Chapter Seven
Sick Fuck
Juliet
I CAN’T DO IT.
I just can’t freaking eat this.
I glared at my dinner—a triple whammy of slices of sage pork covered in a rosemary sauce with sautéed squash. I’d lived on small, crappy meals for years. I should’ve been able to suck it up and choke down the gross food, but I couldn’t do it again. I just couldn’t.
For an entire week, all my meals had consisted exclusively of food I loathed. Tuna sandwiches. Rosemary chicken. Sage pork. Omelets filled with sausage and covered in oregano. Sides of squash and gross grapefruit—something I hadn’t known I hated but I very much did.
I was being punished.
I’d suspected it after a couple days, because, really, what were the chances they kept serving me my most hated foods? But it’d seemed egotistical that meals would be planned around messing with me.
Then it became obvious it wasn’t a coincidence.
It was planned and precise torture.
Because it didn’t end at the food. The TV no longer worked at all. My iPad had disappeared, and I hadn’t been able to ask Ms. Vera because she’d disappeared, too. My clothes were back to oversized and my bath stuff had been cleared out and replaced by the same cheap stuff I’d used at home.
I was hungry for something that actually tasted good.
I was exhausted thanks to the goons waking me with the sun every day.
I was stir-crazy from being stuck in the room with no TV or books.
And because Ms. Vera had been replaced with silent goons, I was lonely. Gut-wrenchingly lonely.
So I snapped.
Scootering to the door, I banged on it. When no one came, I shouted, “I’m not eating this!”
No response.
“I’m hungry!” I tried, hoping someone would take pity on me and my inability to force down the sage and squash mess.
But still nothing.
“I hate you all so fucking much! Just give me some damn toast. Actually, just give me bread. I don’t care, assholes!”
Nothing.
I’m alone.
I’m always alone.
Trapped and suffocating, the four walls I’d been stuck within felt as though they were closing in. A choked sob tore through me, and I cursed my weakness. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve been able to hold out.
I shouldn’t have broken.
But that was exactly what I did.
Maximo
Fucking hell, I need sleep.
I’d spent the night at Moonlight, lining everything up for an impending Pay-Per-View fight. One of the main-event boxers was being a diva and a pain in my ass.
Once I’d had that under control and had been about to leave, security at Star had paged to report a possible sighting of Viktor Dobrow.
Dobrow was a scumbag club owner who had aspirations of Vegas power.
Since he was also stupid and a shitty businessman, he worked to achieve that goal by being a loan shark, pimp, and dealer.
He’d tried multiple times to get me to allow his drugs and women to be distributed in my casinos.
Rejected every time, he’d stopped asking and had tried running that shit behind my back.
Since nothing happened at my properties without my knowledge, it hadn’t been long before he’d been caught.
He’d thought I’d see my cut and reconsider.
He’d been mistaken.
In addition to a broken arm and smashed face, Dobrow had been banned from my resorts and fights.
I’d driven to Star to search the place myself, but it’d been a waste of time. If he’d been there at all, he was long gone by the time I’d arrived.
Climbing the stairs, I ran my palm down my face. If I were smart, I’d steer clear of my office and go right to my room to crash.
I wasn’t smart, though. Not when it came to her.
I turned down the hallway to see someone sitting on the floor, looking at their cell.
“Just me, boss,” Cole whispered.
He wouldn’t have been sitting in front of Juliet’s door unless something was wrong.
Swear to Christ, if she tried to escape again, I’m gonna tie her to the damn bed.
Ignoring my body’s response to that inappropriate thought, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“She had a rough night. Figured I’d stay close in case she needed anything.”
“What happened?”
He stood. “She’s not too happy with your stunts.”
“Neither are Vera or Freddy.”
Vera didn’t like not being allowed to see Juliet.
Freddy was disgruntled at cooking the same shit every day, especially when so much of it went untouched.
He was a chef whose ego depended on people loving his dishes.
Normally they did, so the mostly untouched meals were a blow he wasn’t accustomed to.
Cole shook his head. “I mean she’s really not happy.”
“Good.” Truth be told, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up. There was a good chance I’d break before the stubborn, ballsy dove did.
“Watch the footage.” Stretching, he started for the stairs. “I’m crashing in the pool house.”
He usually did.
Rather than getting the sleep I needed, I went into my office and sat, grabbing the remote.
Security monitors hung on the wall opposite my desk in all my offices—including my home. I could switch between my casinos, the back offices, and outside my house.
And Juliet’s sitting room and bedroom.
I hadn’t turned on the bedroom camera. Not that I was a saint. Unless someone was with me, her sitting room was always on the main screen. Watching her had become a sick obsession.
I turned on the camera to see her sleeping on her couch with the light on and no blanket.
Standing back up, I went down the hall to her room. I opened the door, quietly closing it behind me so I didn’t wake her. She didn’t look comfortable, and I was tempted to carry her to bed, but I didn’t. Moving the coffee table, I grabbed her blanket and covered her.
And then I turned off the lights and got the hell out.
Returning to my office, I grabbed a tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. I drank as the footage from the night slowly rewound.
When she moved from sleeping on the couch to the door, I pressed play.
Like Cole said, she wasn’t happy. I’d have smiled at her calling us assholes had it not been for the emotion threading her words.
She’s killing me.
I was about to wake her and feed her whatever the hell she wanted when it happened.
She broke.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Her crying grew louder. “I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate what I had before.” Her forehead hit the door with a thud. “I tried to come back! I tried to crawl back to you!”
She’d tried to crawl back to me.
Not the house . Not here .
Me .
Fuck, that went straight to my dick.
I should’ve gone to sleep. I should’ve at least turned off the camera.
I didn’t do either.
Instead, I took a quick shower and changed clothes before returning to my office and my whiskey.
And Juliet.
Juliet
Itchy, flat pillow . Neck hurting. Scrunched positioning on a lumpy bed.
I’m back home.
Still mostly asleep, I stretched and rolled.
And then I fell.
“Oof,” I wheezed. Sitting up, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes to see I wasn’t home—or what used to be home. I was on the floor of the sitting room.
Thankfully, one of the goons or Ms. Vera had moved the table and covered me with the puffy blanket that offered a bit of cushion. Otherwise, I’d have likely hit my head or hurt myself worse than I already had.
As it was, pain radiated from my hip bone.
I moved my hand around to feel for my scooter in the dark, but there was nothing.
Well, shit.
Before I could pull myself back onto the couch, the door opened, light filtering through from the hallway.
I expected one of the goons, but it wasn’t.
Instead, Maximo stood in the open doorway.
Wearing only a pair of low riding joggers, he was shirtless, showing off his insane muscles.
Guiltily, my eyes darted up from his abs to his disheveled hair.
I wondered if I’d woken him with my fall, which made me also wonder how close his room was that he’d been able to hear.
With the light behind him, I wasn’t able to make out the details of his expression, so I didn’t know if he was pissed at being disturbed.
“I fell off the couch in my sleep,” I said feebly when the silence stretched. I glanced around before pointing to where my scooter had ended up. “Can you push that to me?”
He didn’t move.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “I’ll figure it out.”
I was going to climb back on the couch to sleep there for the night. It wasn’t as comfortable as the bed—especially without a pillow—but it beat the floor.
When I shifted, he finally walked toward me but stopped a foot away.
My eyes caught on his torso and the tattoos there.
His arms were a mix of designs, but the left side of his torso was all Vegas.
The sign. Chips. His upper chest and part of his shoulder were covered with a king—the playing card kind.
A spike on the king’s crown was what stretched onto Maximo’s neck.
Hoping the poor lighting hid my inspection of his tattoos—and his cut muscles—I tipped my head back to look at his shadowed face.
“You can go back to bed,” I tried, not even sure he was actually awake. I used to sleepwalk as a kid—a side effect of stress. Shifting onto my knees, I was about to pull myself onto the couch when his hand stroked my head, his fingers combing through my hair.
My breath seized in my lungs at the unexpected and gentle touch. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I wanted it to continue. Even as my heart raced and my palms grew sweaty, I stayed as still as possible so I didn’t break the spell.
His hand was gone just as quick, but before I could mourn the loss, he bent to pick me up. Only instead of cradling me like he’d done before, I was positioned with my front to his. He took a step and my legs automatically wrapped around his waist as my hands clutched his shoulder.
He froze and inhaled deeply, letting it out in a harsh rush.
Whiskey.
With my face close to his, I could smell the smokiness of the liquor on his breath. It wasn’t the cheap, turpentine kind I’d often smelled, but I still recognized it.
No wonder he’s being so weird.
He’s drunk.