone dressed in a uniform like this man’s, and I’m too buzzed to remember what the other employees were wearing.
All my mother’s warnings play in my head like a recording stuck on a loop. All the things she’s told me about being kidnapped. Dad’s wealth is notable. And I told them who I am!
With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.”
With my heart pounding, I jerk my hand away. “I’ll need to see some ID, sir.” I back away from him, already glancing around for somewhere to run if he
acts shady.
Time seems to hang in place, the bright, loud scene around me freezing as my heart gallops.
The man rushes forward to grab me, looking meaner—more sinister—than he did before, and that’s all it takes. I turn and run.
3
MARCHANT
When Jenkins stops the Bentley at the doorway of the Wynn, I’m still working on my blunt.
“Hey dude, we’re here,” Jenk calls over his shoulder. He’s got some new tracks thumping, and with his tortoiseshell glasses and his toothpaste commercial smile, he looks a little ridiculous: my 20-year-old chauffeur. The deal is, I pay for his college and he drives me around to shit like this. Call me crazy, but I need it to be someone younger than me. I feel like hell every time I see an old guy driving someone. Shouldn’t he be fly fishing or watching Andy Griffith or some shit?
I didn’t stab the cherry out when I pressed the blunt into the ash tray, so I take another quick hit and nod as smoke pours out my nostrils. “Yeah, I noticed.” The flickering blue glow of the pools in front of the casino makes this difficult to miss.
I straighten my jacket and fuck with my tie and run my fingers through my newly trimmed beard. I don’t want to get out, but…I kind of have to.
I tuck the .38 in my pants pocket as I reach for the door handle, and Jenk reaches back and slaps my shoulder. “You want me to wait around, right?”
I blink at him, replay his words, then shake my head. “Nah. Go home and study, man. You’ve got…finals?”
He laughs. “Two weeks ago.”
“What?” I rub my dry eyes, trying to make sense of this.
“Two weeks ago. Finals already happened, dude. I’m on a break right now, so I can wait as long as you need.”
I shake my head again. “Park her at the Sahara location and go home. I’ll call a cab or something.”
“You sure?”
Goddamn, this kid is persistent. I cut my eyes at him, trying not to let my foul mood show. “Yeah, man. I got it.”
That’s a lie. But I still owe a guy some money, and I don’t need to involve the kid in whatever might happen. What is it they say? Bad impression. No—it’s bad example. Kids are vulnerable, and I’m an example, right?
It’s Friday night—still early, but the Wynn is hopping. The weed keeps me mellow, so the crowd doesn’t bother me much. I hurry through the massive, marble-columned hallway, trying to keep my head down as I walk toward the private room that’s reserved for the Hearts for Heroes fundraiser Hunter roped me into. It’s for the cardiac unit at the local children’s hospital, and there’s some elaborate system they’re using to raise the money. Something with teams. We’re calling ours the Love Inc. team, even though Hunter set everything up, and we’ve got a couple of extra people.
I feel like an asshole with this gun in my pocket, and I’ll look like one if security sees it, but I can’t take the risk of getting jumped by Hawkins. Rex Hawkins, the guy who’s been threatening to shoot me in the back.
Fuck him. I said I would pay. I just need a little longer to get the money moved. Fuck Hawkins for starting that fight last week at Tao. Fuck Tao, too. I got a month-long ban and a ride to the South MLK police station, and Hawkins got nothing.
I try to shove my anger down as I turn sideways to get past a group of Asian men in pastel business suits. I need to keep my mind on tonight, not get lost in that other shit. But I can’t help it; I wish I was at Tao playing blackjack. I wish I could find Rex Hawkins and kick his fucking ass.
I press my hand against my pocket and remind myself that guns are terrible things. I’m not a gun guy, right? I’m all about the party.
I should throw the gun out.
Where? A trash receptacle? No way. The cameras pick that shit up. I rub my slacks again, but my mind is fucking hazy. I don’t know what to do with the damn thing.
The room we’re in is big, with high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, and lots of black, fringed chandeliers that look, to me, like video-game monsters. Tonight the lights inside of them are glowing red. I guess in honor of the whole hearts thing.
Kids with heart defects. Now that shit is sad. Really goddamned sad. When I think about the kids, I need a fucking drink.
This dude comes up, and I swear I’ve got some magic fucking powers, because he’s got a tray loaded with alcohol. I grab what looks like Long Island iced tea and down it before he can make it to the next person.
“Let me grab another one, dude.” I shove a hundred into his palm and grab two more drinks.
“One for my friend,” I mutter as I step away.
Take that, Hawkins. I’ve got enough money to come through this shit. I’m solvent. I finish the second drink and sit the empty glass by a potted palm tree. My eyes are burning like a motherfucker. My hands itch. Fuck. I’m jumpy as shit. Maybe I should go. I could probably make it over to Tao’s in less than half an hour if I could get a police escort.
I rub my eyes again. Okay, the cops probably wouldn’t do that for me. Not unless I get in trouble. Maybe I should go find Hawkins and shove my fist into his tenth-grade-looking face again. Baby-faced motherfucker.
I cast my bleary gaze around the room. Crowded. Lots of important types here. The mayor and shit. Wonder where the hell Hunter is. I can’t remember who’s on our team. It’s fucking hot in here. I’d love another blunt. Maybe I should go.
I fiddle with the gun and think about going to the bathroom and flushing it down the toilet. I don’t need a gun. I’ve got my fists. Guns kill people—right? I don’t want to do that. I’m a nice guy.
Can guns fit down toilets?
Right out in front of me, in between me and the tables they’ve got set up, this woman walks by, and she’s a fucking fox. Short, blonde-brown hair. Angel face. Ass-hugging jeans. Maybe that’s what I need to shake this weird-ass mood: a good fuck. I push myself up and start to follow her. If I ask, she might be game. I can donate some money to this charity bullshit. Stay in bed with her instead of playing.
I’m on her tail, my eyes glued to her pert little ass in those amazing blue jeans. Fucking hell. The way she moves…
There’s Hunter! I see him in a crowd of well-dressed pricks, crossing through the room behind this one, angled toward me. I need to dodge him, follow the girl, but he holds his hand up. He raises his eyebrows—West’s idea of a friendly greeting—then pulls his phone out of his tux pocket. He’s getting a call, and whatever he hears makes his eyes go wide.
I turn back, and the girl is gone.
Goddamned Hunter. He’s such a cock block.
I turn back toward the lobby, because I’m getting out of here. I don’t have the right head for this hearts bullshit.
I turn, and there’s Hawkins.
“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, but I told your asshat errand boy that I wouldn’t have the money until Monday.”
Hawkins, standing in front of me in a small, round sitting area off the rented casino room, smirks. “You didn’t tell anyone shit.”
“Monday,” I growl.
Again, that smirk. “So make it Sunday, papa pimp.” He grins and takes a step toward me.
I take a step forward, too, crowding him against the rounded wall. Wormy little bastard. I can take him with my eyes closed. “You gonna threaten me here, when you’re all alone?” I sneer.
“I’ve got friends everywhere, Radcliffe.”
“Good for you, you fucking prick. You’ll get your money Monday. Now, you might want to consider getting the fuck away from me, before I get pissed off.”
His face twists. “Sunday, or I’m coming for it.”
“Why don’t you try?” My self-control snaps and I shove him against the wall, enjoying the sensation of my hands digging into his shoulders. “I might owe you money, but you’re a fucking bully and a cheat. And getting the cops involved at Tao was— hey!”
I was going to say “a bitch move,” but strong arms grab my shoulders from behind.
“Let’s take
this outside,” Hawkins says, his beady eyes directing whoever is behind me. One of his thugs, obviously. I force my body to go limp as the man behind me pushes something hard and cool into my lower back, and I’m shoved out a nearby door, into one of the casino’s discreet atriums, with lush green grass, potted trees, and a bunch of cheesy lanterns.
Hawkins’ thug digs his gun into my back, but I don’t give a fuck. I whirl on him, kneeing him in the balls, sending him down to the plastic grass in half a second, before Hawkins’ other goon throws a punch at my jaw.
I dodge it easily. My eyes are fast. One swift kick to the wrist, and his gun is on the ground. One more and that big, fat bastard is bleeding from his ugly fucking head.
I go for my own gun, rounding on Hawkins as I do—but my fingers aren’t working right. I’m having trouble tracking. My mind is racing too damn fast now.
Goon No. 1 is back up, so I backhand the bastard and he flies across the grass. Another big bastard with that distinctive Hawkins Security swagger comes barreling out the door, and I kick him in the balls. Now they’re all down.
But Hawkins has the gun, and he’s circling me. “You high on something, Radcliffe?”
“Life.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, but he should have looked at me like I’m the fucking Flash, because I grab the gun from him and get him on the ground in half a second. I start wailing on his face, and it feels so good. Just what I need.
From somewhere far away, conscience tells me to lighten up—I’m gonna really hurt him—but I don’t listen. I need this too badly.
I’m feeling better than I have in weeks when I hear a shriek, then feel small hands tugging at my shoulders. I aim a punch behind me and, a millisecond later, hear a woman’s scream.
Holy fuck! I turn around, adrenaline pumping so hard I can feel my heartbeat in my eyes.
It’s her. The blonde in the ass-hugging jeans.
I push Hawkins harder against the ground and search her face. Her cheek is red, like there’s a bruise forming. “Jesus, baby. I’m sorry.”
“You’re going to kill him!” She backs away, scrambling like I’m some kind of monster.
