KAGE (KAGE Trilogy #1)

by Maris Black

  “Who called? Was it the mob looking for the money I won counting cards, or the transvestite hooker I married in the Elvis chapel? Because I swear I thought she was eighteen.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Dr. Washburn chuckled. “But in all seriousness, some big shot from Vegas called and requested you for an internship.”

  That woke me up. “What? Why me? Do juniors usually do internships?”

  “Well, technically you’re a senior now,” he pointed out. “But no, normally people take internships after graduation. However, this would only be a summer position. Summer break is sixteen weeks, so you would be in Vegas for roughly fourteen weeks. A hell of an opportunity to get some experience without interfering with school. That is, if you’re willing to give up your summer vacation.”

  I laughed, wincing at the pain in my head. “Sounds like you’re pretty excited about it.”

  “Of course I am. I’m always thrilled when my students show initiative. I just wish you’d told me you were applying so I wouldn’t have been blindsided. I’m afraid I was a bit clueless when the man called, but I think I recovered nicely.”

  I was shaking my head as if Dr. Washburn could see me through the phone. “I didn’t apply to anything, Doc. This is just as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. More in fact, because you got the call first. I’m finding out from you. How the heck did they get my name?”

  “I was told you had been recruited at the MMA event you attended several weeks ago. You must have talked to someone or done something, Jamie. They requested you specifically.”

  My head was spinning. Immediately, my memory was assaulted by the image of Michael Kage winking at me as he took off behind his goons to catch a plane.

  Catch you on the flip side.

  And I’d bet money that plane was headed to Las Vegas.

  “Wow.” I said. No other words would come to me.

  “Does something ring a bell now? You weren’t drinking at that event, were you? It’s strictly forbidden.”

  “No, of course not. But I never officially put in for a job. I think I would have remembered that.”

  “Well, you must have some idea how this came about.”

  “Hmmm, let me take a stab in the dark, and you tell me if I’m warm. I’m going to be interning as a publicist for an MMA fighter named Michael Kage. Am I right?” My heart rate picked up at the mere thought of it. Could there possibly be a sweeter gig on earth? Forget all that moping and moaning I’d done in my mind about him being sent to make me feel like shit. The truth was, I would have killed to intern for him.

  “Well…” Dr. Washburn cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell you the specifics of the position until you sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

  “What the fuck, Doc?”

  “Language…” he chided.

  “What the heck, Doc? I have to sign a paper?”

  He sighed none too patiently, and I swear I heard him drop into lecture mode. “The people who need the services of a publicist often require a certain amount of security to protect their privacy. As a publicist, there’s a good chance you will be exposed to information of a sensitive nature, Jamie. Personal information. If you’re going to make a career of working with celebrities, you’ll need to understand that they can’t let just anyone into their inner circle.”

  “Michael Kage’s inner circle? In Vegas?” I think I actually giggled. “Yeah, there’s no way I’m passing that up.”

  “No thinking about it?” Dr. Washburn asked. “You don’t have any questions for me?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got two questions. Where do I sign, and when do I start?”

  GETTING ready to go to Vegas was a bit of a challenge. I had to make arrangements for everything without alerting my friends to the fact that there was anything out of the ordinary— a near impossible feat when you considered that my head was about to blow off from the excitement. So many times I almost caved. Almost gave it away. But then I’ve never been good at keeping secrets.

  The non-disclosure agreement I signed, with Dr. Washburn and a notary as witnesses, had not forbidden me from mentioning that I had an internship in Las Vegas. It only forbade me from sharing anything that could be considered identifying information or information of a personal nature, just like Dr. Washburn had said.

  From what I could understand with the limited information provided beforehand, I would be staying in a hotel owned by Michael Kage’s uncle, Peter Santori. The Alcazar as it was called was a posh five-story hotel just off the Vegas strip, boasting a small casino, a Mediterranean restaurant, and a spa. The website didn’t have much detail besides a few photos of well-appointed guest rooms and a swimming pool lined with colorful tiles.

  I couldn’t help but wonder, with all of the flashy themed resorts within a mile on the main strip, why someone would choose to stay at a place like the Alcazar for a couple hundred dollars a night, when they could be right in the middle of all of the Vegas action on the strip for a measly thirty-nine bucks. I knew this because I had used a good portion of the five excruciating days before my flight to research Vegas on the internet. I’d pretty much memorized prices and show times, restaurants and attractions. Funny thing was, I didn’t actually care about any of it. I was just champing at the bit to get out there, and at the moment internet research was as close as I could come.

  Many times, I tried to dig up any information on my new client— damn, I loved the sound of that!— but his electronic footprint was nearly non-existent. I discovered a couple of social profiles that I was pretty sure belonged to him, but I was too chickenshit to make a connection with him on any of them.

  Besides, I’d be seeing him in person in just a matter of days. The thought of it tied my stomach up in knots and made it hard for me to sleep at night. I wondered what it would be like getting to spend more than a few stolen moments with him. Would he be scary, nice, snobby, or mean? Would I enjoy working for him, or would he send me home with my tail between my legs? These types of questions plagued me day and night until I thought I would lose my mind. And not being able to talk about it was the worst of all.

  “What’s got you so worked up?” Braden asked after Trey had left to go home for vacation. “You’ve been really quiet. Not your usual smart-ass self. Is it the breakup? To be honest, I didn’t think it was gonna be that bad on you. You’ve always been so… free.”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smirk. “I’m just feeling anxious about summer vacation. It’s been a while since I’ve spent much time at home, and I’m afraid I won’t know how to act. Maybe I’ll want to come back here, you know?”

  “Same here,” he admitted. “Every time I go to my parents’ house, I feel like I’m sleeping in someone else’s bed. Does that mean we’re growing up? This condo feels more like home now.”

  I nodded my agreement, realizing that, in essence, I was lying to my friend. There was just no way around it. My allegiance had to be to my future and to my client rather than my buddies. Even my family had little knowledge of how I was spending my summer. I’d told my mom I had an internship with an athlete, and that I’d be in Las Vegas. Beyond that, the woman who’d birthed me nearly twenty-one years before was completely in the dark.

  I couldn’t tell Braden shit. If I gave him a sentence, he’d demand a thesis. Best to just let him think this summer was like every other one so far. Home for sixteen weeks and back again, with an occasional visit to the condo when the whole family thing got to be too much. Only this time, I wouldn’t be coming back at all over the break.

  By the time my plane took off, I thought I might need a Valium to calm my nerves. But I was relieved that I wouldn’t have to lie to people’s faces anymore or war with my inner self to keep from spilling my guts to someone… anyone… everyone.

  How do you keep such exciting news a secret without losing your mind?

  At the other end of my flight, there were two burly men in dark suits waiting for me. They were the same guys who had been with Michael Kage
the night we’d met, and one of them held a poster board with my name misspelled on it.

  Jammey Atwood.

  I let it slide, though. Men who looked like they’d just stepped off of the set of Goodfellas could spell my name however they damn well pleased. As long as they didn’t shoot me and dump me in the Colorado River, I figured I could be gracious enough to overlook the fact that they were phonetically challenged.

  WHEN the car pulled up to the front of a hotel on the Vegas Strip, I just about shit my pants. I suppose I’d expected my new job to be in the sweat-scented office of some dingy little back alley gym. This was something else altogether. The building had a glass front that showcased a glittering lobby in a sophisticated color palette of blues, greens and grays. As one of the goons opened the glass door, I was assaulted by the sights and sounds of the darkened casino that lay beyond the lobby.

  “Nice,” I said lamely. It was the first word I’d uttered since climbing into the car. And by car, I mean sleek white Range Rover SUV limo. Apparently, this was what rich dudes were being driven around in these days.

  The goons ignored my comment, which was not surprising. They’d spent the entire ride pretending I didn’t exist. Now one walked ahead, and I followed, feeling goon number two close on my heels as we crossed the diamond-patterned carpet to the front desk. A porter stepped up beside us, pushing a cart that held my two suitcases and duffel bag. They looked underwhelming, a little too trailer trash for this establishment. The only thing that could have been more embarrassing than my ragged luggage was plastic grocery sacks.

  “This is Kage’s new intern,” the first goon told the young man behind the counter. “Mr. Santori said put him in a suite.”

  The tiny blond desk clerk, whose name was Steve according to his silver name tag, tapped on his computer keyboard. “Best available?”

  “Whatever.” Aldo grated.

  Steve frowned at my testy chaperone. “Jesus. Who pissed in your cornflakes, Aldo?”

  Aldo literally growled. “Aaron and me got babysitting duty today, as you can see.” He hooked a meaty thumb over his shoulder in my direction.

  Steve smiled at me, and his gaze roamed freely over my body. I was wearing a t-shirt— a tight red one that Braden would have shaken his head at— and a pair of low-slung jeans, but I got the impression that Steve’s imagination was ripping them right off of me. “Cute baby. What’s his name?”

  Aldo shrugged. “Trouble.”

  “This baby does have ears,” I pointed out. “And my name is not Trouble, it’s Jamie Atwood. Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand, and Steve shook it. Delicately and deliberately, and a little longer than necessary.

  “Nice to meet you, too. Oh, it says here that the Sky Room has already been reserved for a Mr. James Atwood. I’ve heard that one is absolutely gorgeous, but I’ve never gotten to see inside it.”

  “I could let you take a look sometime,” I said. “No problem.”

  “That is so sweet of you.” Steve’s smile sparkled. “Isn’t he just adorable, Aldo? Look at those kissy lips.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake,” Aldo groaned. “Are we finished here? I’ve got somewhere to be.”

  “Go,” Steve told him with a shooing motion. “I’ve got this under control. Just get out of here before you get your negativity all over me.”

  Aldo and his silent partner Aaron disappeared in a whoosh of air, and I was left with Steve and the porter, who may as well have been one of those cardboard cutouts that populate movie theater lobbies.

  Steve stared at me after the goons were gone. “What the hell did you do to Aldo?”

  “Nothing!” I was indignant. “Why would you think I did something? I don’t even know those guys. They just picked me up from the airport and drove me here.” I thought of the MMA event where I’d first met Kage, remembering the way they flanked him the entire time. “Actually, I’ve seen them before, but I swear I’ve never done anything to either of those guys.”

  Steve looked skeptical, but he just smirked and handed me a key card for my room. “Okay, go hop on one of those.” He indicated a bank of silver elevators directly behind me. “Third floor, turn right, all the way at the end of the hall. You can’t miss it. It’s the only one with double doors.” He winked, like there was some private joke I had yet to be let in on.

  “Thanks, man.” I headed to the elevators with the porter dragging his luggage cart behind me.

  When we stepped off the elevator and turned right, I sucked in a breath. At the very end of the hall was a set of fancy double doors, intricately carved and painted a creamy robin’s egg blue. “That’s my room?” I directed the question at no one, because I still wasn’t sure if my cardboard porter could even speak, but he surprised me when a mouthful of words came tumbling out.

  “That’s more than a room,” he told me. “It’s like a small apartment, really. There are two on each floor, except for the top floor. No guest rooms up there— only Mr. Santori and Mr. Kage live up there.”

  “Oh.” We stepped up to the double doors, and I stood there like I was afraid to go in.

  “This isn’t the biggest or the fanciest hotel around, but Mr. Santori keeps it nice,” the porter said.

  “It looks pretty nice to me,” I admitted, the reverent tone in my voice giving away my lack of sophistication.

  The porter laughed. “Son, this is Vegas. The idea here is bigger, better, brighter, flashier, louder… That’s why I like the Alcazar. Mr. Santori knows about taste and restraint. Stick around Vegas long enough, you’ll get sick of flashy.”

  He plucked the key card out of my hand and opened the doors for me, stepping aside so that I could enter my new temporary home. To say I was stunned would be an understatement. The robin’s egg blue from the door was part of the color scheme within, but it was combined with a subdued palette of white and cream that was more Architectural Digest than Vegas strip. No gold lamé or heart-shaped hot tub here. A large window revealed the breathtaking Vegas skyline in a way I never thought I’d see it— from my own place.

  Yeah, this was only going to be my place for a few months, but I figured it counted anyway.

  With the porter standing just behind me, I took in the view, noting that my mouth was hanging askew but not bothering to fix it. This room deserved a slack jaw.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, feeling like I needed to either speak to the guy or send him on his way.

  “Charles, sir.” He sounded like one of those 1940’s movie butlers. His face was gaunt and sallow, more suited to a wino than a butler, but his posture was ramrod straight. I got the distinct impression that Charles was less about putting on airs and more about doing his job properly. After all, who wanted a sloppy porter? I liked him instantly.

  “I’m supposed to tip you, right?” I asked.

  “If you like,” he said easily.

  “Uh…” I reached into the pocket of my jeans and fished out a wadded up receipt from the airport coffee shop and a small pill of dryer lint.

  Charles chuckled and held up a hand to stop me. “I have plenty of receipts and lint in my own pocket. Maybe next time? Vegas is one of those places where it’s a good idea to carry a little cash in the pocket at all times.” He winked at me, putting me instantly at ease. I told myself I’d give him double next time, though double of what, I wasn’t sure.

  After Charles was gone, I made sure the door was locked and secured, then I ran across the living area and jumped onto the white leather sofa. I stared up at the high ceiling, and at the large picture window, and wondered what I had done to rate this kind of summer. Hell, even if the job sucked, the hotel suite alone was worth the trip.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my back pocket and started taking pictures, flitting from one place to another like an excited kid. I snapped pictures of the living room, the view, and the king sized bed. The bedroom wasn’t actually a separate room, but the bed was situated on a large platform that distinguished it from the living area. The bathroom looked like
a spa, with tumbled stone tiles, a glass sink and shower, and a stack of custom soaps that resembled river rocks. I took a picture of those and immediately texted a slide show of my new digs to my mother.

  “Wow,” she texted back. “When did my little boy get so fancy?”

  “Today,” I replied.

  “How is the job?” she asked.

  “Don’t know yet. Just got here, Ma.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, keep me posted. Love you. P.S. Are those rocks on your counter?”

  I laughed out loud and decided not to reply. Let her wonder. It made things more exciting.

  The first night passed quietly. I opted not to go out. No reason to go anywhere when I had a great place, room service, and a seventy-inch wall-mounted LCD. I could even see the TV from the bed, which was a plus when porn time rolled around. I rented Huge Pom-Poms 2, and after I fast-forwarded over the credits and the intro scene, the next twelve minutes were absolutely fascinating. Then I went to sleep with a smile on my face.

  5

  THE NEXT morning, I felt fresher than I had in a long time. Possibly ever. There were no birds singing outside my Vegas window, but a lot can be said for waking up in what is essentially a palace. All I needed were some harem girls, a hookah, and a couple of servants to complete the fantasy.

  After a hot shower, during which I giggled to myself about bathing with rocks, I dressed for success. My heather-gray skinny dress pants cuffed at the ankle, showing a strip of argyle socks above black dress shoes. I opted for a black button-up shirt with a white t-shirt underneath. I smoothed the wrinkles out with the hotel iron and admired myself in the full-length mirror near the bed, unhitching a couple of buttons at the top— just enough to show the collar of my undershirt. I bent to temptation and tied my Claddagh necklace around my throat. It may not have been the most professional piece of jewelry, but how could I leave it off? Over the years, it had become almost a part of my body. I felt naked without it.

  My hair was uncooperative, sticking out in a couple of spots in such a way that I resembled a horny little devil, and I attempted to tame it with a dollop of hair gel. After ten minutes of fighting, I had the fly-aways tamed, the ducktail in place, and my bangs curtaining one eye just the way I liked it.