Chapter Eleven
Jill
“Angelina?” Walking into the club for my shift, I look at the other bartender prepping her kit behind the bar—the bar I’m supposed to be working at. “What are you doing here?”
“Working…” she responds, flashing me a confused look. “I’m on the schedule.”
That can’t be right because I’m on the schedule tonight. Or at least I was last time I checked two days ago.
“Since when?” I’m getting irritated now. I wouldn’t have gotten ready and come all the way here tonight if I didn’t have to. Someone in management fucked up.
“Since yesterday.” Angelina pulls out her phone and shows me a picture that she took of the schedule. To add insult to injury, my name’s been crossed out for tonight, and Angelina’s name has been written in pen beside it. “Sorry, girl. I thought you knew, or else I would have sent you a text.”
“It’s not your fault,” I assure her, my eyes scanning the area for the night manager. “Have you seen Miranda? I have a few choice words for her.”
“She said something about a broken locker in the dressing room.” Angelina waves her hand towards the employee door. “Good luck.”
“I’m not the one who’s going to need it.”
She laughs behind me, but I’m already moving. Stalking through the club, I skirt around barbacks and servers prepping the club for opening, on a mission.
I find Miranda in the women’s dressing room with one of the bouncers, Jax. She’s supervising while he uses a screwdriver to jimmy open one of the lockers that’s been jammed for almost a week now. She raises her hands in submission when she sees me coming in hot.
“Don’t start with me,” she says defensively. Jax looks over to flash me a dimpled grin as he checks me out, his bulging biceps intentionally flexing.
“Looking good, Jill,” Jax comments. I flash him a wink before crossing my arms over my chest and leveling a glare at Miranda.
“Then who should I start with, Miranda? Because someone decided to do arts and crafts on the schedule next to my name. Why the hell am I here?” Miranda’s shoulders go up helplessly as she searches for words.
“I don’t know, honestly. When I made the schedule, you were on it, and I didn’t change it.” She gestures to the door. “And if it wasn’t me, there’s only one other person who could’ve done it. So I suggest you go ask him.”
Gage.
I narrow my eyes at her, agitation bubbling inside me at the knowledge that the man who watches my every move is now manipulating my work schedule. He’s so desperate to insert himself into my life he’s no longer happy showing up wherever I am—he now wants to choose where I show up and when. And he has the power to.
I don’t like being manipulated.
“Fine,” I concede, earning a small relieved sigh from the woman currently under my deadly stare. Turning on my heel, I storm into the hallway towards the owner’s office back behind the VIP booths. I enter without knocking, letting the door swing open until it hits the wall with a bang.
Gage sits behind the desk, leaning back in his chair with an arrogant smirk on his infuriatingly handsome face. He knew I was coming.
“Fuck, you’re hot when you’re angry,” he states, eyes raking over me hungrily. “I would’ve changed the schedule a lot sooner if I knew that meant you’d be in my office looking like this.”
I narrow my eyes at him as I saunter closer. Placing my palms flat on his desk with a smack, I lean forward to stare him down. I don’t give a damn that he can see straight down my minidress. In fact, I prefer it.
“You fucked around with my work schedule to make me angry?” I challenge, my anger undeniable. Gage cocks his head to one side and takes his time looking at me like he’s memorizing the image.
“It’s definitely a perk,” he answers, running his tongue across his bottom lip before biting it with a smile. The movement is so small, but it makes my heart stutter, and I hate that it’s so damn sexy. My body comes to life under his gaze, the mostly healed marks he left on me aching to be remade. “But that’s not why you were taken off the schedule. I have other plans for you tonight.”
I stand and place my hands on my hips, my pointed gaze demanding. “You better start talking, or you’re about to watch my sweet ass walk back out the door and go home.”
“You’ll be serving a private party.”
“You pulled me from behind the bar on the busiest night of the week to do VIP bottle service?”
“Poker,” he corrects me, making my stomach drop—I have a visceral reaction to that word after what happened with my brother. “I’m hosting a private poker game tonight. You’ll be serving drinks.”
He changed my regular bartending shift so I can serve him and his asshole buddies alcohol while they piss away amounts of money that could save and ruin lives? A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “No.”
“It’s not a request, Jill.” Sitting forward in his chair, his smile turns vicious. “This is the part where I remind you that you don’t have a choice—I say, you do. Go grab your kit and meet me outside. If you’re not in the parking lot in fifteen minutes, I’m coming in after you.”
White-hot anger flashes inside of me. There are a million words on the tip of my tongue, ready to lash out and eviscerate him. But my temper turns Gage on, and knowing that he’ll get off on it stops me. Instead, I take a silent, calming breath and hammer him with a sweetly acidic smile.
“Yes sir.” The heat in his eyes means my choice of words did nothing to put him off, so I continue. “Any excuse to flirt with a room full of men with money.”
With that, I turn and saunter out of the room.
I wait until it’s been exactly sixteen minutes before I step out of the club into the parking lot with my bartender kit in my designer leather backpack. Gage is waiting for me like I knew he would be, standing like he does when he watches me—relaxed and settled like he has all the time in the world. He’s leaning against his motorcycle, muscular arms crossed. He straightens when I approach, his gaze taking stock of my bottle service heels.
Since I’d been planning on standing behind the bar all night, I’d worn a comfortable pair of my worn-in Dunks. But a high-stakes poker game calls for some sexy nude pumps—these are my money-making heels.
“Another thirty seconds, and I would’ve had to hunt you down. I was almost looking forward to it. My night could use a little excitement,” he says, stepping close until we’re chest to chest. Even in my heels, he’s a few inches taller than me, and our lips are always just a breath away from each other.
“Pity,” I respond, feigning a sympathetic pout that makes him smile. He lifts a helmet and slips it over my head, adjusting the strap to make sure it’s secure before putting on his own. His eyes gaze into mine intensely for a long moment, smoldering at me, before he snaps down my face shield. Climbing onto the bike, he holds out his hand for me to join him.
“Come here, baby.”
I obey and step closer, allowing him to guide me onto the seat behind him. Pressing my chest to his back, he pulls my arms to wrap around his waist.
“I ride hard and fast. You better hold on tight.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I shoot back. The sound of his laugh is cut off when he starts the engine. The powerful machine roars to life, rumbling and revving beneath us. My grip on him tightens instinctively when the engine revs again, and we’re whipping out of the parking lot.
We roar through the city, heading further downtown. The summer night air whips around us. There’s something about being on the back of a motorcycle on a summer evening that feels like flying. The power of the machine vibrates through my body, making me grin from ear to ear as I hug Gage’s muscular frame. Even with my helmet, the fresh air is charged with something that tastes like freedom.
The cityscape blurs past—skyscrapers and historic buildings—until we approach a familiar gate. Passing through, we enter The Raven’s circular drive. The grand entrance of the luxury hotel greets me like an old frenemy, offering a warm hug of grandeur with a backhanded slap of mockery.
Gage pulls up to the entrance before cutting the engine. Pulling off his helmet and running his hand over his short hair, he climbs off the bike. Helping me off, he unclips the strap of my helmet and lifts it off my head. I gaze up at him as he fixes my mussed hair, his strong tattooed fingers gentle against my face.
“This is all just a ploy to get me into a hotel room, isn’t it?” I murmur.
His hands linger on my cheeks, his lips twitching with a smirk. One of his hands trails down my cheek to grip beneath my jaw, pulling me in with a possessive hand on my throat. His lips meet mine in a kiss so deep and sensual I can feel it all the way down to my toes.
“We both know I don’t need a ploy to get you into a hotel room,” he murmurs against my lips. “Now, come upstairs.” Handing both helmets to the valet, Gage leads me into the hotel with a hand on the nape of my neck.
The interior is decorated in the art deco style—dark, rich tones, detailed line work, and bold gold fixtures. Geometric chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, and symmetrical woodwork adds a modern feel. The front desk sits in the center of the lobby, with the hotel bar to the right. A grand staircase leads to a landing with three elevators before splitting to either side and wrapping around the massive chandelier.
I’ve walked through this lobby a million times, and being back feels like taking a cyanide pill coated in sugar. Up until Tommy’s disappearance, when Jonas and those goons had basically kicked down my door to repay my brother’s debt, I spent my nights mixing drinks behind the bar in the hotel restaurant. Lana still works here as a concierge—it’s where we met. And I fucking miss it.
Working at The Raven bar was the best job I ever had. Lana’s convinced she could get my job back for me if and when the time comes. If anyone could, it’s Lana.
As the concierge, Lana has a lot of powerful people in her back pocket. She has solid connections everywhere in this city: retail, entertainment, clubbing, banking, arms dealing—you name it. She even knows the owner of this hotel, Matteo Manici, intimately.
Matteo is one of the highest-ranking members of the mafia here in Chicago, but I’m not supposed to know that. Lana’s hooked up with him a few times. I guess he has a thing for blonde bombshells.
He’s also one of those asshats who’d crawl on his hands and knees for a fat woman in the bedroom, then refuse to be seen with her in public. So Lana uses him like a tool in her belt.
Damn, I miss this place.
Focus, Jill.
Walking up the stairs and stepping into an empty elevator, I focus on being in the moment. Gage reaches out his free hand to press the button for the thirty-fourth floor, and the reflective doors slide closed, caging us in the elegant mirrored box.
Gage stares at me in the mirror as we begin the ascent, his eyes touching every part of me. The heat of his hand on the back of my neck burns as hot as his gaze, heating my blood. Standing with him against my back feels like standing in front of an electric fence. The air between us is charged until the sparks are practically flying, and my body is humming.
“Damn.” His deep voice washes over me, sending goosebumps across my skin. “I’ve never liked elevators before now.”
“Whoever put mirrors in here was a perv,” I mutter, though I don’t hate being under his gaze.
“I should find out who it was and send them a fruit basket,” he counters. I sigh and roll my eyes, making him smile. Nothing I say or do seems to put him off in the slightest. The meaner I am to him, the deeper his obsession with me takes root.
He wants me. He always wants me. If I don’t keep my signals firmly set to red, he’ll take any and every opportunity to pounce—and I’d let him. As much as I’d love for him to fuck me against these mirrors, I need to make it through this night feeling in control. For as long as I can, at least.
If this elevator doesn’t hurry the fuck up, I swear.
His fingers start to massage my neck, his eyes tracing the curve of my shoulder down to check out my ass. The elevator slows to a stop at floor thirty-four. “Fifty-two seconds,” Gage says as the doors slide open smoothly. “I can do a lot to you in fifty-two seconds.”
“Only if I let you,” I reply flatly before stepping out into the hallway.
I don’t know where we’re going, so I allow him to guide me to the right and down the long, rich, green hallway. This floor is all suites, so we only pass a few doors before stopping at room thirty-four-oh-six, the Onyx Suite.
Gage doesn’t pause to knock before pulling out a keycard to unlock the door. He ushers me into the suite and closes the door behind us. The suite is one of the largest and most opulent in the hotel. The walls are a rich black color with intricate gold framework and ornate sconces. The arched floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the spacious room with the light of the setting sun. Geometric chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, illuminating the detailed crown molding and wall paneling. The sitting area, full kitchen, and dining room are all furnished with high-end decor in creams and bronze.
The entire building screams wealth. Even the sage-infused air feels expensive.
Anders is waiting in the living room of the suite while staff set up the poker table and wet bar. Gage leads me to the sofa where he sits and reaches for me—no doubt wanting me to sit in his lap. I sidestep him and opt for an armchair instead as his eyes burn a hole in my profile.
“Jill, nice to see you.” Anders’ grin is wide and knowing.
“Hi, Anders. I would say I’m happy to be here, but I’m not a liar.” I lean back, folding my arms over my chest and crossing one leg over the other. Gage and Anders discuss the group of players coming to the poker night while I sulk.
I move to the wet bar and prep for drinks as the other guests arrive. First is Grecko Vladinski, an older Russian man with salt and pepper hair and a severe expression etched on his weathered face. Completely unimpressed, he barely glances at me when he comes over to the bar and orders a double vodka.
Next to arrive are Dane Presley and Brent Wrenfield. Dane saunters in with his ginger mustache and his brightly colored tattoos. I see the moment he registers my presence and beelines over to where I stand at the bar. Leaning against the counter to invade my personal space, he orders a whiskey sour. Luckily more men enter the suite before he can attempt any conversation.
I hadn’t recognized him when I first saw him that night in the VIP lounge, because we’d never met. But I know who Dane is, I’ve heard his name countless times from my brother, Tommy. They were gambling buddies, Dane was always calling Tommy to invite him to the casinos and poker tournaments.
I don’t like that.
I recognize Brent Wrendfield from a Forbes cover featuring the top tech moguls. He’s dressed more like a dad at a superstore TV sale than a mogul though—his graphic T-shirt is definitely over ten years old. He orders a craft beer with a fresh lime wedge.
Dallin Feldman is a preppy, blond playboy who is definitely throwing his trust fund around. He struts into the suite and calls the set up ‘cozy’—his condescension clear. Gage is quick to call out the fact Dallin recently lost his yacht in the Maldives at their last ‘cozy’ night in, and I have to hide my grin when the playboy’s smirk falls from his face. He orders a Negroni.
The last man saunters in wearing cowboy boots that I can tell aren’t for show. He introduces himself as John Wilder. With his black button-up shirt tucked into belted wranglers, he looks like a wealthy rancher who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He strolls over and orders a scotch on the rocks with a Texan drawl before kicking back in a seat at the poker table.
The men all gather around the table, and the cards are dealt. As soon as Gage is seated, I feel his eyes on me. I’m here to work, and something in the way his attention rains down on me says he has no intention of letting me forget it.