11. Ozzie
11
OZZIE
All the major players have already arrived to Boone’s party by the time I turn up. Boone and Estrada pulled out all the stops. Compared to what had been planned at Déjà Vu, the underground casino puts it to shame and then some.
The Aztec theme of Azure Sol is everywhere, shining down from some sun disc ceiling lights to the gold-plated ancient symbols on the walls and game tables.
A redhead in a sparkling bra and booty shorts combo steps toward me with a flirty smile and hands me a drink.
I do what I always do during moments like these, grinning back at her and asking her name.
“Versace,” she says.
“I’ve always said the brand has great assets.”
She giggles emptily before she’s strutting off to flirt with the next VIP guest stepping through the elevator doors.
I expect nothing less from girls who work at these kinds of establishments. Their sole job is to use their sex appeal to flirt with and extract money from male customers.
The moment you stop expecting them to be real is the moment you’re able to enjoy them for what they are.
Hot chicks with banging bodies that want your money.
I learned that lesson enough times to last me a fucking lifetime. Nothing’s real in these kinds of circles, and if you’re lucky enough to find it, you’ve damn near won the lottery. I can’t blame guys like Mace, Cash, and Logan for locking down their catches.
They’ve struck gold.
But not everybody’s got that kind of good fortune. You ask Silver, and he’ll tell you that himself.
I’m meant to stick with the quick, easy, superficial exchanges I can find at these clubs. If my own damn parents never loved me, how could I ever think anybody else would?
My eyes wander over the other scantily dressed girls in the club as I sip on the drink I was given and explore the underground casino Boone and Estrada put together.
Tonight’s just celebrations, but tomorrow the real fun begins…
My gaze lands on the one girl in this place who isn’t meant to be here—Zoe Strauss is in the same sparkly bra and booty shoots as the other chicks on the floor. She’s holding a serving tray as she delivers a bottle of Sotol to Estrada and some of his men.
I stop in my tracks, something deep from within pulling at me.
She’s… fucking gorgeous.
A fact obvious from the first time I ever set eyes on her months ago in the Steel Saloon, but in this moment it’s like a spotlight’s been dropped on her, and in a crowded room full of people, it’s magnified times a million.
Nobody else is like her. Nobody stands out like she does.
She’s one of a kind, even when wearing the same barely there costume as every other woman here tonight.
Her smooth, dark-brown skin radiates in the golden-hued lighting, damn near putting me under a trance. The outfit shows off how fit and toned she is, her stomach a flat valley I can’t help imagining my tongue running down. All while she wraps those long, silky fucking legs around me.
I can hear the moan falling from her full, red-painted lips and envision how her almond-shaped, hazel eyes would snap shut.
But it’s not just physical that stops me like this—it’s the fact that I know the truth about her. Zoe Strauss isn’t just some club girl hoping for a generous tip; she’s deeper than that, on a real mission to bring down bad men who more than deserve it.
She’s strong, smart, and capable.
And batshit crazy. What kind of woman willingly puts herself in these circles knowing what could happen the moment she’s caught?
Yet she does it anyway. She does it unapologetically.
It even pisses her off when I intervene. When she needs me and deep down she knows it.
As if sensing my gaze on her, Zoe glances in my direction. Time might as well stop as we exchange unspoken words.
Confirmation that we’re on the same page for tonight; we’re partners on this.
She looks away, returning her attention to the men she’s serving with a smile.
I down more of my drink, still aware of the deep pull inside my chest.
“The man of the hour in the flesh.”
Boone appears in my line of vision with his usual dark shades and a cigarette smoking from between his lips. He’s grinning at me as he clutches his drink and blocks any view of Zoe.
“Man of the hour?” I laugh it off. “Nah, that ain’t me. More like you and Estrada. You’re the ones navigating this ship.”
“Maybe,” he concedes with a nod, then he steps toward me, putting an arm around my shoulder. “But you’re the real superstar of this tournament. Don’t you forget the arrangement we’ve got going. Without you, shit falls apart. I hope we’re still on good terms.”
“Why wouldn’t we be?”
Boone chuckles, dropping his arm. “Well, you damn near threw a fucking hissy fit last night. Left all of us scratching our heads wondering if Oz wasn’t as reliable as we thought.”
“I’m good. You know I am.”
“It was a respect thing, I get it. That’s your girl and it’s like somebody’s pissing in your Cheerios talking about how good she looks prancing around. But just remember one thing—respect is a two way street, isn’t it? You want respect? You better be fucking willing to give it.”
Pressure wells up inside my chest, though I don’t answer him. Boone speaks in a booming voice and puffs on his cigarettes and cigars like he’s the king of the world. He wears a shit-eating grin all while he lectures about respect.
It’s a warning. But it’s also a sign he thinks he’s untouchable. In a lot of ways, he has been.
He’s been heading his underground tournaments for years, evading the law while he trafficked guns, drugs, and people.
“I’ve got no problem, Boone,” I say finally. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re good.”
His grin spreads. “Excellent. Then how about you join me and the others for drinks? We’ve got some fucking amazing entertainment for the night.”
He leads the way to the lounge area where some of his men are already seated. I nod my head in acknowledgment at some of them, including Judd Simmons, who’s downing shots with Chmura. Judd gestures to me like we’re old friends.
“There he is!” he says. “I thought that was you earlier. All them fucking tattoos.”
Boone looks between us. “You two had a run in?”
“Saw Gallagher out earlier… him and some chick.”
“That must’ve been his girl.”
Judd cranks out a laugh. “That must be why it sounded like they were arguing.”
“Arguing? Trouble in paradise, Oz?” asks Boone.
All eyes fall on me. I play off my agitation from Judd’s comment by shrugging and laughing it off.
“You know how it goes.”
“That’s why you keep them for fucking around and nothing else,” Chmura pipes up to some nods. “All women do is give headaches.”
“What woman is fucking you, big boy?” Boone asks and the others break out in laughter.
Chmura does what I’ve done—he plays off the insult by pretending it doesn’t faze him. He takes another shot of tequila and mentions something about how he gets plenty of pussy. Moe, one of Boone’s other cronies, jumps in by telling him it doesn’t count if he has to pay for it.
The whole section’s roaring with laughter, trading barbs. I’m humoring them, mostly observing the group dynamics. The underlying tension that’s unmistakable in Boone’s ranks. It seems there’s some unspoken rivalry between some of them, like Chmura and Moe, who both seem eager to be Boone’s righthand.
Then Benz turns up and there’s a whole new layer added—me and him lock gazes and I can tell this morning’s on his mind. But unlike Judd, who’s clueless about what he possibly saw, Benz is thinking about how I’d cut his threat short.
I’d subtly issued one of my own.
Boone beckons Benz forth. “Benz! Get your ass over here and join us. We were just having a laugh over Chmura’s doughy ass paying for pussy… and Oz’s trouble in paradise.”
I scrub at my jaw, doing my best to keep my cool and act nonchalant. The usual Ozzie Gallagher most people expect.
“There’s been a problem,” Benz says.
Shit.
He wouldn’t bring up what happened with Zoe in front of everybody… would this fucktard?
That quickly I forget I’m supposed to be calm and cool. Instead I’m glaring at Benz in silent warning to keep his fucking mouth shut. If he even hints at what he told Zoe earlier, I just might snap and deck him in the jaw.
“It’s McDonald. He’s been caught smuggling in a second set of cards.”
Boone surprises us all with a gruff laugh. He blows out smoke from his cigarette and flicks ashes onto the floor. “Is that right? Before the tournament’s even begun? Bring him here.”
A minute later, Benz is returning with two security guards clutching a struggling Jacob McDonald.
“That was planted on me!” he yells. “This is all a setup! Why would I show up with a cheat set? I wasn’t trying to?—”
“Do you know what happens when I catch someone trying to steal?” Boone asks, his voice drowning out McDonald’s. “I make an example out of them, McD. This tournament was put together with a lot of hard work from the likes of me, Estrada, and Benz. And here you go thinking you can cheat your way to the top?”
“That’s not true, Boone!” he cries out. “I’d never cheat. I play fair and square!”
“Boys, you know what to do. I don’t have time to listen to begging. Show everybody what happens when the rules are broken.”
The guards gripping McDonald knock him down to the ground. One of them grabs hold of a bottle of tequila from the table and shatters it over his head.
We sit and watch as they beat the shit out of him. His screams of protest continue until he’s kicked in the face and several of his teeth tumble out of his bloody mouth.
It’s not the first time I’ve witnessed something like this. Even with the Steel Kings, there’ve been times when somebody got their ass beat for breaking the rules or stirring up shit. Most men in our worlds understand it’s a part of this lifestyle.
But it’s not lost on me how theatrical Boone is about it. That both he and Benz seem eager to carry this out in front of everyone.
Especially me.
Given some of the recent tensions and misunderstandings, I’m taking it as a not-so-subtle message. If I toe out of line, if I incur Boone’s wrath, I’ll be next.
The guards eventually tire of beating McDonald once he loses consciousness and goes still. They grab him by the back of his shirt collar and then drag him away, probably for the nearest exit where he’ll be tossed out like trash.
“Well, that was damn entertaining!” Boone laughs. He reaches for his drink and raises it up. “Cheers to a clean, fair, successful tournament!”
We toast to that, glasses chinking against each other.
It’s not lost on me how ironic it is Boone’s taking a stand on stealing and cheating when the whole tournament’s a crock of shit. He’s set things up to cheat and take millions for himself. I’m being used as a vessel for him to do it.
Maybe that’s why he wants to send the messaging he has.
“Anyway,” Boone says, looking to Benz, “tell me you’ve got things in order. That the real show’s about to start?”
Benz nods and finally takes his seat at our table. “We had a last minute issue, but all the girls are ready.”
The bottle girls who had once been frequent on the floor are gone. I glance around noticing how there’s only two left still serving drinks. Neither of which are Zoe.
Music fills the lounge a second later, commanding everyone’s attention. It’s a slow, sensuous beat that’s accompanied by dimmer lights and fog rolling across the large, T-shaped stage. Some of the audience in the lounge hoot and whistle in anticipation.
My stomach clenches as the first silhouettes of girls appear and I realize what’s going on. As each girl poses next to a pole, a blue-tinted neon light is shone on her. Six different poles, six different girls. The light shines on the final girl at the same time I realize who it’ll be.
Zoe—on stage right in front of me.