Even Money

by Alessandra Torre

  * * *

  He closed the distance between us and tugged gently on my robe, pulling me toward him.

  * * *

  “Don’t worry about Gwen’s father. I’ve spent a decade insulating him from our lives.” His hands tightened around me, his mouth found my neck, and he planted a soft kiss there. “In regards to your heart?”

  * * *

  He pulled away and looked down into my eyes. “I can’t protect that. And I can’t promise you anything. That’s a risk you’re going to have to decide whether to take.” He tugged on the end of my wet hair. “Come on. Let’s move to the dining room.”

  Fifteen

  I flipped over puzzle pieces quickly, getting them face up and keeping an eye out for edges. Dario stood across the teak table, doing the same. The puzzle had been found on our hunt for a fireplace remote, and I’d given him a thumbs-up when he’d held it up.

  * * *

  I was in a bathrobe, a fresh bottle of Moscato open, a full wine glass beside me, doing a puzzle with one of Vegas’s most elite. Talk about weird. Dario had answered the door a half hour ago, taken a duffel bag of items from Vince, and was now bare-chested, with workout pants hanging low on his hips. I thought the suit had been sexy. Half-dressed Dario was downright edible.

  * * *

  I found an edge piece and passed it to him. “Did you always work in casinos?”

  * * *

  “Pretty much.” He tossed a piece into the pile. “I started in security, worked my way up, moved into hosting, then up from there. But that was back in Biloxi. I ran a casino down there, the Beau Rivage.”

  * * *

  He glanced at me. “Ever been to Biloxi?”

  * * *

  I shook my head. “I haven’t been much of anywhere. But you probably already know that.”

  * * *

  “In fact…” I looked over at him. “What do you know about me?”

  * * *

  He shrugged and sat on the edge of the table. "I know you grew up about eighty miles south of here, in a town about the size of my cock."

  * * *

  I laughed. "I've seen your cock. Mohave is a wee bit bigger." I threw a puzzle piece toward his head, and he caught it mid-air. “But hey, I like the visual.”

  * * *

  He smirked, a cocky smile that curled past the expensive bathrobe and found its way to my inner core.

  * * *

  “What else do you know?”

  * * *

  “Hmmm…” He tapped a piece against the table, then connected it to another. “Your mom is a waitress. So were you, before Cheech and Chong brought you to Vegas.”

  * * *

  I nodded and thought of my mom. She always smells like the diner—fried food and cigarettes. When I was little, I would burrow into her body, and search for the scent of sugar. It was always there, hidden in the folds of her apron or the collar of her shirt.

  * * *

  “And your dad liked to drink.” He didn’t look at me when he said the words, yet I felt them sneak across the table and poke me.

  * * *

  “He did.”

  * * *

  Dad had been a drunk. Dario could say it as nicely as he wanted to, but that was the truth of the matter, and everyone in town knew it, had told me it every day of my life. The cops had called him it, that night, when he had brought me in to file a report. When they'd sneered at the story of my rape, Dad had all but deflated. He’d stumbled to the side, the alcohol still strong in his system, then sank against a dingy wall in that Mohave police substation. He'd looked at me as if he wanted to die.

  * * *

  “He did,” I repeated the words with more strength. “But he stopped.” I moved to the head of the table, where a corner piece caught my eye. “He stopped drinking a few years ago."

  * * *

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Dario spoke quietly, as if I was a spooked horse he needed to soothe. “My dad was the same way. Only he didn’t stop. Not when he killed my mom with his driving, and not when his liver gave out two years later. He drank right up until the day he died, damn whatever the doctors said.”

  * * *

  He looked up, and there was a bitter sadness in his eyes. I put down the puzzle piece and moved around the corner of the table. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I pulled him to me, resting my head against his chest and squeezing him against me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  * * *

  He ran his hand softly over the top of my head, following my hair down my back and tugging softly on the ends. “Nothing to be sorry about. It was a long time ago. And my mom knew what she was risking, getting in the car with him.” He pulled away from me enough to look down into my face. He ran his fingers over my cheekbones as if dusting them off, then leaned down and pressed his lips—for just the briefest of seconds—against mine. “But, thank you.”

  * * *

  He pulled away from me, and I watched him circle the table, his eyes back down on the pieces, a long tumble of a sigh coming out of him.

  * * *

  I waited for a moment, then twisted my hair into a knot and tucked it under the neck of the robe, searching for a change of subject. “When’d you move to Vegas?”

  * * *

  “About thirteen years ago. Gwen and her father came to Biloxi to scope out our operations. I took them to dinner, turned on the charm.” He winced, and I noticed the dark turn of his features, the quick change of his eyes, a tensing of his build. “The charm didn’t work on Gwen’s father.”

  * * *

  "I heard he's crazy."

  * * *

  Dario didn't react, he only flipped a five-sided piece over on its back. “Most people in this town are. But yes, if you run into him on the street, you should turn the other way.”

  * * *

  “I was a little more concerned about running into him in this hotel.” I gestured to the suite. “Or in here.”

  * * *

  He looked at me, and there was a real moment, one where he dropped any act, and I let him see my fear. “I’d never put you in danger. I wouldn’t bring you here, move you here, if there was any danger.”

  * * *

  They were words meant to reassure me. They didn’t. “So you agree—an encounter with her father would put me in danger?”

  * * *

  "That's not what I said. But yes. I'm not going to bullshit you on that. Hawk won’t ever know about or understand my relationship with Gwen. He doesn’t know anything about what I do in my spare time, and he doesn’t know that she’s at our ranch right now because she likes the way our lead cowboy fucks her.” He rested his hands on the table and held my gaze.

  * * *

  “Doesn’t that … bother you?” It seemed crazy, for him to sit here with me, messing with a pile of puzzle pieces, while his wife was with another man. It seemed crazy that she would be okay with some sort of arrangement that lets him have mistresses. If he was my husband, I'd have a chastity belt around that man’s waist. I’d chop off one of his appendages in the middle of the night if he so much as kissed another woman. If he was my husband, it would break my heart for him to be here, right now, looking at a woman in this way.

  * * *

  “Does it bother you that Rick fucks Britni after work some nights?”

  * * *

  I threw up my hands and a piece of blue cardboard flew through the air, a laugh shaking out of me as I tried to hold the unexpected outburst in. “What the fu—What does that have to do with anything? How do you even know that?”

  * * *

  “Answer the question.” The words were an order, an edge to their corners, and a part of me swooned at the dominating tone. “Does it bother you?”

  * * *

  My response was half of a strangled laugh, half a snort of derision. “No.”

  * * *

  Not that I had even known about Rick and Britni. But … thinking back, there had been plenty of signs, all which had gone ri
ght over my head.

  * * *

  “Why doesn’t it bother you?” he asked.

  * * *

  “I don’t know … I—”

  * * *

  I scratched an itch on my arm and blew out an exasperated puff of air instead. I knew what he was getting at. “Because I don’t like him like that. Besides, he’s my friend. It isn’t the same. She’s your wife.”

  * * *

  “In name.” He slowly trailed his fingers through a pile of pieces, watching them tumble down the sides. “I imagine, if I had married a different woman, I wouldn’t feel the same way.”

  * * *

  “Meaning what? That you cheat on her, but wouldn’t cheat on another woman?” I snorted in disbelief.

  * * *

  He studied me. “My marriage is a clusterfuck of situations that would take an hour to explain—and it’s not my story to tell. It’s Gwen. We got married and both knew what we were getting into, and exclusivity wasn’t part of it. But I can be loyal. I haven’t needed to keep my dick to myself, so I haven’t. But if I fell in love, if I—” He stopped himself, his face tightening from the effort.

  * * *

  What had he been about to say? Where was he going with that thought? I can be loyal. If I fell in love, if I—…

  * * *

  He picked out a piece and looked away. I reached for my wine glass and fought the urge to reach out and shake all of the unknowns out of him.

  On the balcony, the wind pressed against me like a Black Friday crowd. I watched him light a cigar by the railing, his hands cupped around it in an almost tender fashion.

  * * *

  “You smoke?”

  * * *

  He flipped the lighter closed and drew on the end of the cigar. “Occasionally. When I need a distraction.”

  * * *

  He stared out at the view, a canvas of neon lights and moving traffic. I expected him to look at me, to follow up the comment with what he needed a distraction from. He didn't, and I wrapped the blanket a little tighter. I looked out on the horizon and saw a faint glow.

  * * *

  “Look.” I pointed. “The sunrise.”

  * * *

  Had it been that long? I glanced back at the table, at the half-completed puzzle and the empty bottle of wine. My mind moved through the conversations and the pauses. He had told me stories of growing up in Louisana, of swamps and voodoo. He’d talked about Vegas, of places he wanted to take me and dishes he wanted me to try. I'd told him about the horses I grew up caring for and my first days at The House. I laughed at his ridiculous ego, and he'd told me that my smile made him happy.

  * * *

  He straddled the chaise lounge and sat down, patting the spot before him. “Come here. Sit.”

  * * *

  He held the cigar to the side and moved back, reaching out when I sat down and pulling my back flush against his chest.

  * * *

  Together, we watched the sky change, a bright orange wave sweeping over the buildings, the streets almost empty. I followed a street sweeper as it moved down the Strip and saw a police car stop beside a woman.

  * * *

  The city, coming to life.

  * * *

  Our night together, ending.

  * * *

  His hand cupped my chest, holding me to him, a firm squeeze of reassurance.

  * * *

  I turned my head, resting it against his shirt. “Do you think you’ll live in Vegas forever?”

  * * *

  “Probably. Why?”

  * * *

  I looked out on the city, one I felt swallowed by. Funny how, on the street, I never realized its enormity.

  Up here, it seemed like a monster.

  * * *

  I sighed. “I don’t know. Just wondering.”

  * * *

  He pressed a kiss against the nape of my neck. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  * * *

  In bed, we didn't talk. He shed my robe like it was tissue paper, then pulled my naked body against him, my back to his chest, his arm around me. I tried to stay awake, tried to memorize all of the pieces of this moment. The smooth sheets. His warm body. The muscles of his body. The brush of his lips against my back. The husk in his voice when he said my name.

  * * *

  “Bell.”

  * * *

  The dawn light streamed through the room and highlighted everything in its path. Expensive fabrics. Stainless steel. Marble. Wood. I swallowed and could still taste the wine on my tongue. There was still the faint smell of cigar on his skin.

  * * *

  “Bell.” He tightened his grip on me and I realized I’d fallen, or almost fallen, asleep.

  * * *

  “Yes?”

  * * *

  “Thank you for tonight.”

  * * *

  I wasn't sure what he was thanking me for. I drank his wine. Butchered his puzzle. Went to third base and didn't give him much of an ending. Kept him up way past the hour when a businessman should sleep.

  * * *

  Still, I smiled. “You’re welcome. Thank you.”

  * * *

  He kissed my shoulder, and I closed my eyes, letting the pull of sleep drag me into its depths.

  * * *

  I woke to blood.

  Sixteen

  The blood was on the sheets, long dark streaks that had dried, flecks of black dotting the white surface. I held my breath, pulling back the sheets carefully, and lifted my hands, half-expecting to see them stained red. They weren’t. They were pale and clean. I looked back at the bed, Dario’s side empty.

  * * *

  “It’s okay.”

  * * *

  The sudden voice had me shrieking, my hands clutching the sheet to my naked chest, and I whipped my head around to see him in the doorway.

  * * *

  “What happened?”

  * * *

  He shut the door and strode toward me, his hands busy on the cuff of his left sleeve. “I didn’t realize I was bleeding like a stuck pig until I bent down to check on you and saw the blood on the sheets.”

  * * *

  His demeanor was calm, his voice wry, and I relaxed my grip on the sheet. I noticed the bright light from the window and glanced at the clock on the bedside. Almost noon.

  * * *

  “Let me see the cut.” I reached out for him.

  * * *

  He sat on the edge of the bed and lifted his elbow, exposing the back of his forearm.

  * * *

  I hissed. “Jesus.”

  * * *

  The cut looked deep and painful and already had a salve applied over it, a greasy substance that wasn't stopping the blood. I watched a line of it drip down and he pressed a pad of gauze to the spot.

  * * *

  “It’s fine. I’ve got a doc in the living room, he’ll give me a few stitches.”

  * * *

  “What happened?”

  * * *

  He shrugged. “Just some business that turned sour.”

  * * *

  “It’s not even noon yet.”

  * * *

  I thought of Vince, and the men he’d come to The House with. “Why isn’t your security protecting you?”

  * * *

  “It’s fine.” He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head, a dismissive gesture that only added anger to my worry.

  * * *

  “It’s not fine. When did you leave? Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  * * *

  He stood up and the tenderness fell off of him. "I run a business. A lot of businesses. I can't sleep until noon on a Monday."