17. Cassius
seventeen
My new chair creaks beneath my weight, not yet broken in. The smell of bleach lingers in the air. The only evidence Ruby was ever here are the fresh stitches on my leg and the tape over my broken nose. She was wrong, we both knew it.
The woman sitting across from me is trying to appear younger than she is, with heavy make-up and tight clothing. Wrinkles don’t lie though; they play hide and seek at the corners of her eyes when she smiles. Which is what she’s doing now, waiting for me to respond to her last comment. She’s the kind of woman I would normally have had on their knees by now, begging for this job. Before. Before Ruby. It’s been three days and there’s been zero contact. Zero notes, calls, or clues. Nothing to hold onto.
“Mr. Cross?” the woman prods, her shoulders pushed back to give me a view of her ample cleavage. When I don’t respond, she stands from her chair and takes up residence on my desk. Her tongue plays across her lips, attempting to entice me. But she’s sitting on my desk. The same desk I had Ruby bent over only a few days ago. Black seeps into my vision, I wanted to bend her over it again, but now it’s fucking tainted. Tainted by a woman whose name I can’t remember and don’t want to.
“Get the fuck out of my office.” My words come out gruff through clenched teeth. All my effort going into not grabbing this woman by the throat and escorting her off my property. “You will never work here, and if I so much as see your face within one block of my club you will disappear, and nobody will ever find you.” The threat is not an empty one, the threads of my calm composure are unraveling. Quickly.
I expect her to scramble off my desk, a mess of limbs and insecurities. Instead, she surprises me by sliding almost gracefully down from her perch. She adjusts her skirt as she heads toward the open door. Her long black ponytail swings with the sway of her hips. Before she crosses the threshold, she turns back to look at me, her lips pulled up on one side, inquisitive.
“Curious,” she muses, her voice barely more than a whisper.
Tonight’s games are well underway by the time I regain what little composure I have left. Most of the players are regulars, with a few I don’t recognize mixed in. Nate hands me my tablet when I sit down, detailed profiles of the new players loaded courtesy of Garrett. They are thorough, listing family members, known associates, and assets.
I swipe through each one; the majority of new faces are young pricks gambling with mommy and daddy’s money. They find out about the game through carefully crafted word of mouth. They come, they play, they get in over their heads, and I get mommy and daddy to clean up the mess. It’s not a system I’m proud of, but it works.
I lean back in my chair and observe the games, the tells, the lies, the deceit, and the flirtation. A feminine hand grazes across a collar, her body hidden behind a young kid built like a linebacker. I bring him up on my tablet again. Fucking water polo playing pretentious prick. His profile pegs him as Bentley Drake, a sophomore at Marse University, home of the Pirates. Whose mascot is a fucking parrot—tell me how that makes sense? He’s the son of Ashley and James Drake. Family money turned them into real estate moguls. I smile. If there’s something I like more than money, it’s property. Real estate is always a good idea.
Tilting my head up in a nod, I send Nate a silent question.
“She’s not on G’s—I mean Garrett’s lists?” he asks, his voice so low only I can hear.
I shake my head. Her leg flicks up behind her when he pulls her into him, revealing a black heel with red bottoms. Jealousy pumps through my veins. I know those heels are a dime a dozen in a place like this, but it’s too much of a coincidence. Who else could get in here without G knowing?
I hear her laugh, simple and completely fake. It sounds like how I imagine bubbles would laugh if they could. High-pitched and empty. Fragile.
I’m halfway to the craps table when her eyes meet mine. Her lips turn up in a smile that screams she’s up to no good. She subtly brings a finger to her lips. Silently waving me off. He’s a mark, the guy from the café. And watching her play with him sends all my blood rushing to my dick. Soft, loose, brunette curls hang down her back tonight. Her lips are painted a dark burgundy, not the red I’ve grown to love. Her cleavage spills over her dress every time she rolls the dice. It’s black and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination.
And I want to rip it off her with my teeth.
“Bentley, is it?” I hold out my hand to the prick. “Cassius Cross. Welcome to the games. I hope they’re proving to be worth your time.”
The kid shakes my hand eagerly, a too large smile plastered on his face. Stupid prick . “Thanks man, it’s nice to meet you. I’ve been hearing about these games for a while. Glad to finally have a chance to check them out.”
“Looks like you’re going to go home a winner either way,” I say, making eye contact with Ruby.
I reach out my hand to her. “Cassius Cross.”
“Lillian Cartwright, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her smile cuts me like a knife. Beautiful and dangerous. I’m done. Completely annihilated. The woman in front of me could wear a thousand disguises, and I would still know her. She could do anything she wanted to me, and I would let her. Her hand is so small in mine, but the squeeze she gifts me is larger than fucking life. Any life, even my own.
“She’s my lucky charm tonight,” Bentley announces, pulling her away from me and close to him again. “Come on baby, blow, and roll.” He drops the dice in her hand.
Her long lashes flutter in amusement, but the smile she flashes at him doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Good luck, kid,” I say, stifling a laugh. Shamelessly wondering how much she’ll make him suffer for that one.
I return to my chair by the door, leaving them to their game. I read the room like always, but my eyes only watch her. She’s a master at misdirection, and only because I know that can I see what she’s really doing. The way she leans into him at just the right moments to pour the contents of her drink into his. The way one hand always touches him. The hand that isn’t touching him lifts her dress, fingering the knives strapped to her thigh.
Fuck me. And she does, with her eyes, every time she touches him. Every time he thinks he’s winning, he’s losing everything. She blows on the dice, her lips forming the perfect O, and then she licks them just for me. The need to touch her, to taste her, to breathe her in is so overwhelming. Fucking vixen.
I could shut down the games. I could lean her back on that poker table over there and taste every inch of her. I could ravish her body and sacrifice my own for her pleasure. I could. But I won’t. I’m drowning without a life raft, and I don’t give a flying fuck. I’m about to sink like the damn Titanic.
Her eyes are getting heavy, her movements sloppy. She slips out of one heel and falls into the kid, amber liquid spills from his glass. He looks down at her, and it’s more than just the height difference. His eyes narrow. His jaw tightens. It’s annoyance, and it’s written all over his face.
Nate takes a step toward the table to defuse the situation. I shake my head. I want to see this play out.
She takes the cocktail napkin and uses it to pat the kid down. And down. And down. Until he’s no longer annoyed. Now he’s a fucking horny teenager instead. She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and the kid suddenly gets impatient. He can’t leave soon enough. One arm full of chips and the other on her waist, he cashes out.
Barefoot, she drags him out the door.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
“Boss?” Nate’s voice interrupts.
Four Mississippi.
Nate opens his mouth to speak again.
I shake my head. Five Mississippi.
Fuck it.
I follow them.
I gave them enough of a head start that the kid doesn’t know I’m here, but I would bet my entire existence that Ruby does. Her artificial giggles guide me through the maze of hallways, up the stairs, and out the back door.
The lot is dark, only a few lampposts illuminate the scene. His large body has her pinned against a car with one leg wrapped around him. I stay in the shadows, hidden from everyone but her. He moves a hand to her thigh, but she pushes it away in a flurry of movement. His body jerks. He stumbles backwards, his hands move to his throat. Dark pools begin to form at his feet. The prick falls, crumbling like Rome at the hands of a barbarian. A beautiful fucking barbarian.
She offers me a small shrug and then uses the side view mirror to apply the red lipstick I’ve come to love so much. Leaning over the kid, still gurgling with life, she speaks to him. I strain to hear, but am unsuccessful. His body slows, his movements sluggish. An eternity passes as we both wait for him to still.
She stands, stepping into the light, showcasing the splatters in shades of red that coat her body. Then the artist looks back at her masterpiece, and signs it with a kiss.