Chapter 1 Remy #2
“You, out.” The pit boss lets his index finger do the talking as he gestures for me to leave.
Where was he when I needed him, huh? Sweet-talking another VIP guest, no doubt, ensuring that their champagne was chilled to the correct temperature and their seats cushioned enough to keep their wealthy asses comfortable.
A few more steps, and two security guards dressed in black pass by me, hands on the holsters at their waists ready to take the situation to the next level.
I turn around and follow them with my eyes as they flank the asshole who ‘was only trying to help’.
“You’re making a big fucking mistake.” The asshole raises his voice for all to hear, gathering witnesses for when he tries to sue the crap out of the owner. “Next time I’ll sit back and watch her get fired.”
“There won’t be a next time.” Mr. Murray leans closer to the asshole, but I hear him anyway.
“Ha!” The other guy is clearly not used to being called out on his lousy behavior. “Mistake number two. I can have you shut down just like that.” He snaps his fingers.
Bash smiles. “And I can have you arrested for assaulting a member of my staff.” He nods at one of the security guards, an older guy with long silver-tipped black hair, who slides a mobile phone from his pocket.
“Whoa.” The asshole doesn’t sound quite so sure of himself now. “What the fuck are you talking about? There’s a law against picking up broken glass now?”
This is the part where Bash Murray backs down because he can’t afford a legal battle, and the guest wins. They’ll crack open a bottle of his finest brandy, and they’ll smooth it out with more zeroes than I ever understood in math class.
I’m not sticking around for it.
I’m wet and sticky and suddenly bone tired. If I don’t get out of here, I’ll do or say something that will irrevocably end my croupier career options and get my name added to whatever blacklist of People Who Are Not Allowed in the Rinse that Bash Murray keeps on his office wall.
I stumble through the Staff Only door, vision blurry with tears of frustration, grateful that no one else is about to witness my humiliation.
Sure, on a scale of one-to-ten, this doesn’t compare to getting dumped by your boyfriend and then finding out that he got engaged to someone else.
But still, it’s more proof that the odds will always stack in the Armani-suited asshole’s favor.
I stop at the lockers and slide my hand inside the pocket of my pants for my keyring.
It isn’t there.
Pulse racing—I don’t want to go back onto the casino floor and find the boss and the asshole swapping anecdotes over a brandy bottle—I literally pull my pockets inside out. I stare at the empty spot on the floor where my keys should be.
My hand is stinging from the glass wound, and the realization that my dorm key is attached to the same missing keyring, is slowly creating an impossible mountain to climb.
My roommate, Ariel, is away visiting family.
I could wake up the residence halls supervisor, but it’s out of hours, and she isn’t the kind of woman who would conveniently forget to add a note to her weekly report.
And the only place where my keys could be is on the casino floor.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths, trying to regulate my heart rate.
I have to go back out there.
But the pit boss ordered me to leave, and Bash Murray watched me make a complete fool of myself.
My cheeks are burning when a voice behind me asks, “Are you alright?”
I whirl around, dizzy from the lack of oxygen reaching my lungs, and lurch forward. Directly into the arms of Bastien Murray.
He catches me easily. His grip isn’t too hard or too soft.
His green eyes are filled with concern as he lowers his head to eye level.
His citrussy scent is everywhere, clinging to my skin and my clothes, and I wonder if I’ll ever forget it.
Perhaps it will forever be associated with the night I got fired.
“You’re bleeding.” He releases my arms and gestures to the fresh blood in the palm of my hand.
On cue, my sliced flesh starts screaming at me and bouncing around the inside of my skull. “It’s nothing.” I close my fist and instantly regret it when my nail slips underneath the skin, sending a fresh wave of pain through me.
“I can’t let you go home without at least cleaning it up and finding a Band-Aid first. What kind of an employer would that make me?”
“The wealthy kind with bigger problems to handle.” It slips out before I can stop it, and my face grows even hotter. “I mean… the guy in there… I’m sure he pleaded his innocence eloquently.”
I should shut up before I dig a hole that I’ll never be able to crawl out of.
But Bash is grinning at me, and my body turns into a gooey mess at the sight of his perfect teeth and glittering green eyes.
Green eyes and an Irish accent. Kill me now.
“That’s not for you to worry about. He’s barred from the Rinse. And the Titan. And the Wraith. Family business,” he adds at my confused expression.
“Why would you do that?” I’m confused. I must’ve missed the part where he called the asshole a liar and had him escorted from the premises.
“Because you work for us, Remy. You’re my responsibility.” He holds my gaze and my heart starts performing an Argentine Tango to its own tune. “And because I can’t sit back and watch a man ignoring boundaries.”
“You know my name?”
His smile grows even wider. “That’s what you took from that conversation?”
He’s right. He defended me against a guest because the fucker thought he could touch me and get away with it, and all I heard was Bash Murray knows my name.
Jeez. I need to get a grip.
“Thank you.” I attempt to smile, but I think all my lips manage is a slight quiver like I’m about to cry. “I’m sorry about the drinks. I’ll pay for them out of my wages.” If I get paid now that I’m fired.
“No need. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But… I wasn’t watching where I was going.” No, because I was watching him instead. Stop talking, Remy, for God’s sake.
“It was an accident. These things happen.”
He sounds so sure of this that I almost believe him. Almost. Then I recall the look on the pit boss’s face.
“How many times has this happened on your casino floor?” I ask.
Because, you know, I’m not content with cutting my losses while I’m still ahead. Apparently, I’m going to stand here and point out my failings to him until he realizes that I’m not worth fighting for.
“More times than you would believe.”
Is he being kind because he doesn’t want me to report his guest to the cops or does he have his own agenda? Right now, with my wet clothes sticking to me, my sliced hand stinging, and his citrussy aroma playing havoc with my senses, I can’t think straight.
“Glassware can be replaced.” He shrugs. “My guests will still get their drinks. No harm done.”
I nod. “I should go. I need to change out of my clothes.”
I peer down at my stained waistcoat and pants and wonder why I had to mention getting undressed. Because now, my panties are wet too, and in my head, my pussy is already getting naked with my boss between my legs. Seems I’m a sucker for an Irish accent and a little kindness.
Which says a lot about my dating history. One man, who screwed me over for a well-groomed woman with money and connections.
“Band-Aid first.” He keeps his eyes on my bloody palm, reminding my brain that it stings. A lot. “Then I’ll take you home.”
That’s when it hits me. “Shit. I lost my keys.” I glance in the direction of the casino floor. “I must’ve dropped them.”
He must sense my reluctance to show my face on the floor right now. He slides a phone from his pocket and hits the green button on a number that must be on redial. “Terry, did you find a set of keys?”
I hear a whisper of the voice at the other end of the call.
Then, “They’re not on the casino floor.” Bash pockets the phone. It’s final.
“Are you sure? Terry might’ve missed them. The keyring has pink cherries on it.” Ironic really. Ariel bought it for me when I landed this job. For good luck.
He smiles. There’s nothing patronizing about it, and my lips twitch in response. It’s all part of his charm, I guess. One full-on dazzling smile, and he must have women swooning at his feet, begging him to choose them over every other runway-worthy beauty that crosses his path.
And why am I still thinking about this when the missing keys situation is a whole lot more urgent?
“Terry is my head of security; he doesn’t miss a thing.”
He isn’t budging on this, and I remind myself that I don’t have to believe him just because he owns the place. Especially because he owns it.
“Can I check for myself?”
“The floor has been cleared.” Of course it has. “But you can speak to Terry yourself.”
He slides the phone back out of his pocket, taps the screen, and I barely catch the muffled voice on the other end above my thumping heartbeat and the ringing in my ears. “…ash?” He offers me his cell phone.
And I take it, my brain finally waking up and telling me that I’ve caused enough fuss and perhaps I should just let it go.
But instead, I peer into Bash Murray’s green eyes and murmur into the handset, “I can’t get into my staff locker or my dorm room without my keys.
There are pink cherries on the keyring. It’s new.
” I seriously don’t know when to stop talking.
“My purse is in my locker.” I stop short of telling him that I barely have enough cash for my train ticket home.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Another Irish accent, a little rougher around the edges but still gentle. “I didn’t find your keys, but my stepson will get you home.”
Stepson?
I hand the cell back in a daze. Family business. Head of security. Maybe the lilting accent has wrapped me up in a cozy blanket and fooled me into believing that I’m safe in their hands, but what choice do I have?
“He said that you’ll get me home.”
Bash smiles. He doesn’t remind me that he already offered. “Hand first.”