CHAPTER ONE #2
Regardless, that’s not really my purpose, but I do a quick perusal for anything out of place. Brasi, Gentry, and Bernard follow suit. The rendezvous area dips directly into the high-rollers hallway, so we head there next.
My playlist switches to AJR’s “Burn the House Down.” The irony of that being one of my favorite songs when my parents perished in a house fire is a mystery among many.
Melted vinyl and a singing knife.
The chinks and bells of the casino meld with my music as my phone vibrates, so I stuff my knife in my pocket and check the text, even though I know what’s coming.
Axel: Meeting in thirty minutes to discuss responsibilities.
Since the casino tables are light, Brasi launches his report. “There’s a gap in entertainment at Magie Noire due to a scheduling mishap. Cash is handling it with his manager, but would like to review options with you.”
He continues filling me in on our sex club, something about the erotic ballet packing up early, so I let his rundown drift to the background and respond to Axel.
Me: I think we’re good to go there, Papa Axe.
Axel: Really? Want to explain the latest workers’ comp we’ve been slapped with?
“For the week of the Fourth,” Brasi drones on as we sail toward the entertainment corridor, “staffing needs to be higher than usual because the reservations suggest we have several combative groups booked. Axel wants numbers for every area logged by the end of the week.”
Tucking away those tidbits from his information dump, I tend to my more pressing matter as we breeze by the theater, passing some of the performers. I toss a wink and a lopsided grin their way, and they giggle in return. That wasn’t the pressing matter. That’s a bonus.
Me: Not my area of expertise. If we’re transferring responsibilities, let me shout a big *not it* to boring shit.
Cash: Not it.
Jax: Not it.
Cash and Jax always come through with the chaos.
Ryker: WTF? It’s alarming that the three of you are business owners.
Me: Big bro didn’t say not it.
Cash: Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner.
Jax: That’s a relief because I’ve got a line of Cuervo and salt in front of me, so a meeting now is really inconvenient.
See? Chaos and a dumpster fire.
Axel: You have an appointment at 3, Jax.
Jax: It’s a feelings appointment. Loading up on truth serum.
Completely used to me tuning in and out, the three men journeying on the walk-through with me tend to their business. Gentry takes notes on his tablet and shares muffled banter with some of the workers we pass. Bernard addresses all our highly exclusive clients with a gregarious greeting.
And Brasi studies my cognizance, pouncing when my attention span returns. “Lastly, you are on for master of ceremonies tomorrow night.”
“I’ll get with Cash about Magie Noire. Find out if staffing numbers for the holiday week need to be increased in entertainment areas or just security and medical. Let the prospective managers know. And you can take my spot as master of ceremonies.”
Brasi is introverted and hates to talk in front of people, which explains why he’s instantly ashen. “I don’t … I’m not really … who they’d be expecting, sir.”
“Nonsense.” I wave him off. “It’s a good stepping stone before I transfer you to entertainment. Cash wants you in the cabaret. You get to wear those glittery spandex shorts.”
His mouth pops open, brown eyes blinking. “The cabaret?”
“You told me when I hired you that you could handle anything.” Slipping into our vintage library, I head to the back area, behind a shelf, where a door is labeled Librarian’s Office, No Admittance, making him sweat it out for another minute.
“I’m just fucking with you, Brasi. But if you want me to talk to Cash—”
He swiftly throws his palm into the air. “No, sir. I’m good.”
Bernard and Gentry mask their amusement. Poorly.
I flip a light switch three times, and a click resounds. “Happy to hear it. Remind me about being master of ceremonies tomorrow, and once in a while, it’s okay to tell me to fuck off.”
“Noted, sir.” He leaves it at that, until he realizes I’m waiting. “Fuck off. Respectfully.”
“That’s a start.” I guide them into the small space, where I scan my thumbprint and lead them down to my playground.
Our playground. The Underground.
This is where I ensure our employes are satisfied.
They spend their lives serving the rich and wicked.
If anyone deserves a refuge, it’s them. My methods are a bit out of the box, but our employees are practically a cult.
No one leaves. Very few want to. And because of our stellar reputation and high pay, the line to get in is a mile long and currently limited to nepotism.
It’s mostly empty at this time of day, except for a lunch area, a few blackjack and poker tables, a bar, and a coffee nook, filled with employees on break.
Axel: The workers’ comp I’m referring to is Dan Smith’s ankle injury.
Me: That’s a really common name.
Ryker: Not here.
Cash: If he didn’t get injured here, why is it workers’ comp?
Twisting the meaning of their arguments is one of the many methods we use to wear them down.
Ryker: ghybj
Axel and Ryker peter out after enough diversion, but that seems a bit much.
Me: ???
Ryker: That was Remy.
Cash: The homeschooling is really paying off, bro.
I snicker at that. Cash is always quick. On the way to my office, Brasi steps aside to talk to one of our employees. And Gentry takes a call. He stays with us, but he’s engrossed in his conversation.
Bernard commandeers the opportunity, gripping my elbow after I scan my iris and we step inside my sanctuary, which is similar to our security room upstairs, with wall-to-wall monitors, but on a much smaller scale.
“I thought you’d want to know that Dimitri Makarov is expected to be arriving after the holiday. ”
Ahh. So, that’s the catalyst for Bernard joining us today and why he stuck around for the entire jaunt. Don’t ask me how he knows that would be of any significance to me. Bernard is the truest gangster of us all.
Without divulging the level of interest that ignites in me, I take my seat and flick on my screens so I have eyes on my employees, eagerly searching for one in particular. “Reason for visit?”
“His son.”
Fuck.
Before I can respond, another text comes through.
Axel: Nothing to say about this claim?
My mother would have broken into a rendition of Daniel Powter’s “Bad Day” right about now, so even though that’s not what’s in my ear, that’s what I hear. It’s a brief cushioning to the anxiety building in my chest.
“Thanks, Bernard.” I tap my phone, which he surely knows is Axel. “I need to handle this. Let Brasi and Gentry know we’re good. And shut my door.”
He nods, pats me on the shoulder, and ambles on his way.
“Oh, and, Bernard?”
“Yes, sir?”
“This summer is a hot one.” I kick my feet up on the desk and briefly flip my gaze from the sea of employees to the man in the threshold. “Ryker said the heat is really bad for you.”
His old-man salt-and-pepper mustache ripples over his lips. “Duly noted. I don’t enjoy the heat as much as I used to. But he was likely referring to the dog again.”
“Ahh.” I shake my finger at him in a good point gesture. “There are so many similarities. It’s hard to keep you two straight.”
“Naturally,” he drawls before shutting me inside to deal with this shit.
Jax: The shoes make the man.
Axel: And there it fucking is. Why was Smith wearing high heels?
Me: It’s unacceptable for you to ask these types of questions, old man. Times have changed. HR will be all over your ass.
Ryker: It’s, the *clothes* make the man. Is Mercy with you?
Mercy is Ryker’s wife, as of a few months ago, and the best damn sister-in-law in the world. She’s fierce, and she likes to fuck with Ryker. What more could any of us ask for? She’s also kind of a dork. She screws up idioms, and he can’t resist correcting her. It’s part of her charm.
Jax: Right beside me.
Jax: She says hi. And claims that shoes are an essential part of any outfit, so the saying is interchangeable. I’m inclined to agree.
Ryker: She’s doing shots?
This should be interesting. He’s ridiculously protective of Mercy, and he gets really weird about her doing shots.
Jax: Waiting for Tessa.
Tessa? That garners my attention, as does the vision of the naughty vixen filling my screen.
Axel: Smith is a 250-lb man, who looks like a lumberjack and broke his ankle from running in stilettos. In the Underground.
Cash: He said that?
That snappy question is because disclosing anything that occurs in the Underground to Axel or Ryker is against our rules. It’s really our only rule.
But we did indeed have high-heel races, and Smith was killing it. Until he hit the ice. It was all face-planting from there on out.
Ryker: Smith’s story was that he borrowed someone’s shoes and fell. Nothing else.
That brings a smile to my face. Ryker doesn’t always love our antics, but he hates snitches.
Smith should have just asked me to pay his medical bills.
I said as much when I sent him to our medical team.
My guess is, he followed up with his own doctor, and his wife told him not to owe us.
She’s uptight. If she understood, maybe she’d let it go.
We already own her husband. And her for that matter. They might as well enjoy it.
Me: Sounds like you’d better pay Mr. Smith then. Don’t be such a sourpuss, Papa Axe. You might want to try walking a mile in his shoes.
Axel: Is that what he fucking did? In high heels? Why the hell would he do that?
As the rapid-fire ensues, I can’t contain my laughter.
Jax: Baby needs a new pair of shoes.
Axel: And I’m not a goddamn sourpuss.
Cash: If the shoe fits.
Axel: My office. Twenty minutes. Or I fire you all.
Shoving my phone in the drawer so I can ignore it, I flip my attention back to my little obsession.
Tessa has her earbuds in, chatting on the phone while she sketches.
She works in the piercing and tattoo boutiques, but she is always drawing.
Some of her pictures are pearl-clutchers, and I own a damn sex club.
Since her station is clean and I know she’s meeting Mercy, I’m guessing she just finished up with a client and is taking a personal call.
Her silver hair is half pulled up, her ivory complexion is glowing, and her curves are on full display in her dark purple halter top and long black leather skirt.
I love it when she wears purple. She has the face of an angel and the eyes of a demon.
They’re turquoise. The color is reminiscent of the Caribbean Sea.
But the depths are fucking frightening. And addictive.
I’m already destined for eternal damnation. Let the ethereal demon ravage me there. She’d make hell so fucking hot.
“Who are you talking to, Tess?” I turn on the volume so I can listen to her conversation, and the second her sultry voice fills the room, my heart beats faster.
It doesn’t matter how many women sashay around here. None compare to her.
She’s got a fortress of walls around her, but as previously mentioned, tearing those down is kind of my thing.
It’s just never made sense. Until now.
Tessa Lockhart is what dreams—and nightmares—are made of. She’s so goddamn perfect.
Except for one thing.
She hates me.
Nah, that’s pretty perfect too. It only makes me crave her more.
Which is good—because she’s about to hate me with a vengeance.