Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sienna
Eighteen-years-old
“Here’s my problem: I’m unable to complete the student loan application because I don’t have my parents’ information,” I repeat to a third person in admissions.
“Are you an emancipated minor?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “As I told the woman I just spoke to, who transferred me to you, and the woman before that, who transferred me to her, no. I’m eighteen.”
“Are you married?” She goes down the list of the same questions.
“No.”
“Member of the armed forces or a veteran?”
My head falls back on a silent sigh. “No.”
“Then until you’re twenty-four or older, you must file your parents’ information on the form,” she gives me the same answer as the previous two women.
“But that leads me back to my original problem: I don’t have my parents’ information. We’re estranged, and there’s no way they would help me.” Not that I’d accept it; I’d walk barefoot over hot coals before I asked them for anything.
“Let me transfer you to my supervisor. One moment.” The sound of easy listening jazz has me wanting to pull out my hair. “Arggg.” I press end.
Scanning my badge, I enter through the employee entrance of Hotel D’Amico. Front desk clerk isn’t my dream job, but I was just grateful to land anything so quickly. Forging my hospitality work history on my application might’ve had something to do with it.
After a trip to the vending machine, I pop the top on a can of cherry cola and take a sip as I make my way to the lobby.
“Good afternoon.” The owner sidles up to me, eyeing my name tag, but I get the feeling it’s more an excuse to ogle my breasts. “Sienna, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. D’Amico.” I smile politely, waiting for his gaze to return to a professional eye level.
“Call me Michele. Mr. D’Amico makes me feel old,” he says with a flirty smile, not bothering to conceal the wedding band on his ring finger.
“Mr. D’Amico, I couldn’t do that.” It isn’t necessarily his age that’s off-putting; he’s a handsome man in his early forties, and God knows I probably have a few daddy issues, but even if this man weren’t married, there’s still something about him that makes me feel uneasy.
“If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late my first week on the job. ”
“Lucky for you, I know the owner,” he jokes.
Before I can figure out a way to extract myself without pissing off the head honcho, his phone notifies.
He checks the message, annoyance flickering in his eyes before he schools his features.
“If you’ll excuse me, Sienna, duty calls.
” With a final parting glance at my chest, he disappears down the hall.
“You’re welcome.” The low timbre of an unknown voice has my skin prickling, and I spin around.
Unwavering icy blue eyes meet mine, and an electric feeling buzzes beneath my skin.
It would be the most attractive part of this stranger—those eyes—if only they weren’t bloodshot.
Not that the guy isn’t attractive; he looks like he was plucked off the pages of an underwear ad campaign.
Likely a few years older than me, he’s dressed casually in a hoodie pulled taut by his broad shoulders and a faded pair of blue jeans.
Underwear model by day, Bourbon Street reveler by night?
“Are you talking to me?” I look around to be sure, but I’m the only other person in the hall.
He smirks, and my heartbeat trips over itself as he saunters over to me. “Yeah, red, I’m talking to you.”
“‘Red?’” Underwear model, public drunkard; I don’t care who this guy is, that cheesy of a line elicits an eye roll from me. “How original. Almost as original as asking a redhead, ‘Do the curtains match the drapes?’”
“Since you brought it up, do they?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Bye.” I brush past him, but he easily catches up to me.
“Alright, so red is cliché,” he agrees, eyeing me with amusement. “Fiammetta, maybe?”
“No clue what that means,” I tell him, despite my mind becoming a bit hazy from the delicious scent of his cologne. Whatever he’s wearing hits just right. Not too overpowering and in your face.
“It means you’re going out with me,” he says matter-of-factly.
The guy could take a cue from his cologne.
It’s difficult at my five foot, seven inches, compared to his every bit of six foot, three inches, to look my nose down at him, but I try my best. “You might have a better shot if you weren’t drunk at eleven in the morning. Not saying it’s a good shot, but a snowball’s chance is better than none.”
He laughs, the rich baritone causing parts of my body to tingle that I didn’t realize could tingle. “Not fiammetta, but fuoco.”
“Goodbye, drunk stranger. Try sleeping it off.” Walking away briskly, I’m unable to hear whatever’s being said; not that I could understand, as he’s speaking in that foreign language again.
That strange buzzing feeling sticks with me as I clock in, and I give my head a little shake.
Joining the clerk that I’m replacing for the day, I flash her a friendly smile.
“Hey there. How was your shift?” I ask her in what I hope is my best, I’m a girls-girl tone.
The only real friend I had growing up was my twin.
The thought of Oliver has my throat constricting.
“Uneventful, except for the man in Room 201,” she reports, all business. “He’s a huge pain in the ass, just to warn you.”
“Thanks for the heads up.” I wonder if Room 201 is the drunk guy I encountered? Admittedly, he was gorgeous, but the problem is that he knows it.
She grabs her bag and hurries toward the exit. “See you later.”
“See you later,” I call after her, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
Getting the desk situated to my liking, I place my soda on the bottom shelf. When I pop back up, I spot a beautiful woman in her early twenties entering the lobby. Dressed to the nines in a little black dress and killer heels, she struts confidently into the adjoining lounge.
Strange how so many twenty-somethings don’t work during the week, as I’ve noticed this phenomenon every shift. Maybe there are a lot of trust fund babies in this city. Lucky them.
A man in his fifties approaches the desk, and I straighten, flashing a friendly smile. “Welcome to Hotel D’Amico. Checking in?”
“Yes.” He’s wearing an obviously expensive suit, but no luggage. It’s bizarre; a solo man without luggage checked in on my shift yesterday.
“Welcome,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “Do you have a reservation?”
“No,” he says impatiently.
“How many nights?”
“One,” he says, as if I should’ve already known that.
“Do you have a room preference?”
“No,” he says with an annoyed huff.
“Our presidential suite is available.” There’s plenty of other rooms, but if he’s going to be a presidential-sized asshole, he’s getting stuck with the presidential-sized bill.
“How much?” He pulls out a stack of hundreds from his wallet.
“With tax, that brings your total to $2,997.23.”
He counts out three thousand in cash. “Keep the change.”
Gee, thanks.
I key in his payment and open the register, placing my “tip” of $2.77 to the side. Barely enough to cover my next soda.
Activating his key, I slide it over in the envelope with the room number. “Check-out is—”
He walks off.
“You’re welcome,” I mumble under my breath.
Time ticks by with nothing going on, and I finish my soda and stroll to the ladies’ room. Entering the last stall, I let out a very unladylike ahhhh as I take care of business. I’m about to flush the toilet when I hear voices.
“Hey, Chantelle. You clocking in or out?”
“Out,” this Chantelle woman says. “My client had the worst breath, but for five hundred an hour, I just shoved his cock in my mouth instead of greeting him with a kiss.”
Five hundred bucks an hour? The solo male guests with no luggage and the beautiful girls are starting to make more sense.
“Smart. I’m about to join my client for the girlfriend experience. Listen to him bitch. Tell him no one understands him like I do. And then have the most vanilla sex imaginable while pretending he’s blowing my mind,” she says in a mocking tone.
“Here’s to your award-winning performance,” Chantelle muses.
“Thanks. Talk to you later.”
I exit the stall, with only one of the women remaining.
“Oh, I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” The voice belonging to Chantelle.
“I want in,” I tell her point-blank.
“In what?” she challenges, capping her lipstick and tossing it in her designer bag.
“In your five hundred an hour ‘profession.’” Forget about student loans; this kind of cash would cover my apartment and tuition in no time.
She looks me up and down, unimpressed. “Don’t falter yourself. The highest you can aim for is bargain bin street walker.” She smacks her lips together before giving herself a kissy-kiss in the mirror and strutting out.
Chantelle thinks her mean girl routine is going to stop me?
Ha! I grew up around girls who thought they were the chosen ones. And nobody can out mean girl a bunch of self-righteous bitches.
Fabien
Twenty-one-years old
“Michele, tell me why kickups from your racket have been smaller than projected for the past two months?” Earlier, the redheaded beauty accused me of being drunk.
I’m not, but I am exhausted from being up all night dealing with an arms shipment.
And now, I’m having to play the role of auditor.
If my brother Angelo didn’t dip out like a little bitch, this sort of thing would’ve been right up his alley.
Instead, he’s playing Mr. Ivy League and acting like this family means nothing to him.
“Look, I’m not sure.” He squirms in his seat. “You know I rely on Jade and her bookkeeping.”
“If Jade handles everything, then what the fuck do you do?” I point out. “Besides sampling the merchandise?”
He puffs out his chest. “I’ll remind you, Fabien, that I’m a capo in this family.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my ice pick, placing it on the edge of his desk and giving it a spin. “If you want to get into a pissing match with me, Michele, I’m happy to remind you who I am.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Of course not, Fabien. But whether I fuck the girls on their downtime is my business.”
“I was talking about the other merchandise,” I say, eyeing the white residue glistening in his nostrils.
Michele runs the back of his hand over his nose. “It was just a little pick-me-up. You want a bump?”
“No, I want you to get your head out of your ass. You’re on thin ice,” I tell him, smiling at my little joke as I continue to spin the pick.
Sweat drips down his brow; whether from my threat or the cocaine, I’m not sure. “Look, I’m dealing with a situation…”
“What situation?” I ask with a suppressed sigh. Out of all the capos, Michele is the most high maintenance.
“There’s a newcomer who’s been lurking around the bar.” He pauses dramatically. “The man smells like a fed.”
“Get me security footage of the man in question, and I’ll have our friends over at NOPD check into it.”
“Sure, I’ll have Jade—”
I cut him a warning look.
“What I meant to say is, I’ll get right on that.”
“Better.” I rise, grabbing my ice pick. “Oh, and your redhead employee, Sienna? She’s off-limits.”
He looks like he’s dying to mouth off, but his eyes land on the ice pick as I toss it in the air and catch it with one hand. Wisely, he thinks better of it. “Understood.”
I stroll out of his office, but my feet falter. Lobby or bar exit? Not that I don’t want to see the spicy redhead again, but as Sienna pointed out, my odds would be better if she didn’t believe that I’m drunk.
She was clearly uncomfortable with her boss’s advances; that’s why I texted Michele to get to his office. Then I tried my hand at flirting with her and got my ass handed to me.
A huge grin spreads across my face as I exit the bar.
Piccante? Nah, that’s not her nickname, either, and my girl should have a good one.