by Ryan, Alison
“Wow, down to business already,” he said. “You are your father’s daughter.”
I looked out over his shoulder and through the window. A young couple were bundled up and walking around the lake in snow shoes. They looked so happy.
I faced Nolan again, “Well. It’s why I’m here, right?”
Nolan nodded, “Yep. There are things to settle. It may take more than one trip. We have offices in New York too, some of the board members are there and didn’t make it to Tahoe due to the weather. So this will probably be a long process, of transition, of whatever it is you want.”
“But I don’t even know anything about the firm,” I said. “Sure, it’s legally mine, but that’s like telling me I own a cricket team in India. I know nothing about either cricket or India, so my owning it wouldn’t do much good for anyone. Can’t I just put someone in charge and be a silent partner? Or sell my stake?”
“Your father has explicit instructions. You’re not to sell your share. Which by the way, isn’t even a share. You’re it. You are the sole owner,” Nolan said firmly. “I suppose you could sell if you really insisted, but it was number one on the list of things he didn’t want to happen. He built this firm for you to have one day. And his father built it for him, and your great-grandfather is the founder of it. The Hunts have been a huge part of things for a very long time. Your father believed in its cause, but he also knew it was what kept him from being with you. So he always told himself that if it could all one day be yours, it would maybe make up for his distance from you.”
“And what is your cause?” I asked, looking at him. “You keep secrets. You blackmail people. You use power and deceptive tactics so rich people can get what they want. You’re not a charity. Let’s be honest.”
Nolan nodded, “I won’t deny it. We use… Intimidation, sometimes. Blackmail. But it’s never against people who don’t have it coming. Trust me.”
“And what do you do?” I asked. “Those photos I saw? Are those you?”
Nolan shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, “Sometimes. I’m also used as a representative of sorts. For your father. I guess I’m his consigliere if I’m looking for a definition for what I do. I represent his best interests. And by extension, yours.”
“You represent my best interests?” I asked. “We haven’t known one another that long.”
Nolan balled up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in, “Yes, well. You ready to go back? Is there anything you needed in town?”
“Is there something else you’re not telling me?” I said, leaning forward. “You’ve seen me naked, Nolan. You’ve been inside me. You can tell me things now. I think we’ve become acquainted. Yes?”
Nolan smiled, “We don’t have enough time to go over everything you don’t know. But I promise to never lie to you, Camilla. You ask me a question and I’ll answer it honestly. But I’m also not going to be completely forward about everything we do. For your protection and for the protection of our clients. Anything you need to know… the answers are all at the house. You haven’t even scratched the surface, I’m afraid.”
I stood up, “Well, in that case. Let’s get back home.”
As we walked back to the SUV I couldn’t help but have a dreadful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Sure, I wanted to know more about my father and the business he’d dedicated his life to.
But I also wanted to preserve another Before in my life. The Before I knew my father owned a private international spy firm. Life was getting stranger and stranger by the day.
After speaking too our driver, Michael, Nolan looked down onto the lake for a moment and surprised me with a question. “Do you play blackjack, Camilla?”
“I’ve never been inside a casino except to walk through on the way to see a show,” I admitted.
“Ah, well, we have a bit of time to kill. The plows are working the roads up near your new home, and it would be dangerous to drive back now. So I suggest we avail ourselves of the thing Tahoe is best known for after natural beauty and snow – the casinos.” With that, Nolan pointed out several gleaming structures nearer the lake, nestled between the trees.
My body was aching to receive more of Nolan Weston’s “teaching,” but being out of the house was refreshing and I was still getting to spend time close to him, and there was nowhere I’d rather be. Fifteen minutes later, our SUV rolled into the porte cochere at MontBleu Resort, a massive gold building housing a hotel, casino, and a variety of restaurants. Nolan explained that the property used to be called Caesars Tahoe, and that it had been my father’s favorite place to gamble when the mood struck.
During the drive, Nolan gave me a crash course on blackjack. I knew the basics, of course, the goal being to get as close as possible to twenty-one without going over, but he instructed me on the mechanics of the game, such as how to request more cards (“hit”) by tapping the felt or motioning with my hand and how to stand pat by waving a hand over the top of my cards. Those were all things I could learn from a how-to-gamble pamphlet. The next part of his curriculum was decidedly graduate-level stuff.
“Blackjack is one of the few games offered in casinos in which a savvy player, in particular a card counter, can theoretically have a mathematical edge, Camilla,” he explained. I assumed, correctly as it turned out, that Nolan was such a “savvy player.”
“Unfortunately, casinos have developed countermeasures to combat people like me, although I have disguises that can defeat their facial recognition tech (of course he did) and the counting system I use is sophisticated enough to leave most casino security personnel wondering what just happened, but I’m not the one who’s going to be playing for serious stakes today. You are.”
I tried to protest, but Nolan seemed excited by the prospect of working with me to do our part to empty MontBleu’s coffers.
“We’ll play with my money. I’ll take a marker. I’ll gamble for small stakes, lose more than I win, and keep the count going. My conversation will dictate your play. If I talk about the weather, snow, skiing, anything like that, the deck is cold and you should dial it back. If I start talking at length about you, then, cheesy as it sounds, the deck is on fire. It’s scorching hot. And you should wager accordingly.”
He gave me a primer on basic strategy and assured me that I was a “smart girl” and that he had no doubt we’d be a success. Somewhere between splitting and doubling down I felt lost, but with Nolan staring into my eyes and leaning over to kiss my neck, everything seemed possible.
Michael dropped us off and we entered the dizzying world of spinning reels and flashing lights. I looked around, trying to picture my father amid the chaos, winning jackpots, knocking back expensive drinks, and… something more. As we strolled past the high limit area, empty in the late afternoon aftermath of a blizzard, I could imagine some tycoon sitting behind stacks of chips, Dad passing by and giving him a wink that said “I know something you think nobody knows… and you’re going to pay me to not only keep that secret, but to protect it as well.”
I was startled from my daydream by a boisterous guy in a dark suit shaking hands aggressively with Nolan. “Jimmy, my condolences, I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Frakes.”
Hearing the man call Nolan by the name ‘Jimmy” piqued my curiosity, but he cocked an eyebrow at me to stifle any questions I might have had.
Nolan responded as if speaking to an old friend. “Thank you, Nick, that means a lot. I didn’t think I’d ever set foot in here again, this place meant so much to Clark. I’m sorry, sweetie, forgive me. Nick, this is my niece, Cami Hunt. She’s visiting from Virginia. Cami, this is Mr. Nick Pascalo, he’s the casino manager here.”
I shook his hand, getting a smarmy vibe from him as he clearly undressed me with his eyes.
“You never told me about a niece, Jimmy. Where have you been hiding her all my life?”
“Settle down, Nick, she’s dating a Washington Redskins lineman.”
The casino boss seemed to get the message that I was off-limits, his laughter turning nervou
s as he bade us good luck and asked if we needed rooms or meals.
Once we were alone, Nolan leaned in close, filling me in one the missing pieces of the conversation I’d just faked my way through.
“Your father and I had identities we used only at the casinos here, Camilla. He was Clark Frakes and I’m Jimmy Stann. We’re businessmen from the Midwest who like to gamble. It’s a good cover. I’m not entirely sure how he knows about your father’s passing, but he’s harmless. A blowhard who fancies himself a ladies’ man, but certainly no threat. Ready to play?”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to this world of double lives and secret identities, but I was getting very used to having Nolan’s hand at the small of my back. And his musky, manly smell when he stood near me. Being so close, even with clothes between us, made me tingle all over.
We found an unoccupied $25 minimum table, and with Nolan-Jimmy signing for a $10,000 marker, we were in business. He kept $500 for himself and slid the remains of the rack, telling the dealer to “be nice, it’s her first time.”
I opened with three of the green $25 chips, as I’d arranged with Nolan. I tried my best to hit and stand in accordance with his instructions in the car, but I was sure I was making mistakes in my haste. When Nolan spoke, to the dealer, pit boss, or cocktail waitress, it was invariably about the blizzard and what it might mean for the ski resorts in the area. I dropped down to a single chip, winning some and losing some. Nolan was more affable than the man I’d grown accustomed to, laughing easily at dumb jokes and playing perfectly the part of a Jimmy from Des Moines. His pile of chips grew slightly as mine shrank.
After several shuffles, I was definitely losing more than I was winning, and whatever novelty and excitement may have been present when I sat down had vanished.
“Did I tell you that my niece here has an internship lined up with the New Yorker?”
Nolan was chatting up a man in a suit, a pit boss, and I almost missed his casual reference to me. I smiled as the dealer placed two face cards in front of me. After the win, I left my $50 bet up and stacked the two green chips I’d won on top before adding another pair. Nolan went on to describe how I had major publishing houses fighting over me, trying to convince me to leave school early to kick my writing career into high gear. All the while, the blizzard had moved indoors and taken the form of picture cards. I couldn’t cram chips into the little circle in front of me fast enough. Meanwhile, Nolan was casually tossing out a chip or two, winning, but cautioning the table that he was “slowing down since the dealer’s luck was bound to change and he wanted to stay ahead of it.”
I was giddy as my chip count doubled and nearly tripled. Nolan was regaling the MontBleu staff with tales of my modeling jobs in New Guinea, and no matter what I did, I won. Suddenly, Nolan took a look out the window and warned that he thought the clouds looked like snow again, that he thought it best to get out before he and his “niece” got snowed in and lost it all back.
Reluctantly, but trusting Nolan, I colored up my chips and walked to the cashier, my initial stake of $9,500 now sitting just shy of $27,000. Was there anything at which Nolan Weston didn’t excel?
“Modeling? In New Guinea?” I asked as we walked.
“That’s the secret to lying. Make it something the other person wants to believe, that they need to believe, and they’ll buy it. And with your body, every man in here wishes he could see you on a beach in a bikini. Sell that kind of sizzle, and it doesn’t even matter if there’s a steak or not.”
I rolled my eyes, but being complimented by Nolan Weston put a little extra spring in my step. He definitely wasn’t just “telling me what I wanted to hear.” There was nothing deceptive about his body and what it did to mine.
Sixteen
As soon as Michael had driven away and we were inside the house again, I was back in Nolan’s arms. It’d been so hard to be close to him in the car, in the sub shop, walking near the lake, gambling at a casino, and not touch him. Now that I’d had Nolan, I couldn’t get enough. Especially when I had no idea how long this could last.
For now, the secrets of The Hunt Group were forgotten. Mr. Weston was back in my life for a moment, and I needed to be taught as much as possible.
We went to my room this time, where he slowly peeled off my clothes until I was wearing nothing. I lay back on the bed and watched him slowly undress himself.
He was hard already. Again.
I stared in disbelief. “How can you… do you just pop Viagra all day?”
“The company that makes Viagra would go out of business if every man had a woman who looked like you in his bed,” he replied, climbing up on top of me.
“You’re amazing,” I said out loud. “I don’t know how I can ever live without this again.”
“Without what?” he asked, that charming smirk across his lips again.
“Without this,” I said, kissing him hard, my arms wrapped around his shoulders as he slid inside me, filling me up with all I needed and wanted.
The pleasure of sex with Nolan was something I could never have put any sort of adequate emphasis on. When I say it was beyond what words can convey, I mean it. I’d never understood the hype of sex. Now I did. I’d just never had it with the only man I was meant to share my body with.
Nothing could take the place of something like that.
He beckoned to me with his body, pulling sensations out of me that I thought were legend.
I’d learned so much from him already. Like that I was easy to climax, that I liked to be kissed behind my knees, and that I had a sensitive spot deep inside me that only he could reach. I’d been a girl before I met Nolan. In just over 24 hours I’d turned into a woman.
A woman that was completely his.
Can you fall in love that quickly? I would never have said it was possible before now. But it was hard not to fall in love with Nolan. He pulled everything out of me and only wanted more. He only wanted me.
He made me feel worthy.
********
“Tell me something no one else knows about you.”
Me and my after-sex questions. We were sprawled out on the floor of another guest room now. We’d fucked all over my bedroom and then he’d carried me to the room next to mine so he could press me against the window as he took me from behind, his hands kneading my breasts as he finished inside of me.
So now we were wrapped up in a comforter we’d pulled off the bed in front of a roaring fire that Nolan had started while I was in the restroom. It was idyllic and romantic and perfect.
Nolan had his hands behind his head and I was nestled into the crook of him, my fingers running up and down his chest. I felt so small next to him, even when he was lying down I could feel the power in his body.
“Like what?” he asked. “You and your questions.”
“I want to know you,” I said, resting my chin now on his chest so I could look him in those gorgeous hazel eyes, eyes that were almost amber in the light of a crackling fire. “You know me so it’s only fair, right?”
He shook his head, “There isn’t much to know. I’m not that interesting, Camilla.”
“Such a lie,” I said sliding my body up towards his face, kissing his neck. “You’re from Kentucky. Tell me about that.”
His expression changed for a moment. It darkened and I wondered if maybe I’d said something wrong. Maybe I was being too pushy.
“Kentucky itself is great,” he said. “But growing up there was not. I come from a pretty dysfunctional family.”
“Don’t we all,” I said. “Tell me about it.” I touched his face. “Trust me.”
“I do,” he said, brushing my hair back behind my ear. “I just assumed nobody would ever want to hear about it. So I’ve never discussed it.”
“I want to know everything,” I said. “For my own files, of course.”
He smiled, “Okay, Camilla Grace. I’ll tell you, but only after you promise to let me have you one more time when this conversation is over and that it never
be brought up again, okay?”
“That’s easy,” I said. “Promise.”
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, kissing my forehead.
“My father was chronically unemployed and angry at the world for making him pay for his lousy decisions in life. My mother fell for him when they were both in high school. He was a basketball star. It’s all such a fucking cliché. They both came from dirt poor families and the only options you had in the town they grew up in were marriage and babies. Or working in the coal mines. Or both.
“My father was one of those people who basked in mediocrity. He was the most insecure person I’ve ever met. Someone who was much too outspoken about topics he had no business discussing, whether that was politics, Jesus, how much sex he was having with the women he openly cheated on my mother with, or how fast his shitty El Camino was. He thought he was smarter than he was, smarter than anyone he knew. He flunked out of high school, so all of a sudden getting an education was for ‘sheep’. He got fired from his shitty job at the paper mill and all of a sudden working was for ‘pathetic schmucks.’
“Every time he failed at something, it was never his fault. He had no ability to learn from any of his mistakes. But he loved pointing out the faults of others. Including my mother. Especially her. And including me. He hated everything about me. Despised me for trying to do well in school, for having dreams, and ambitions.
“Like I said, he grew up a hotshot basketball player. A coach from UK even came to see him once, when he was just a sophomore. But if there was anything my father couldn’t stand or handle in life, it was success. He had a big game in front of that scout, so he spent the next few days drinking with buddies, going coon hunting, blowing off school and practice. He showed up at school for the game that Friday night hungover, and the coach told him to get lost. No school, no practice, no game. Especially in his condition. But, being my father, he couldn’t understand consequences like a normal person. Hell, if the University of Kentucky was recruiting him, what could his high school coaches have to teach him? Anyway, he cussed the coach out, and when one of the assistants tried to defuse the situation, my dad punched him. The head coach intervened, and he punched him, too. Needless to say, the basketball dream ended that night. So, according to my dear old dad, sports were for losers. But of course, without basketball to motivate him to attend school, he barely finished his sophomore year. And never bothered showing up for eleventh grade, or anything after that.
