Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
No one else has ever had the kind of effect on me that Sammie does.
If I’m honest with myself, it scares the hell out of me.
The things he asks me to do and the fact I just do them without question is…
concerning. It’s confined to sex, though.
If we’re not talking about sexual activity, all bets are off.
I’m not weak-minded, no matter how much I’m pretending to be right now.
That’s not the most concerning part, though. No, the most concerning part would be the fact that I’m currently curled up against him and I don’t want to move. I don’t have the need to run, to distance myself. That’s dangerous, because I know it’s going to hurt a lot when I can no longer do this.
Sammie’s fingers are aimlessly brushing through the ends of my hair. “You’re thinking is loud,” he says.
“No, it’s not.” I snort.
“What’s on your mind?”
“My dad’s friend is getting married. He wants me to go with him as his plus-one,” I say, instead of what’s really bothering me.
“Do you have something against weddings?” Sammie asks.
“Not really—except I think they are a complete waste of money, time, and energy. I mean, it’s really just consumerism at its finest. Why do you need to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to declare your so-called never-ending love to one another?
Especially when chances are you’ll be divorced and burning the photos a few years later anyway. ” I huff out a breath.
“Wow. So, you’ve thought about this a bit then?” He sounds amused. “Not all weddings end in divorce, you know.”
“Actually, around fifty percent of first-time marriages end in divorce. And those odds increase if it’s a second or third marriage,” I tell him.
Sammie shrugs. “I don’t plan on marrying to divorce. I don’t fail at anything.”
The thought of him getting married turns my stomach, while that god-awful jealous feeling rears its ugly head. I do my best to shove it all down. “Well, whoever she is, she’s going to be the luckiest woman alive to get you as a husband.”
“Luck isn’t a real thing.” Sammie chuckles. “But, sure, you might just be the luckiest woman alive.”
I freeze. He didn’t mean that. He’s just fucking with me. “You own a casino. You sell luck and you don’t believe in it?” I ask, changing the subject. Because, let’s be honest, long-term commitment is not in the cards for us.
“Everyone knows the house always wins, babe. Luck is something fools believe in,” he says.
“So you’re not superstitious, like, at all?”
I find this hard to believe. It’s my job to learn everything there is to learn about people, and I know that Sammie is superstitious.
He always puts his right shoe on first. It’s an ancient belief that your right foot symbolizes good fortune and luck, whereas your left represents misfortune and evil.
That’s not all either. Sammie has other quirks that are buried in superstition too.
“I believe in what’s in front of me,” he insists.
I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, do me a favor.” I jump out of bed, wrapping the sheet around my naked body before walking to the end of the mattress. Then I pick up his shoes and hand him the left one. “Put your shoes on.”
“Why?” Sammie asks with a raised brow.
“You’ll see,” I tell him as I continue to extend my arm in his direction.
“Okay…” Sammie sits up and holds out his hand, gesturing for the other shoe.
“Nope, that one first.” I nod towards the one in his hand.
He looks down at the shoe and then back at me. “You can’t put your left shoe on first,” he says with all seriousness.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not how putting shoes on is done,” he tells me.
“Why? Think it’s gonna bring you bad luck? Invite some kind of evil spirits in?” I’m doing my best not to laugh, because the look on his face is priceless.
“Yes,” he states simply.
“But you’re not superstitious and luck isn’t real, so it should be fine.” I shrug. “Put the shoe on, Sammie.”
“No.” He drops the shoe to the ground. “It’s not a superstition if it’s real.”
“Evil spirits and bad luck are going to surround you if you put your left shoe on before your right?” I can’t hold it back anymore. I laugh, so hard that I fall to the bed.
Sammie is on top of me within seconds. “I happen to be on a winning streak. I got you, didn’t I? You think I’m going to do anything to jeopardize that?”
“You got me? I’m not a thing you get to keep, Mr. Russo. I’m also not the trophy you seem to think I am,” I tell him.
This lying thing is getting harder by the day. The feelings are too much. I need to distance myself or come clean and tell Sammie the truth. Then again, the lines between this fictional character I’ve been portraying and the real me have become so blurred I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore.
I roll Sammie onto his back and jump off the bed. “I gotta pee,” I tell him, picking up my phone on the way to the bathroom.
I lock the door behind me, sit on the toilet, and tap at my phone screen. I’m spiraling. I know I am, and I need someone to tell me to stay focused. I pull up Emmanuel’s number and start typing out a message.
Me:
I don’t know how much longer I can do this.
E:
Do what?
Me:
Lie to Sammie.
E:
What are you lying to him about?
Me:
Seriously? Everything. Who I am. Why I’m here.
E:
I saw you at dinner, Lailani. You were you. You’re not lying to him about who you are.
Me:
He thinks I’m sweet and innocent and that I’d never be capable of taking someone’s life.
E:
You are sweet. Innocent, that one is questionable. Don’t over think it, though. Have fun.
Have fun? Seriously, that’s what he tells me? Have fun?
“Babe, you okay?” Sammie knocks on the door.
I stand up, flush the toilet, and turn on the faucet. “Yeah, I’ll be out in a sec.”
Then I delete the message thread with Emmanuel and leave my phone on the basin.
Taking a breath in, I tell myself it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be.
Sammie is a grown-ass man. He’s not going to care that I’m not who I say I am.
Sure, he’ll probably hate me and not want anything to do with me, but he’ll get over it. He’ll get over me.
“Did you hear what happened today?” Fefe asks when I walk into the staff room. I have five minutes before my shift starts. I was hoping to sit down and make my mind numb by doomscrolling on my fake socials.
“No, what happened?” I drop my bag into a locker.
“They were shot at. Again,” she whispers.
“Who was?”
“The bosses, Mr. Bianchi and Mr. Russo. They had the little girl with them too.”
My blood goes cold. Sammie was shot at? Why am I only just now hearing about this?
“When?” I press. “Did anyone get hit?”
“About thirty minutes ago. You’d think there would be police all over or something, but nothing. And no one was hit—that I know of,” Fefe says.
“That’s good.” I nod, pick up my phone, walk out of the break room, and dial Emmanuel’s number.
“Hello,” he answers on the first ring.
“Did you know Sammie was shot at? Why wasn’t I told? Who the fuck shot at him?” I blurt out.
“Hold up. What are you talking about?”
“I was just told Sammie and Carlo were targeted out front of the Royal. They had Jazzy with them, E. Who the fuck was it? I’m going to find them and I’m going to…”
“Do nothing. You’re going to do nothing. Get over to Aces. I want you close to my niece,” he tells me.
“They shot at him, E! They could have killed him!”
“But they didn’t. When I find out more, I’ll let you know. Just watch that little girl. No one gets to her,” he says.
“Got it.” I turn, walk back into the break room, and grab my bag from my locker.
“Where are you going?” Fefe calls after me.
“I’m not feeling well. I need to go home.” I rush out without another word.
It’s not a total lie. Finding out someone took a shot at Sammie has me feeling off. I need to hit something, or someone. I need blood. I want their heads rolling down the damn street. Nobody gets to take a shot at what’s mine and live to tell the story.
Except… he’s not mine. Not really.