“Hello, ladies,” he says. “Can I get you anything to drink or an appetizer, perhaps?”
“I’ll have a mango lassi,” I say. “And an order of the naan sampler.”
Bailey orders a beer and some paneer samosas for us to split. He spins, then takes our order to the kitchen, and I lean over the menu, flipping through the pages.
“I might actually branch out tonight. I can’t decide if I want the palak chaat or the chicken tikka masala,” I say, frowning. “I’m starting to sound like you. I’m so hungry I feel like I could eat this whole menu. Without swallowing.”
Bailey snickers and blows me a kiss. “Welcome to my world, bestie,” she says, shaking her head. “But in the end, you always get the chicken.”
I laugh. It feels good after such a long day. Between Nixon telling me that the fashion show will be hosted elsewhere and the relief of Reagan booking Eva Blake, my head spins. I can’t wait to go home and collapse in bed. I’ll sleep well tonight, after a few drinks to help me unwind.
The server returns with our drinks. True to Bailey’s word, I order the chicken, and she orders rice biryani with nuts, paneer, and raisins.
“Very good, ladies,” the server says with a smile. As he carries away the menus, Bailey and I clink glasses, and I take a long, refreshing sip of my yogurt drink.
I can feel my stress tugging my forehead into a mess of ugly creases. Bailey’s kind of a ditz sometimes, but she’s incredibly smart and pragmatic when push comes to shove. I trust her opinion more than I’ve ever trusted anyone else’s. I don’t like seeing her upset.
“What’s up buttercup?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Dante’s trouble. But I’m pretty sure he’s going to get caught, eventually. Maybe it will take the FBI.”
I snort. “It’s Vegas. An implosion of his casino would probably be more effective.”
Bailey nods. Just as I’m about to ask her what she really thinks about Reagan, sirens blare as a convoy of fire trucks rush past the picture window and straight toward the Armónico.
“Oh my god,” I say, jumping to my feet, and clutching my chest. “Strict Nécessaire!”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Bailey says, but her eyes are huge, and I can tell she’s just as freaked out as I am by the threat of a five-alarm fire.
My stomach twists and churns into anxious knots. Ever since the first day I cut the ribbon to my boutique, I’ve been terrified of two things – theft and fire. Fires don’t happen that often in Vegas, but the climate is so dry that usually when they do, buildings go up in seconds.
People die.
Grabbing my purse, I throw two twenty-dollar bills on the table and rush into the street. I’m not alone – terrified people pour out of every doorway and entrance, looking around in confusion for the source of the sirens. I jog into the street and glance up and down, looking for the telltale smoke and soot.
“Bailey!” I yell. “I’m going to check it out!”
“I’m right here.” She looks panicked, and she’s panting as she forces herself to keep up with my long legs. She follows me down the street as we run toward by baby.
Please, please, please don’t be on fire. I close my eyes in a quick prayer as my heels click against the asphalt. Please be okay! Please be okay!
Rounding the corner, I let out the biggest sigh of relief in my life when I see that my boutique is untouched. So is the entire Promenade.
“Thank god,” I say, closing my eyes and shuddering. The adrenaline pumps through my system, and I brace myself with a hand against the brick wall, hissing under the strength of my relief.
“Oh, god.” Bailey hugs me, and I cling to her like a lifeline. “I’m so glad it’s not you.”
“Me, too,” I say, pulling away from Bailey and wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs. “I wonder what it was, though. That many fire trucks never amounts to anything good.”
Bailey nods and frowns. Together, we follow the crush of people down the strip. More fire trucks race by – ambulances now, too – and I say another quick prayer, hoping no one’s injured or worse.
“I’ve never seen this many fire trucks,” I say under my breath as we walk closer. My heart sinks when I see where most of the people are clustered – outside of Velvet, the club where I made a fantastic fool out of myself.
“Oh, no,” Bailey says, face falling in horror. “It’s Velvet.”
“I know.” I chew on my fingernail. “This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when everything was finally coming together for the benefit.”
Bailey presses her lips together and nods. We push through the crowd, searching for Nixon and Reagan. Nixon stands close to the club, shaking his head and glaring. His navy eyes have turned black, and he’s flailing, his strong hands sailing through the air as he argues with a man in a fire hat and flame-retardant suit, Reagan by his side, dealing with something else.
“Nixon,” I yell, waving. “Are you okay?”
When Nixon sees me, he looks relieved. He pushes his way close to me and shakes his head. “It’s the craziest damn thing. I stepped away for ten minutes and then this happened.”
“Do you know what caused it?”
“The fire marshal said something about a short in the wires, but that doesn’t make sense. I had the whole club rewired right before I opened it. It passed multiple inspections. That’s not right – there’s no way it could’ve happened so quickly. This reeks of sabotage. And the one asshat that would be brazen enough to do something like this right before a huge charity event.”
Is Dante really capable of something like this? Thousands of people could have been burned alive if the fire trucks weren’t available to rush to the site. I shiver, because I know deep in my soul, Nixon’s right. Dante’s capable of this and far worse.
“Maybe the electrician made a mistake,” I say, grasping at anything else but the bitter truth as I watch my fashion show go straight down the tubes along with the water spurting out of the fire hose. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, the club hadn’t opened yet, and there’s not a ton of fire damage, but we’ll have to find somewhere else to host the fashion show,” Nixon says. “I’m so sorry, Taryn. I know this has been one hell of a pain in everyone’s ass. If it wasn’t for charity, I’d call the whole thing off. But I don’t know how I’d explain that to Linc.”
“I’m so sorry.” I feel a strong flash of guilt. I am sorry for Nixon, truly, but I’m also incredibly relieved that Strict Nécessaire didn’t go up in flames. My inventory alone would be millions to replace, and I couldn’t handle it if my insurance premiums went up any higher. Owning a business in Vegas is already a risky venture, and disasters like fire always scare me.
“Me, too,” Nixon says. He sighs and shakes his head. “I had a meeting with the dealers at the Armónico, and I’d barely left when I heard the sirens.”
For a moment, we stand in silence, staring at the scene while lost in our private thoughts. I wonder if he wants Giovanetti to pay as much as I do. Probably more.
“I hope it’s back up and running soon,” I say. “Do you have any ideas for venues for the fashion show?”
He shakes his head. “No clue. At the least, Velvet will need to be professionally cleaned and sanitized. There’s thankfully more smoke damage than flame damage, but it’s going to take a while – a couple of weeks at least. I’ll get my entertainment director on it right away. Maybe if we call in some favors, we can find something suitable last minute.”
“Damn,” I say, shuddering. I can’t imagine how much revenue Nixon will lose in the time Velvet is shuttered. Again, it makes me feel guilty for being so relieved and selfish.
“Yeah,” Nixon says. “Look, I’ve got to get back to the fire marshal. You going to be okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding and trying to put on a brave face. “Good luck with everything. I’ll check in with the entertainment director if I get any ideas about a possible venue.”
“Marcella’s going to freak,” he s
ays, nodding. “You know how skittish she is about accidents.”
“I don’t envy you having to tell her, but I hope it turns out well.”
Nixon jerks his head to the side in a wordless goodbye, then turns on his heel and jogs over to the fire trucks. The fire marshal frowns, looking down at a clipboard.
“God, poor guy,” Bailey says, standing close and wrapping her arms around herself.
The smell of char and ash hangs thick in the air, and I cough. “Let’s get out of here. Maybe they didn’t throw our entrees away yet. You still hungry?”
“I feel like having more of a liquid dinner, if you know what I mean. I’ve got a bottle of good wine at home. And Netflix. Want to come over?”
I think about it for a moment. The idea tempts me – staying up all night with Bailey, drinking wine and laughing at bad rom coms. But I can’t do that, there’s still so much to do for the benefit. And I have a feeling Nixon’s going to want me to help look for new venues. I feel like I owe it to him to step up in his hour of need.
“Nah, I’m good. You have fun, though.”
“Yeah.” She wrinkles her nose as a new wave of noxious fumes assail us. “You know what sucks?”
“Everything?” I point to Velvet.
“Just about.”
Chapter Thirteen
Reagan
“I’m fucked,” Nixon says, throwing his arms in the air. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him anywhere close to looking hopeless. He’s solid as a rock and just as tough.
“You’re not.” I grab his arm, staring intensely into his eyes. “This is all going to work out, okay?”
“No.” Nixon seethes with tangible anger. “I can’t fucking believe this, Reagan. Somebody’s got to grow a pair and stop this motherfucker before he goes too fucking far!”
“It’s the shock,” I say, feeling helpless. We stand in front of Velvet – or at least, what’s left of it. Superficially, the damage doesn’t look bad, but the whole damn club will need to be cleaned, sanitized, and possibly rewired before Nixon can reopen. I can’t even imagine the damage to his bottom line.
“It’s not the fucking shock.” When he slides his sunglasses up to the top of his head, I can see that his eyes flame with rage. “Dante is a fucking prick who preys on the weak,” he adds, clenching his teeth.
“You’re not weak, though,” I say. “You’re his biggest adversary, Nix. He wouldn’t dare.”
“He thinks I’m fucking weak, so I must be,” Nixon growls. “You don’t get it. New York is fair. Working as a lawyer must be so goddamned easy compared to the shit that I have to put up with nearly every goddamned day. He’s got the entire judicial system of Clark County and the Nevada Gaming Board on his shady payroll.”
“Whoa, calm down,” I say. It’s hard not to laugh at the idea of the legal profession being called ‘fair.’ The process of voir dire alone is enough to make the average citizen’s head spin. But I know that now isn’t the time to argue with my brother – god knows, we did enough of that growing up. Nixon is obviously beyond distressed, and it’s my job to support him.
“How the fuck am I supposed to calm down?” Nixon hisses. The smell of smoke and soot and ruined luxury carpeting hangs heavy in the air, making me feel almost nauseous. A huge throng of people surround the club – including reporters and photographers, much to my dismay. Nosy tourists hold their cell phones high, snapping pics of the damage and I want to rip them out of their greedy little hands.
Great. What a rotten piece of luck. If anyone deserves to catch a break, it’s my brother.
I take a deep breath. “I know it’s not easy. Obviously, this wasn’t an accident, but take a deep breath. We’ll talk to the fire marshal, and then see if we can’t pull the surveillance tapes tomorrow. We’ll figure it out, Nix. Hawk can help. He’s got to have gotten something on the guy.”
“Whatever,” he mumbles, dejected. “I’ve about had it with this bullshit. How am I going to explain this to Lincoln? He doesn’t even understand the concept of a bad man at his age.”
At the edge of the crowd, I see Taryn and her friend, Bailey. They both look distraught – almost as if it was their club, too. Taryn’s green eyes widen and brim with confusion and obvious upset. I wish I could go over to her and pull her into my arms, holding her close. But that’s not my job, at least, not right now.
Suddenly, Nixon grabs my arm. “Hey,” he hisses. “Look over there.”
“What? Where?”
Nixon spins me around and points. “There. And keep your fucking mouth shut.”
Just as I’m about to ask what he’s talking about, I see a small, muscular man with tanned skin and thinning hair heading around the corner. He clutches a backpack to his chest and looks almost too nonchalant for the circumstances. He’s walking fast, so it’s obvious that he hasn’t come to gawk and stare at the ruined nightclub. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as he glances around, then darts into a back alley and runs away.
“That’s Anthony,” Nixon growls in my ear.
“Who?”
“Anthony Adamo. One of Dante’s thugs. I caught him counting cards last year in the blackjack room, and threw him out. Next day, Anthony showed up at my door with three more assholes, all of them holding clubs. Normally, Dante keeps it a little classier.”
“What?” I squinted. “That’s incredibly illegal, Nix.”
“Yeah, but it’s what serves as justice around here. They didn’t do anything – they just pulled this macho shit about how ‘everyone helps everyone else’ on the strip.”
“This isn’t the Wild West,” I say, shaking my head. “Why the fuck didn’t you call the cops?”
Nixon bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. That’s a good one.” His laughter dies at the sight of Anthony sneaking away into the alley.
“Seriously, man. Why the hell would you want to set up shop in one of the most corrupt parts of the country?”
Nixon shrugs and gives me a moony smile. “Our father ring any bells?” he asks. “I’ll stop at nothing to avenge his senseless death. Stooping to an asshole’s incredibly low level is not my first choice, but I’ll do what I have to for my end game.”
“Yeah, your crooked enemy has just tried burning down your new club,” I say dryly. “Sounds like an iron-clad strategy, Nix.”
Nixon eyes me for a moment – I can tell he doesn’t realize I’m joking.
“I’m kidding,” I say with a groan. “Remember? I like to do that. You advised me against it.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” he says, waving at Taryn. “Look, there she is now – Miss Birthday Queen 2017. I should go say something, burst your birthday balloon. You stay here in case the marshal shows up.”
I force a smile. “Right. Yeah. Go for it, sure thing.”
Nixon darts off to meet with Taryn, and her friend and I glance up, staring at the ruined sign of Velvet. What kind of shit have I gotten myself in to?
***
The next day, I meet Nixon at the Armónico. We’re supposed to be meeting with the security personnel to go over the tapes. Something doesn’t feel right, though – the air crackles with tension and lacks the kind of fun, wild atmosphere that Vegas normally inspires.
Nixon shows up with Marcella and Linc by his side. My baby brother looks distressed, too. I wonder if Nixon told him, or maybe he’s just picked up on everything going on around him. Linc’s a sensitive kid, and we can’t usually pull the wool over his perceptive eyes.
“Hey, bro,” I say, reaching for one of Linc’s hands. “How’s it going?”
“Hey, Reag. You doing any lawyering yet?”
I laugh as I give his small hand a reassuring squeeze. “How do you know about lawyering?”
“Nix says you’re really good at lawyering and he really needs your help with some bad man. Why is there a bad man bothering us?”
“You don’t even need to worry about it, squirt,” I assure. While it’s good not to outright lie to kids, I don’t think it’s wi
se to let them get too close to a dangerous situation. “I’ll worry about the lawyering, and you can just worry about school and therapy.”
Looking at my brother always fills me with a mixture of guilt and something else I can’t quite explain. It could have been any of us, I think as I look down at his weak limbs and his braces. Lincoln’s cerebral palsy isn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been – on most days, he’s physically capable. He’s always brilliant. But it kills me inside that most people look at him and think he’s not smart just because his motor skills aren’t up to par. I wink at Marcella. She’s doing such a great job with my little brother, he’s learned so many new things under her caring guidance. He’s flourishing.
“Hey,” Linc says, breaking me out of my thought pattern. “Marcella is taking me out to lunch. Like a date.”
“That’s awesome, squirt,” I say, watching Nixon and Marcella canoodling out of the corner of my eye. “There’s some great food around here.”
“Hey,” Nixon says. “Time to get going for your lunch.” He jerks his head toward the private corridor marked ‘staff.’
I nod at Marcella. She smiles in return before linking arms with my little brother and striding with him into the bright Vegas sun.
“So,” Nixon says, once we’re alone and we’ve begun walking to the security office. “I barely slept last night.” He shakes his head in disgust and bitterness. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what the papers are going to print when everything falls apart for me.”
“Stop it,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking hard. “You have no way of knowing that.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m just so fucking bitter. I have a family to support, you know?”
“I know. Everything will be fine, man. Just calm down.”
I can tell Nixon wants to explode, but he takes a deep breath and pushes into the security office. It’s truly a thing of wonder, and for a moment, I can’t help but glance around in awe. Four men read paperwork at a round desk, looking up periodically at what seems to be over one hundred cameras. They’re everywhere – the casino, the hotel, the hallways, even the exterior of every bathroom in the Armónico. And of course, Taryn’s shop as well as the whole Promenade. My heart catches when I see Taryn leaning over the counter.
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