Chapter Two - Ryder
CHAPTER TWO
Ryder
“Sales have gone up twelve percent in the last six months alone, and we can expect a similar rise over the next six months. I’d say we’re looking at our most profitable year yet.”
Paul, the club manager, beams like he’s been awarded employee of the decade, but hell if I know where he gets the confidence because it sure isn’t from Moreno’s expression.
I look between Moreno and the club manager like two sides of a battlefield—only there’s no wondering who will win.
Joshua Moreno is the boss of the Moreno criminal family, which reigns over the majority of the West Coast. He took over from his father, Marcus Marsollo, and changed the family name when he learned his father was a prick of epic proportions.
At twenty-four years old, he’s the youngest American Mafia boss in history, but that hasn’t hindered his influence from reaching every corner of this country and others.
Then there’s Paul, whose last name I never bothered to learn because he is that insignificant.
The lack of suspense at the outcome of the meeting is boring as hell and a striking contrast to the last time I was here.
This is the first time I’ve been back at the club since I met Rachel.
I didn’t have anything to drink after that whiskey sour because I wasn’t willing to risk forgetting a single second that I spent with her.
From the moment I saw her walk inside the club, swaying her hips in that little black dress with heels and jewelry that glowed against her skin, I hadn’t been able to look away.
She was even more beautiful up close, with soft features, rounded cheeks, a small nose, and wide, full lips that would make any supermodel envious.
When I’d noticed her constant scanning for exits, I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine why she’d be so desperate to get away.
But then I met her, and she didn’t seem so keen on running anymore.
Which only fascinated me more.
Even then, undeniably beautiful and as drawn to me as I was to her, the reason I couldn’t keep my hands off of her all night long was something entirely different.
Watching her respond to just the slightest contact was euphoric. Seeing her reaction to the lightest brush of my fingers, the fanning of my breath over her neck, and even the gentle squeeze of my hand with hers was like getting high on the strongest, most addictive drug.
With every touch, the addiction etched itself into my bones.
Over the years, I’ve learned to recognize what women want from me, whether it be my money, power, or body. I’d been willing to bet that Rachel’s desire would reside with the latter, but it hadn’t.
It didn’t seem like she wanted anything from me at all.
I’ve had my fair share of memorable nights, but none of them compared to the one I spent with her. It wasn’t just about how physically compatible we were, either. It was how natural it felt to just be with her and how soothing it was to cradle her to my chest in the king-sized bed.
It made me think about things I never had before, like what it would be like to have that every night.
Needless to say, I didn’t do much sleeping.
Moreno’s scoff brings me back to the small, cigar-scented office.
“And how many, out of those six months, were we investigated for issues with the alcohol license and underage drinking?” Moreno asks with the same ease he’d ask about the weather.
Paul’s smile falters as his fingers fidget with the hem of his blazer. I’d crack a smile at the bastard’s lack of confidence, but it’s more pathetic than it is amusing.
“Well, sir,” he starts, glancing at the door like someone could come in and save him from this meeting.
No one does.
“There have been a few run-ins with the authorities, but it’s nothing we haven’t been able to resolve.
We haven’t had a single charge brought against us, and I don’t believe that will change any time soon.
” Paul places his hands on the desk between us, seeming at ease with his own assurances, and waits for Moreno’s response.
I don’t have to send a glance to my side to know that Moreno won’t be letting him off the hook that easily. We sit in a pleasantly suffocating silence for nearly a full minute before Paul’s fidgeting returns.
Silence is my favorite form of intimidation.
Those who are aware of its value aren’t as susceptible, but those who aren’t—like Paul—can’t help their instinctive urge to fill it.
“But, of course, we’ll double down on—”
The second I see movement in the corner of my eye, I act on instinct. I flick my knife out of my pocket and place it in the palm of Moreno’s waiting hand.
We move in sync, which makes Paul’s anxiety visibly spike. Moreno takes one side of the desk, and I round the other until the poor bastard is trapped between us.
Paul faces Moreno, his back now to me. His eyes bulge at the sight of the knife in Moreno’s grasp as he expertly twirls it around his fingers like it’s a measly pencil and not a weapon responsible for the loss of more than a few lives.
“Mr. Moreno,” he says in a shaky voice. “I didn’t mean—I never meant—”
“I like you,” Moreno starts. “And I like what you’ve done with the club.”
Paul’s trembling lips pull into a timid smile. “Well, thank—”
Moreno’s posture change is subtle, but I catch the order as soon as he sends it and grab both Paul’s shoulders from behind, pinning him to the chair as Moreno leans forward, grazing the knife against the man’s chin.
“What I don’t like, however, is that I’ve spent more than that precious twelve percent sales increase paying off the local authorities to look the other way for your carelessness.”
I can’t see Paul’s face, but I feel his shudders under my hands and wouldn’t be surprised if he pissed himself.
Once again, Moreno uses silence, dragging the knife from Paul’s chin, up his face, and down again. He’s not pressing hard enough to break the skin, but he’s got to be close.
“I-I p-promise it—”
With a flick of his wrist, Moreno nicks Paul’s ear. It’s a small cut, one that will have no impact whatsoever aside from a sting, but he still wails like Moreno cut out his face. I roll my eyes and release his shoulders with a shove.
“You have six months to prove to me that you can do your job without drawing too much attention. Think you can do that?”
Paul’s answer comes between gasping breaths. “Y-yes, sir! Of course, sir.”
An hour later, we’re climbing into the car with a thoroughly scared Paul left behind. The driver pulls away just as Moreno eyes me.
“You’re seeing her again?” Moreno asks, the distaste evident in his tone.
I shrug and busy myself scrolling through emails on my phone. My outside reaction doesn’t show any sign of change, but based on the self-satisfied grin plastered on Moreno’s face, I’m not fooling him.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, I’m seeing her again,” I answer tonelessly.
“It’s been two months.”
“And?”
“Are you dating her?” Joshua Moreno says the word dating like there’s battery acid in his mouth, and to him, the concept is about as pleasant.
The answer is, technically, no. Rachel and I have never had a conversation about putting a label on what we are, but in all honesty, we don’t have conversations, period.
Our relationship—if you can even call it that—is one of friends with benefits… without the friends part.
It’s more of a routine.
When we have free nights, we spend them together.
This usually means skipping poker nights and clubbing with the capos in favor of eating Chinese food on the floor of Rachel’s cardboard-box-sized apartment while watching her favorite shows—which are exclusively true crime.
Yes, I see the irony.
There’s very little talking during these frequent nights. No, tell me about your family or what are your plans for the future. Hell, there’s barely even a, how was your day, though the silence never feels strained.
The pressure that most people feel to make conversation is absent from Rachel. She isn’t like the women who have asked me to take them on extravagant dates or to meet their parents. I’ve been nervous about—albeit not opposed to—the idea of Rachel asking for more, but she never has.
It makes me wonder how she sees me in that pretty head of hers. All she knows about me is that I run the club we met at.
Though it’s been two months, and I’m certain we’re exclusive—no, we never explicitly said it, I just know she doesn’t have time for anyone else with her work schedule—there is no clear label on what we are.
We have dinner, watch TV, sleep together, and then I leave.
I’ve never even stayed with her through the night—aside from the night we met.
Moreno’s face is scrunched up, likely from having said the dreaded D-word, and I laugh at the reaction.
“No, we aren’t dating,” I confirm.
“Then what are you doing?”
“Eating more takeout than I ever have before.”
Moreno rolls his eyes, and I can tell he still thinks there’s something more serious going on.
“So, you’ll come to the club tonight with the capos and me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Whipped,” he mutters, and I promptly kick him in the shin.
Childish? Yes. Necessary? Also, yes.
He grimaces, but his smug grin makes a quick return. “I’m glad to hear it’s nothing serious since we’re leaving next week.”
My head snaps up from where I’ve been checking my phone for a message from Rachel—there isn’t one. “We’re not supposed to leave for another month.”
“The rest of the meetings will be virtual. We’ve been gone too long, and I’m ready to get back to LA,” he says flippantly.
It’s not like I thought what Rachel and I had would last forever, but for some reason, I never thought about the end. Hell, she probably thinks I live here in Sacramento. The subject never came up.
I know he’s waiting for a reaction, so I don’t give him one and instead message Rachel that I’ll be over as soon as she’s off work.
I stand outside Rachel’s door with her favorite dish from a local burger joint and dig into my pocket for the key she gave me a month ago when it became clear we’d be a steady lay.