15. Ozzie
15
OZZIE
“You survived the first time, didn’t you?” I ask.
Me and Zoe are on the rooftop of the parking garage at the Azure Sol. It’s late Sunday evening, the desert heat has finally dialed back a few degrees, and we’ve decided we’re sick of eating takeout from the hotel restaurant downstairs. Round two of the tournament won’t pick up ’til tomorrow, so we’ve got the rest of the night off.
Which means I’ve convinced Zoe to get on the back of my bike and let me take her out on the Vegas streets.
She’s been different all day. Actually, laidback and almost… kinda cool?
When I teased her about last night loosening her up, she socked me on the arm and laughed. Gone were the scowls, the condescending tone, and lectures about the damn investigation. I was quickly discovering that FBI Agent Zoe Strauss wasn’t the stick-in-the-mud I’ve assumed she is.
I hand her the second helmet I’ve borrowed from Louie and expect her to ask for my help with putting it on.
But Zoe being Zoe, she does it fine all on her own. She tugs at the chin strap and slides two fingers underneath to check for the fit. Then she moves on to fastening on the pair of riding gloves.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve done this before. And I’m not talking about the other day at Louie’s.”
“That’s because I have… a time or two.”
“Wait. Back up. A time or two as in you hopped on the back of some guy’s bike once or twice, or a time or two as in you’re some professional rider being modest?”
She peers at me through the helmet, the blue chrome visor showing me my own reflection. But I don’t need to see her expression to guess she’s smirking. I can hear it in her voice when she speaks.
“I went for a few rides with a guy I was seeing in college.”
“A guy or a boyfriend? I thought you said you didn’t do relationships?”
“Boyfriend. And I don’t. He cheated on me with my best friend. But I did enjoy being on the back of his bike so much I took a few lessons of my own.”
I pull on my own helmet and toss my leg over onto the other side of the Screaming Eagle. Zoe promptly follows my lead, mounting the bike behind me, perching herself on the backseat.
“So you ride,” I say from over my shoulder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t ride.” She wraps her arms around my midsection and leans closer ’til I can feel the swell of her breasts brushing my spine. “I said I took a few lessons. I never said I’m a rider myself.”
My mind fills with images of Zoe in those tiny fucking denim shorts she sometimes wears, straddling a bike with those long, smooth brown legs of hers. I imagine how she’d look revving the engine and taking off, riding the bike like she’d rode my dick last night.
The almost pained face she’d made as she threw her head back and climaxed will probably live rent free in my head ’til the day that I die.
Arousal thickens inside me and threatens to give me a fucking boner. Right here on the roof of the parking garage, in broad daylight with the same woman rubbing up on me.
I grip the handlebars and swallow against the tidal wave of lust that comes damn close to knocking me down.
“Maybe I’ll give you lessons some time,” I offer, starting the engine.
She scoots even closer, her hands drifting across my abs. “Maybe. Or maybe we can practice some more like we did last night.”
…so her mind is on the same damn thing.
Great minds do think alike.
I say nothing else, letting the rumbling engine speak for me.
We take off, gliding across the concrete parking structure. We have a lot of fun going down the spiraling ramp. Zoe hugs me by the waist and leans with me. Her breaths quicken, coming out as sharp, excitable gasps.
It’s only the beginning.
Once we hit the streets, I’m showing her a little of what I can do.
I weave between cars in traffic, then take off once we’re ahead of everybody. I’ve been riding since I was fifteen; being on a bike is as natural to me as breathing air or walking on two legs.
When I’m on the roads, my bike becomes an extension of me. To onlookers, I might look like a daredevil blowing past on my bike at top speeds, but really, I know what I’m doing. Zoe’s safer on the back of my bike than she is in any four-wheeled vehicle.
Not that she’s even scared.
As I race through some of East Vegas’s streets, she’s raising her arms in the air and feeling the rush of the hot wind. She’s letting out a small cheer when I cut through a narrow alleyway between shops on some strip mall. I can feel how relaxed she is perched on the backseat, like she’s soaking up every detail.
It’s night and day from how she’d been the day we left Louie’s. She couldn’t stand me then.
She’s warmed up to me… sort of…
But the real question is, am I gonna be able to keep it going?
After the past few days we’ve had, it’s hard to tell. We’ve gone from being at each other’s throats to fucking each other’s brains out to heading out for dinner like a real couple.
Maybe all we needed to do was break the ice. Get our sexual frustrations out the way.
It’s still hard to tell once we reach the spot I’m bringing her to.
A hole-in-the-wall taco joint called El Gordo Taqueria.
Zoe slides off the bike and removes her helmet with an expression that makes me laugh.
“Enjoy yourself?” I ask, stripping off my riding gloves.
“I might take you up on that offer for riding lessons.”
“Any time. You can pay me with a different kinda riding.”
I grin and wink at her as I head for the door, propping it open to let her walk through first. She’s trying so damn hard to fight off a smile of her own, shaking her head as she walks past me and mutters a begrudging thank you .
We order the works—carnitas, carne asada, pollo, and chorizo. We’ve got a whole table covered in paper plates of the different street tacos we’ve ordered. I break out the Fuego Rojo Extra Hot sauce and get to work demolishing what we’ve got.
Zoe arches an eyebrow, unfolding her napkin first. “Spice fan?”
“You could say that. I’ve got some numbed taste buds, so the only way I taste anything is if I drench it in hot sauce. Plus, it reminds me of growing up in Cali.”
“You’re not from Texas?”
“Never stepped foot in Texas ’til right before I became a Steel King.”
“I guess I just assumed… aren’t the others from Texas?”
“Not just from Texas, they’re all from Pulsboro. Lived there their whole lives. Knew each other in grade school and shit. I’m the outlier.”
“What part of California?”
“Newport Beach. Where childhood hopes and dreams burn in hell.”
She laughs, her eyebrow ticking up even higher. “I take it you’re not a fan?”
“I’d never return if I can help it.”
“What made you become a King?”
“I was already in a different club. Things went south. Me and a buddy decided to go rogue, searching for a new one. Then, uh, he got caught up in some trouble with the law. I was on my own,” I explain, cupping the soft corn tortilla of my carnitas taco. “I eventually wound up in Fort Worth. I ran into Mace and Cash at a bar and we hit it off. I was inducted not that long after.”
She nods along as I tell my story, grabbing the bottle of Fuego Rojo Extra Hot and squirting a generous helping onto her chicken taco. I fall silent watching her take her first bite like it’s nothing.
“Looks like I’m not the only one into spice.”
She wipes at her mouth with the napkin crumpled between her fingers. “That’s because you’re not the only one from Southern California. Pomona.”
“Zoe Strauss a California chick. I never would’ve guessed.”
“Probably because I don’t talk about it often.”
“Your family still live there?”
“Which is why I don’t.”
I finish the carnitas taco in three large bites and move onto a chorizo. “I pictured your family being like you.”
“You mean uptight with sticks up their asses?” she offers.
“You’re really gonna bust my balls about that every chance you get, huh? I was pissed and giving you a hard time. Even if you were uptight, after last night you’ve gotta be feeling a little less wound up today, right? Besides, when I said like you, I meant perfect.”
“Perfect?” She pauses in between taking a bite of her taco.
“Yeah, you know. Just with your shit all the way together. Attractive, capable, good, stable careers, the type to fold your dirty clothes.”
Her lips spread. “I fold them because it helps me sort them when I do laundry.”
“Or you can just dump everything into the washer at once. It’s what I do.”
“Why am I not surprised? And no, Ozzie, I’m not perfect. Neither is my family. Far, far from it.”
She stops there, like even beginning to explain would cause a headache. I drop the subject, deciding if she wanted to say more, she would. I get better than anyone what it’s like to be estranged from family.
It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen mine.
Phrases like, “don’t ever call us again” and “we have no son” don’t exactly help family relations.
But I’ve never needed my mother and father or their money—I’ve made it all on my own, breaking the fucking rules every step of the way. Where my father said I’d never amount to anything and I was a stupid loser with tattoos and no prospect of a future, I took the few things I was good at and used them to my advantage.
I gambled ’til I was damn near a pro. I rode bikes and found likeminded people. I became a Steel King.
“So we grew up about half an hour from each other,” I muse aloud, shaking my head. “Now look at us.”
“Yeah, an FBI agent and a biker undercover in Vegas for an illegal gambling tournament, eating tacos at a taqueria,” Zoe says, amused. “Probably would’ve never had this on my bingo card.”
“Life comes at you fast.”
“You never told me how you were going to get away from the club. What excuse did you use to explain your absence all this time?”
“That I was headed to rehab in California. Had the brochures and everything.”
Surprise flits across her face. “You told them you were going to be in rehab? And what if someone sees you in Vegas?”
“I am in rehab… sort of…” I say, shrugging my shoulders, tacos still in hand. I’m on my fourth with no signs of slowing down. “I haven’t used since leaving Pulsboro and I’ve been taking my?—”
I’m the one to interrupt myself as I fall silent, realizing what I was about to say.
Zoe’s engrossed in every word. Her brows knit and she even leans in slightly across the small table that separates us. We’re the only two inside the taqueria except for the employees behind the front counter. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves.
“Taking your what?”
Now I’m unable to continue downing tacos like a vacuum. I put down the half eaten one on my plate and grab a napkin to wipe my hands. Really, I’m stalling for time. Trying to figure out a way to say what I need to.
Most women don’t get it; most women are freaked out once I tell them. Can’t really blame them either—it’s not like I’ve been the most stable guy.
“My meds,” I say, not looking her in the eye at first. I’m looking at the carne asada taco on my plate ’til I chance a glance up at her. “I’m on some heavy meds for ADHD and bipolar disorder. I’ve got some issues. You know how I joke about being batshit? Turns out it’s not a joke.”
I’m not sure what I expect out of Zoe. For her to be practical and start lecturing me about the importance of taking my medications (like she’d done about my smoking), or for her to be judgmental and tell me she’s not even surprised I’d have these kinda problems.
But she does neither of those things.
Instead, she sits oddly quiet for a few seconds, her expression unreadable.
So it triggers my insecurity and I feel like I’ve got to fill the blank space.
“I’m not violent or anything,” I add. “Except assholes who come at me first. If I take my meds, I’m usually pretty stable. I’m just a fuckup and sometimes I go off ’em and that’s usually when trouble starts…”
“You don’t have to explain. You’re actually… you’re not alone. I take medications too.”
“You? For what?”
“I take some light antidepressants. I had to get a waiver just to be allowed to stay out in the field. Duchovny wanted to relegate me to desk work once he found out, but I refused. He thought it would impair my judgment and ability to perform.”
I whistle. “Just for antidepressants? I’m guessing for bipolar he’d just send you packing.”
Her expression slips for a split second before her features relax and she reaches for her taco again. “That’s exactly what Duchovny would want to do. You must know him.”
“Nope, just know how his type think. My dad was ashamed of me the moment he found out I had issues,” I explain. “We found out about the ADHD first when I was still pretty young. He thought I was just stupid. I’m dyslexic too, so I used to have problems reading in class. The words on the page just would never be in order like everybody said they should be… then I had all this energy and couldn’t sit still.”
“What happened when he found out you were dyslexic and had ADHD?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “He still thought I was stupid. Just stupid with excuses. When the bipolar diagnosis came, forget about it. That was when I was fifteen and already a huge fuckup, getting in trouble with the law. Grand theft. Assault and battery. Underage drinking. Drugs. You name it. I was doing it.
“It made all the assholes in our gated community clutch their pearls. Dr. Gallagher’s only son was some criminal lowlife. My mother was ashamed. So was he. I left home at sixteen, though I came back once when I thought maybe we could work things out. Then, by seventeen, I realized they hated my guts and they told me I was dead to them. I’ve stayed dead since.”
“They chose their reputation over their son,” she sighs, shaking her head to the side. “Instead of trying to help you…”
“I’m not sure their help was anything I wanted back then. They’d only wanted to change me. Make me a fucking mini-me of my father. I wanted to be an artist. Do some graphic design work. That wasn’t good enough in their eyes. But I was too stupid for college, so what did they expect?”
“Ozzie… don’t. You weren’t too stupid for college. No one is.”
“My grades say otherwise. Ever heard of a negative GPA?”
“You’re just a different kind of learner. Something tells me you’re very visual.”
I let my gaze flick over her, never passing up a chance to tease her. “Yeah I am.”
“You know what I mean! Is that where all the tattoos are from? Your interest in graphic design. I think I notice a new one every time I look close enough.”
“You should. I’ve got like fifty of ’em. Maybe more. I’ve stopped counting.”
The corner of her lip curls in a little smile. “You know, Ozzie… I kind of admire that about you. You live so… freely. You do what you want when you want. You’re very unfiltered and real. It’s very…”
“Sexy? Hot? Irresistible?” I offer, giving her my usual crooked grin. I’ve leaned toward her, closing some of the gap at the table. “Tell me more about how you want to fuck me. It’s music to my ears, babe.”
“I was going to say refreshing. But that fits too.”
“How about I make things even more refreshing? I could help you be free and unfiltered too… like last night when you rode my dick.”
She laughs. “Maybe tonight we’ll go for round two.”
Zoe’s not lying.
Fast forward another forty-five minutes, and we’ve returned to our hotel room. All clothes are gone as we can’t even make it to the fucking bed before we’ve got our hands on each other and our mouths fused together.
Just like that, my dick’s buried in her pussy. My thrusts come hard, showing her how I get down. I’m not some pro dancer, but I’ve got some moves. Many that come in handy in the bedroom like now, as I roll my hips and stroke into her just right.
Zoe gyrates with me, canting her hips up, wrapping her long sexy fucking legs around me. Not only am I encased in the hot silk of her pussy, I’m now surrounded by the smooth silk that’s her legs as she traps me between them.
It’s one of the hottest fucking things in the world, being wrapped up in the long limbs of a woman as drop dead gorgeous and statuesque as Zoe.
Her hands sweep over me, exploring my chest and arms, then grabbing at the nape of my neck to drag me down to her mouth.
I’m pumping deeper into her, feeling every inch of her pussy as it pulses around me. I’m not overwhelming her like I’ve done with other girls in the past; instead, she matches my energy as our bodies move and our mouths attack each other.
Zoe bites at my jaw and then my neck. She gouges at me with her nails. She’s screaming out as I flip her over and spear back into her from behind. Then we’re switching up again a couple minutes later when she slips out from under that position and we find ourselves grappling for a new one.
She rides me again, tonight in reverse, where she’s bouncing on my cock and I’m gifted the sexy fucking sight of her bare back and ass. All the subtle definition and toned muscle from the long hours she must spend working out. The firm yet soft jiggle of her ass cheeks as she rides me and takes my cock almost to the balls.
I can’t help myself. My hands fill up with her ass and I groan at how it looks to watch myself disappear inside her.
How fucking amazing it feels to be encased in her wet, pulsing heat.
Zoe’s gone. The professional, borderline robotic Special Agent who barely smiles and is by the book has left the building. The side of herself she keeps buried has been revealed.
She really is unfiltered and free in this moment, bouncing on my cock and moaning for all our hotel neighbors to hear.
I slip my arm around her waist and pull her toward me ’til she’s leaning all the way back, directly on top of me. My hands slide to the underside of her thighs as I seize control of the position and start thrusting up into her.
Her head tips back, resting on my shoulder, as she cries like she’s pained. But what the sound really means is that she feels so good, it hurts. It feels so fucking good she can’t stand it.
I’m penetrating her deeper than ever now, reaching spots of her pussy from whole new angles.
I grit my teeth and go harder, ignoring the ache and burn of every muscle I’ve got. I don’t stop ’til Zoe’s hot pussy is clamping down on me, then gushing wet from her juices. She trembles uncontrollably, intense pleasure vibrating through her, as she goes limp on top of me.
But I’ve got her. I’ve got the finish line on my mind, holding her up, thrusting my hips, sinking deep into her pussy.
Then I’m coming. I’m releasing a thick groan, spilling inside her.
It takes us a whole minute before either of us have enough energy to move or disentangle ourselves. Zoe rolls off me like she’s forgotten how to use her limbs, eyes wider and darker than I’ve ever seen them. The hazel shade is gone, darkening to more of a shiny brown.
I lay back against the pillows and grin at her. “How was that, Special Agent? Satisfied?”
“That… that was…” She swallows, then licks at her lips as if words escape her. She flips onto her back next to me and stares up at the ceiling. “I think that could cause me a lot of trouble.”
I laugh. “Good trouble or bad trouble?”
“What do you think?”
“You’re letting go a little. Living it up a little. There’s no crime in that.”
“For me there is. I’ve never… done this before.”
“You told me you do casual. What’s the difference?”
She rolls her lips together, gaze still stuck on the ceiling. “That was different. It was always so…”
I’m not sure what she’s trying to say, but I give her the few seconds she needs to figure it out. The truth is, I’ve started feeling the same.
This is different than the other chicks I’ve been with. Two times with Zoe tells me that. There’s some kinda explosive chemistry between us; some kinda perfect concoction that makes us combust the moment we come together.
It makes everything more intense. It’s already making me addicted.
“Clinical,” she says finally. “It was just a few minutes of sex. There was no feeling to it. No… passion.”
“And there is between us?” I prompt, still grinning at her. Though on the inside, I’ve got a funny flip in my stomach.
“I’ve never cared. But now I wonder if I’ll even be able to go back. What else have I been missing out on?” She sits up, bending her legs at the knee. “I’ve never had real relationships. I’ve never enjoyed sex. I’ve never even had a vibrator.”
“Never? Don’t most chicks own them?”
“I’ve never bothered. It always seemed like a stupid novelty. A waste of time.”
I sit up beside her, curiosity growing. “What else have you never done, fed? Sounds like you haven’t lived much. Then again… maybe I’ve lived too much.”
“I’ve never gotten a tattoo.”
“Once you start, you can’t stop. Vegas is crawling with tattoo shops. Down to get one now?” I tease, bumping her shoulder with mine. “C’mon, I’ll get my seventy-third with you. It’ll be real special.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “That’s just one of the things. I’ve never done any drugs. I’ve never smoked a cigarette. I’ve never gambled.”
“Not even the slots?”
“Do I look like someone who would be caught inserting coins into those things?” She angles her head at me, lifting a brow.
“Good point. Put some pants on. Time for another first.”
“Pants on… for what? Where are we going?”
“Pants on first, then where we’re going when we get there.”
I tug at her elbow as I leap off the bed and search for her pair first. I toss it at her before scooping up my own. She hesitantly obliges, sliding one leg at a time into her pair of jeans. As soon as she’s got her t-shirt over her head, I’m grabbing her by the hand and pulling her with me out the hotel room door.
On our way down in the elevator she repeatedly asks what we’re about to do.
I keep her guessing with cryptic answers and a sly grin that drives her batshit crazy.
The elevator doors part to reveal the ground floor of the Azure Sol casino. We’re a few steps out onto the floor when Zoe starts digging her heels in and protesting with shakes of her head.
“Gallagher, I didn’t mean I wanted to gamble tonight!”
“One or two games can’t hurt. You might win big.”
She scoffs. “You realize I wasn’t born yesterday, right? Casinos are a scam.”
“I’ve won millions over the years.”
“And yet you still ow?—”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupt. “You don’t get how Boone operates, do you? Everybody owes him. It’s impossible to work off a debt, because there’s always something with him. How do you think he has a hold over so many people?”
I pull her farther out on the floor. Since she’s a beginner, I take her to the Black Jack tables, the easiest game to learn with the highest probability to win.
“I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“That’s why you’ve got me.” We’ve stopped at a $15 minimum table. I pull out a chair and pat it. “Sit. I’ll be right here. Deal her in.”
She gives me one last skeptical look before sitting. The dealer—a skinny guy with a fitted vest and a neat goatee—nods and shuffles for the next round.
Zoe’s still tense as hell, shoulders stiff, fingers laced together on the table like she’s at a business meeting. “You sure about this?” she mutters.
“Blackjack’s the easiest game in the house. You just gotta beat the dealer. Don’t go over twenty-one. That’s it.” I lean closer ’til my lips graze her ear. “Trust me, babe.”
The dealer finishes the shuffle and starts dealing. Everyone gets two cards face up, except the dealer—he keeps one card down. Zoe peeks at hers: a pair of eights. I glance down.
“Sixteen,” I say, leaning closer. “Alright, you’re in a tricky spot. Dealer’s showing a five. That’s a weak hand.”
She squints. “So I should stay?”
“Nah. Hit.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you trying to sabotage me?”
I chuckle. “Babe, trust me. Hit.”
She huffs, lifts her hand to tap the table, and the dealer gives her a card.
An ace.
“Those are worth a one or eleven. You’re at seventeen.”
We watch the other players around the table receive their cards. Several go over, their cards totaling twenty-five or even twenty-two. Once it’s her turn again, I’m encouraging her to hit a second time.
I’ve already carefully eyed everybody else’s cards and weighed out the ratios of high and low cards. It’s probably one of the few ‘smart’ people things I’m good at.
And also, what makes me a fucking good player at these games.
The dealer doles out her next card, a three that puts her at twenty.
We wait it out as the dealer moves to flip over his second card and reveal his hand.
“Yes!” I laugh when his add up to eighteen.
“No way,” she breathes, then lets out a loud, surprised squeal I’ve never heard from her before. It's high and bubbly, like champagne bursting from the bottle. She turns to me and flings her arms around my neck, damn near knocking me off balance. “I won!”
I laugh, arms wrapping around her waist as she hugs me tight. “Damn right, you did. Told you to trust me.”
She pulls back, flushed and breathless, glowing like I’ve never seen her before. That smile? I’d trade every cent to my name to see that again.
We keep going. Round after round. She wins four out of seven hands. Even starts trash-talking under her breath like she’s a card shark. By the time we’re cashing out, she’s got a neat little stack of chips.
“How much is this?”
“Few hundred bucks,” I say, nudging her with my shoulder. “Not bad for your first time, huh?”
Her eyes are wide. “I can’t believe I won money. I actually won .”
I shoot her a crooked grin. “Beginner’s luck—and expert guidance.”
We walk off the casino floor, the noise fading behind us. By the time we hit the carpeted hallway leading toward the elevators, she leans into my side, tucking herself against me like she belongs there. I wrap my arm around her, feeling proud and at ease.
“Maybe I could get used to this,” she murmurs.
“Which part? The gambling or me?”
Her lips twitch in an almost-smirk. “Both.”
I chuckle and squeeze her closer. “Good answer.”
Zoe and I reach a middle ground. Our nightly sexcapades become the bridge we were missing before, allowing us to get out our frustrations but also making us more believable together. Suddenly, it’s not like we’re pretending to be a couple in front of Boone and the others. It really is like we’re a couple as the second and third rounds of the tournament come and go and Zoe stops by my table to give me a deep good luck kiss in front of everybody.
Later, as I hang in the lounge with Boone and his men for his usual post-game celebrations, Zoe struts right over, sits in my lap, and gives me the kind of kiss that has other guys wishing they were me.
Boone whistles, his white brows raising high. “Well, it looks like you two are extra frisky as of late.”
He’s not wrong. Now that we’ve added sex to the equation, our undercover gig is working smoother than ever.
We’ve not only got Boone convinced we’re legit, but it opens up other opportunities for us to get what we’re looking for. I’m able to distract Boone, Benz, and Estrada long enough for Zoe to sneak back into the office where she found the bank statement and look for more incriminating paperwork.
I’m able to even plant some seeds of doubt in Boone’s head about others. On night three of the tournament, as we sit over more drinks once the games are over, Boone grows irritated with Benz about the quality of the lounge.
Martin Williamson, a famous billionaire business magnate, visits the lounge and decides none of the girls meet his standards to buy for the night.
Boone, who loves impressing all the VIP clientele coming to watch our tournament, is furious.
“You’ve got the funds,” he snarls. “Yet we continue to be short on fucking liquor. Short on fucking girls. Makes me think you’re either a bad manager or a crooked one skimming off the top. Tell me which one, Benz.”
“You’ve got to be making record profits,” I say casually. “We’ve had some high rollers betting on these games and dropping serious cash.”
“And yet Benz still fails to deliver the quality I need. The next time we’re short staffed on girls, it’s your fucking head. Time to get some new girls! If you don’t have me at least ten new ones by tomorrow, you better start planning your funeral.”
Benz practically grovels, promising profusely he’ll shape up and deliver. The lounge will be immaculate by the next round of the tournament.
But he doesn’t get—neither of them do—that the stage has already been set. That Zoe’s building the case against them and I’m helping her every step of the way.
Together, we’re going to take them all down. They just don’t know it yet.