4. Aces
ACES
KITTY
Alcohol burns in my veins. The buzz intensifies, diluting rational thought and patching over the ache in my chest as I down another shot.
It’s only temporary. As soon as the poison leaves my system, the overwhelming misery will return and the wounds will reopen, but for now, we drink, we forget, we heal.
The harsh liquor coats my throat and drips into my empty stomach, sloshing around with the bottle of wine and three beers I drank earlier.
“Focus,” I demand myself, the black smudges on the cards blurring.
“She’s wasted. How the hell did she get a seat at the table?
” the asshole with the hair quiff sitting opposite me, bitches.
He walked in late, knocked a tray of drinks over, and sat down with us like he owned the place about an hour ago.
Matt, who I met at a different card game about six months ago, is hosting today and looked tense when the newcomer entered the penthouse.
Matt’s family is new money. His mother is in tech and made some nano chip device that repairs skin cells or something cool like that.
The skittish blond to my right squirms and fidgets with his chips, making a light clacking sound.
“All in,” I say confidently, his attitude sobering me a little, shoving my chips to the middle of the table. Six sets of eyes land on me, accessing. Some are still in the game, but most already folded.
“I’m out,” the lovely black man to my left declares, throwing his hand down.
Mark, I think he said his name was. He bought me a drink earlier and pulled out my chair for me to sit.
I feel a slight twinge of guilt taking his money and a flicker of irritation that I didn’t make him add the diamond encrusted Rolex on his wrist to the pile.
“Your move.” I grin at the quiff eyeballing me from across the table.
Sipping my drink, I give nothing away as the tension builds.
His eye twitches, telling me he has a shit hand.
It’s been his tell since his first hand was dealt.
Tension leaks from Matt, his knee bouncing, his thick fingers curling into a fist at the edge of the table.
Gritting his teeth, the asshole throws his cards down and shoves his chair back, making it screech against the tiled floor as he stands. “What did you have?” he demands, jerking his head to the cards balanced between my fingers and thumb.
“Nicolas, let’s get you another drink.” Matt gets to his feet, patting the sore loser on the back, then signals for the cute bartender he hired for the game to bring another round.
Her hair is the color of burning embers.
Freckles scatter along the bridge of her nose and cheeks like constellations in the prettiest of skies.
“Fuck off, Mick. I want to see what she has,” the quiff fumes, placing his hands on the table as he leans forward. Is that supposed to be intimidating? I think I could take him even while being half cut.
“It’s Matt.” Matt exhales, throwing his hands up in frustration.
“Fucking hell, Carnell, we went to school together for six years.” I giggle into my glass, and the blond beside me hurries to scoop up his remaining chips before getting to his feet and skating around the table, putting space between himself and this shit show.
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Quiff scoffs, sneering at poor Matt. What a douchebag . Wait—did he call him Carnell? Carnell…I know that name.
Where do I know it from…?
Sighing, I flick my wrist, sending my cards skittering across the green felt. “Two pair.” I throw my hands out like a magician at the end of a trick. Ta-da, asshole.
“Aces and kings,” someone else pipes up.
Pocket-rockets, motherfucker.
“Cash me out, Matt,” I say, standing, having to lean on Rolex guy’s shoulder.
“Oops, sorry.” I snigger when I wobble on my feet.
Lights suddenly switch on, bathing the open space in bright white, making me squint.
The orange ball in the sky is setting, streaking the sky in rays of red.
The view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is amazing, like you can reach out and touch the heavens.
It would hurt on the way down if you did, though.
Easily twenty floors, maybe more. Splat.
“Let’s play again,” Carnell barks, his voice dousing my buzz.
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging a shoulder. “I have an appointment.” And you’re a sore loser with anger issues.
Michael Carnell! That’s where I know that name.
“Where the fuck do you need to be?”
Wow, this asshole really doesn’t like to lose. I bet it’s because I’m a woman. All the brothers get butt hurt losing their money to me. Sexist pigs . Makes it even more fun taking their cash.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m getting a tattoo.” Cutter always says my body is his when he’s not throwing me away like a dirty secret. Well, it’s not. It’s mine, and I’ve always wanted a tattoo.
“You shouldn’t really drink before getting a tattoo. Alcohol thins the blood.” The deep baritone sends a warm tremble up my spine. I smile with my teeth at the Rolex doctor Mark guy.
“Good to know, doc.”
“You need a ride somewhere?” Matt asks me, bringing an iPad over, frowning as he watches Carnell watching me. The screen shows the completed bank transfer made to my account. Nice.
“I’ll take her,” Carnell offers, his attitude replaced with a serene smile and a dark flicker in his gaze.
“I have a ride, thanks.” A Tim drove for me.
Daddy still doesn’t like me going out without a chaperone. Many poor Tims have had to lurk outside parties, bars, and malls for years, waiting to drive me to the next location.
“Let me come with. Maybe I’ll get a tattoo too.” He rounds the table, closing in on me.
What’s this guy’s deal?
“Leave her alone, Nic.” Matt sighs, exasperated.
“Mind your fucking business, Mick, or we’ll have a problem.”
It’s matt and you know it, you dick.
Throwing his hands up, Matt takes a couple steps backward, allowing Carnell better access to me. Once he’s out of his line of sight, Matt grinds his jaw and subtly shakes his head in warning from behind Carnell’s back.
Rolex guy grasps my hand and places a kiss to the back of it. “It was a pleasure.” He smirks, getting to his feet more gracefully than I did, and nods to Carnell before his long strides carry him from the room.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” I call out, ignoring Carnell brushing up against my arm. A churning of disgust and mild curiosity stirs my stomach. The rest of the party disperses to a different part of the penthouse, leaving me alone with the asshole.
I drag my gaze up the length of him. He’s tall and slim.
The designer suit he wears sags on his frame like it was made at a time when he carried more weight.
A stained white shirt with no tie shows through the open jacket.
Reaching his face, I try hard not to wince.
High cheekbones jut from his skin. Sunken eyes with dark circles beneath make him look haunted.
Thin lips turn up at the corner. Does he think I’m checking him out?
“I’m not going to fuck you,” I state, putting it out there, so he knows that’s off the table.
The smell of sweat and chemicals wafts from him when he moves to stand directly in front of me, his shoes touching the tips of mine.
Dropping his gaze to the sliver of cleavage on display from my shirt, he asks, “Will you let me snort coke off of those fat tits?”
The request is juvenile, said with a mocking smirk.
“Hard pass. And if you try anything with me, I’ll cut your balls off and hang them from your ears. You get me?” My shoulders straighten, and I glare right up into his eyes. The blacks of his pupils eclipse almost all the color.
Holding his hands up in surrender, he licks his bottom lip and nods his head in agreement, a chuckle creeping from his lips. “Let me come with. I’ll behave. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers in a V and sticks his tongue between them.
“I don’t think that’s the proper salute.”
Grasping his chest, he stumbles backward. “That’s what my scout leader told me when I had to do it to get my vag badge.” He gasps in mock horror. If there was a vag badge, I doubt he’d ever earn it.
“You can come, but the second you step out of line, I’ll boot your ass to the curb.”
“Fair enough.”
I don’t know why I’m taking him with me.
He’s a massive douchebag but also lonely.
And I can relate to that. I love the brothers at the club.
Growing up surrounded by hard, foul-mouthed bikers isn’t every little girl’s ideal setting, but for me, it’s home.
It’s where I felt the safest, the most loved.
Until things with Cutter progressed into something more.
Now, I find myself detaching, scared I’ll have to leave them to be with Cutter if the club won’t accept us. The thought is too painful to bear.
“So, are you related to Michael Carnell?” I ask once we’re outside Matt’s penthouse and descending in the elevator, more to distract myself from my thoughts. The ripple in the atmosphere is palpable at the mention of Michael’s name, the glass walls reflecting his shock back at us.
“He’s my brother. How do you know Michael?” He takes a step away from me like I’m going to jump him or something. A scowl creates creases across his forehead like cuts.
“Who doesn’t know him?” I say casually, noting it’s a sore subject. “He’s famous.” Kind of…a little bit, and gorgeous—and a friend of my brother’s—also the owner of the hottest clubs around.
“So, you get along well with him?”
“Why are you asking questions about Michael?” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a small silver vial and twists the top off, drawing out what looks like a tiny, thin blade no bigger than a toothpick with white powder sitting in a small groove up the middle.
He snorts the substance up his nose then pinches his nostrils, blinking. “Did he send you here?”
“What? No.” What the hell ?
The elevator dings, and doors open into a lobby manned by the friendly concierge who let me in earlier.
I smile and wave as we pass his desk, trying to lose paranoid, coke-snorting Carnell when he stops to ask him a question.
I shouldn’t have agreed to let him come.
The door attendant spots me and opens the door, almost getting it fully closed before Carnell’s hand slams against it, forcing it back open.
Fuck .
“Tattoos?” he says hurriedly, rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to ward off the chill clinging to the air.
“Kitty, you good?” Tim calls out from across the street. He’s a pup. Has only been a prospect for a month.
“Who’s he?” Carnell frowns.
“Come on.” I roll my eyes and check the street for cars before jogging across the asphalt. The sun has almost completely depleted the sky of light, leaving space for the moon. I prefer the moon. The moon is flawed, full of craters and imperfections, but still beautiful like us.
“Who’s he?” Tim mimics Carnell’s question with a jerk of his chin.
“Tim, this is Car…”
“Nicolas,” Carnell cuts me off, his tone cautious.
“Okay, good. Nicolas is coming with me. Let’s go.
” I tap Tim’s face as a cue for us to get going before letting myself into the passenger side.
Tim follows suit, climbing into the driver’s seat and kicking the engine over.
After a couple seconds, he blows out a riled breath and drums his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Is he waiting for someone to get the fucking door or what?” he scoffs, looking in his rearview mirror. His sarcasm fills the air between us before Carnell finally slides into the backseat, typing furiously on a cell phone.
“Everything okay?” I ask, turning to look at him.
“Fine,” he snaps without looking up from the screen.
Tim’s gaze cuts to mine, his hands tightening around the wheel, making the leather creak.
I don’t think they’re going to become friends.
Punching the address into the GPS, I tap the screen and smile at Tim as he rolls his eyes at me.
I don’t think he sees me as a friend either.
Pulling out into traffic, we drive in silence, my buzz waning to the point of non-existent.
“Right here!” I shout at the neon lights glowing against the dark backdrop of the shop window.
Ink & Metal. Straight and to the point. The Kings had their own artist for all members’ ink, but this was for me, and I chose this place because the artist is a badass bitch who came to a club party last year.
I fell in love with the intricate designs painted all over her skin.
I couldn’t say much about her choice of bed partners.
She ended up in Monster’s room and said she had to take a week off work to recover.
Biggest she’d ever had, she told me. She’s never been back, but I visit her when I can.
“We won’t be long,” I tell Tim, leaping from the car and yanking Carnell’s door open, ushering him out.
“They do piercings too.” He nods to the list of services written on the door.
“You want your bellybutton done?” I tease, pushing through the entrance.
The bright lights illuminate the space. An almost overpowering scent of cleaning products burns my nostrils.
Everything is white, the tiled floors, painted walls, and low ceilings.
Even the chairs and tattoo tables are white.
It’s clinical, reminding me of the dentist.
“Kitty! I nearly shit when I saw your name on my books.” Wynona squeals from her station where she’s cleaning her equipment. Her long, dark hair is pulled back into a high pony with braids weaved on either side of her forehead. She looks out of time, a Viking visiting from Valhalla.
“It’s been a long time coming.” The grin pulling up my cheeks hurts.
“Fucking right it has. Give me five minutes to finish getting set up.”
The incessant, unmistakable buzz of a tattoo gun fills the air as another artist begins a skull design on a guy’s leg.
“I’ll give you a grand to get your nipple pierced.” Carnell grunts, his body curling over mine to whisper in my ear.
“I wouldn’t even lift my shirt for a grand.” But the idea of getting my nipple pierced sends a rush through my body. “Sweeten the pot and I’ll do both nipples.” A hot flush sweeps over me. Could I really do my nipples? I can’t remember what it felt like getting my ears done when I was five.
“Ten grand,” he offers, studying me for a response.
“Twenty,” I counter. “Ten for each tit.” I shrug, a nervous laugh tickling out of me.
“Fifty, but you have to let me watch.” He attempts to pinch one of my nipples over my shirt.
My hand whips out so fast, it blurs in my vision.
My palm makes contact with his bony cheek, the slap echoing through the open space, drawing Wynona’s attention.
Carnell barks out a laugh, stroking over the red handprint I left there.
“Fucking hell. A hundred grand.”
My heart pounds. He’s crazy.
“Deal.”