* * *
"I didn't ask you to sleep until noon. I asked why you didn't wake me up. Did you even sleep?"
* * *
I could see the answer in his face, in the tired lines that pulled at the edge of his features.
* * *
I yanked back the sheet and got out of bed. Stepping into the bathroom, I threw the door closed, waiting for the satisfying slam of the wood. There was none, and I turned to see his body blocking the opening, stepping forward, closer. He came up behind me and pressed me hard against the counter, his hands sliding down my arms and he gripped my wrists, pulling them behind my bare back. I struggled, then stopped, the fight futile. He surged forward and I felt the hard length of him against my ass.
* * *
His eyes met mine in the bathroom mirror, then dragged down the length of my naked body. “You think I had sleep on my mind?”
* * *
He transferred both of my wrists to one hand and used his other to slide up my stomach, his touch dominant as he ran his palm over my breasts. My nipples pebbled under his touch and I fought the contact, pushing back on him with my ass, irritated for being aroused at the sight and feel of his touch. He groaned at the increased contact, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror, and my angry facade slipped for a moment when a grin broke through my scowl.
* * *
He caught the smile and shook his head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
* * *
The words were a growl against my neck, and he kissed the spot and pulled off of me, the heat between us fizzling out into nothing. I saw a fresh smear of blood across his white dress shirt and pointed to the spot. “I bet you keep your dry cleaner busy.”
* * *
“At times.”
* * *
A line of blood dripped off his hand. The soft splat caught my attention and I watched the bright red drop stain the grout line between two marble tiles.
* * *
“Who cut you?”
* * *
He shook his head slightly. “A nobody.”
* * *
I'm a nobody. A naked nobody who caught Dario Capece's eye. One he found entertaining and decided to keep around. I swallowed, and the sour aftertaste of last night's wine hit my tongue. “What happened to him?”
* * *
Dario lifted a robe off the hook and passed it to me, watching as I shrugged into and tightened it around my waist. “Does it matter?”
* * *
I considered the question, staring at the dark spot of blood on the floor. I shook my head. “No.”
“Miller Lite?”
* * *
The waitress held up the bottle, and I raised my hand. “That’s me.”
* * *
She held out the beer and I half-lifted out of my seat to grab it.
* * *
“Super classy, Bell,” Meredith mused.
* * *
“We’re at a strip club.” I shot the response back to Meredith, who completely missed the comment, her hands moving to wave frantically at the disco-haired brunette who had just come on stage in roller-skates.
* * *
“Look! That’s Tracy!”
* * *
“She’s going to spin on the pole in those skates?” Lydia asked.
* * *
“Shut it. It’s her first night,” Meredith snapped.
* * *
As if we needed the reminder. That was the reason we had trekked across town to Saffire—to provide emotional support for Meredith's friend. The girl had finally succumbed to the hole which claimed half of hot Vegas women: stripping or prostitution. She had chosen stripping … but we’d suspected she'd dive into hooking pretty soon. It was too tempting for most of them, especially with the cocktail of drugs they passed around backstage. I watched her slowly circle the pole, her hands reaching back to pull at the strings of her top and thought of the guy at The House. The one with the chip—Dario's chip—and the fifty-thousand-dollar offer.
* * *
Maybe I was just a few bad months away from this myself. I watched her turn, saw the tight pinch of her features, the nervous press of her hot pink lips, and tried to imagine myself on stage. I tried to picture the lights, the stares, the sweaty hands and offers, the backroom jerk-offs and sugar daddy setups.
* * *
I thought of Dario's sleek suite with the million-dollar-view. By the time I’d woken up, the closet had held designer pants and a silk top, the tags still attached. In that opulent bathroom, I’d pulled on a thousand dollars worth of new clothes. I'd bent down and fastened the strap of a Prada sandal. I'd walked out and kissed a man who may have beaten someone up just hours before.
* * *
My throat closed and I tightened my hand around the beer, lifting it to my mouth.
The strip club manager liked us, sending over champagne and food. We got drunk, cheered on Meredith’s friend, and talked about celebrities and classes. I laughed when Lydia got on the table and danced. I flirted when the hockey players next to us got friendly. I let a big Ukrainian goalie pull me onto his lap and sing me some song about beautiful women.
* * *
Throughout it all, I thought of Dario.
* * *
I thought of the way he’d dropped me off, his Rolls pulling up to my driveway, his hand passing me the suite's access card. He'd told me to text him if I needed anything, and to use the place whenever I felt like it. I told him I wasn’t ready for it, and he pushed the card on me anyway.
* * *
I’d hid it in my T-shirt drawer and vowed not to use it. I’d changed out of the new clothes, hung them in my closet, and decided I wouldn’t wear them. I’d scrubbed the scent of him off in the shower and fought the smile that came as I thought of him.
* * *
I had to remember our differences. I was nobody and he was somebody. I was single and he was married. I was too young and naive, and he was too old and …
* * *
There were too many words to complete that sentence. He was too everything—a black hole that could suck me in without even feeling the crush of my soul.
* * *
“They don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”
* * *
I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And worse, I didn’t want to. I tipped back my third beer and looked away when the goalie smiled at me.
DARIO
* * *
The room was blindingly bright, the fluorescents reflecting off the white tile walls. Dario shut the door and flipped the lock, giving his eyes a moment to adjust. He stepped forward, undoing the buttons of his dress shirt and taking his time as he eyed the two men slumped against the far wall. One moved his foot and the chain scraped against the concrete floor. The bigger of the two lifted his head.
* * *
"Who's there?"
* * *
Dario didn’t respond, shrugging out of his shirt and examining the bandage on his forearm. The bleeding had stopped, thanks to the neat line of stitches from the doc. Not the first stitches he’d received this year, and probably not the last. He hung his shirt carefully on the door’s hook and stepped closer to the two men, his dress boots clicking against the concrete floors.
* * *
There was a special place in hell for men who hurt women. He’d learned that at an early age, when he’d watched his father beat the shit out of his mother when the Saints would lose, or when his beer was warm, or when his luck at the casino had turned to shit.
* * *
It was why Dario didn’t drink. Or gamble. Or watch football. It was why he’d forced the Cajun drawl from his speech and abandoned work boots and jeans for suits and ties. It was why he’d avoided the fishing boats and had gotten his first job on the casino floor.
* * *
His entire life, he had strived to be the opposite of his father. Now, he looked down into the swollen face of a man so much like him it mad
e his fists ache.
* * *
“If you’re gonna kill us, just do it already.” The man coughed, and a spittle of blood came out.
* * *
“I’m not going to kill you.”
* * *
He’d decided that after seeing the look in Bell’s eyes when she had asked him about the man who’d cut him. He’d seen the worry there, had noticed the way her mouth had tightened, her jaw set. If she ever brought it up again, he wanted her to be happy with his answer. And if making her happy meant keeping people alive, then fine.
* * *
He squatted before the man and examined his swollen face, the eyes now puffy slits, the top lip split and hanging in an unnatural way. This one had squealed when he’d tied him down, his fat body flopping against the restraints. It’d taken two of them to get him into place and into a position where he could use the bolt cutters and the cauterization tool.
* * *
The man's lips cracked open. “Why are you doing this?”
* * *
An excellent question. The man must have been surprised at the dark suits waiting outside the small-town bar. He must have been confused when they duct-taped his mouth and handcuffed his wrists, must have hated the back of the Hummer, especially once they closed the lid. Fifteen minutes later, when they’d tossed in the second man, he’d probably wondered who he’d been, had probably been annoyed by the stranger kicking and flailing inside of the tight compartment. He’d certainly seemed surprised when Dario had pulled off his blindfold, and he’d realized the man was his son, also prisoner inside this room.
* * *
All day, Dario had left them alone. Plenty of time to think about who he was and why he was torturing them. Dario grabbed the man’s shirt and pulled him forward. “You tell me why I’m doing this.”
* * *
It was the same command he'd given the men that morning. And all morning, the two men had confessed. Thefts. Deceit. Abuses. Rapes. They'd given names and dates, details and apologies.
* * *
But they hadn't given Dario what he wanted. And they still didn’t realize what this was really about.
* * *
Dario thought of the file he had received on Bell, the court-protected seal worthless when the right cash hit the right hands. He’d opened it without the proper reverence, unprepared for the horrible details that had covered those pages. Details that had never had a resolution. That beautiful girl, damaged by these monsters. That beautiful girl, ignored and disrespected by the system put in place to protect her.
* * *
It’d taken a week, but they were here now. Sniffling. Weak. Afraid. He leaned forward and pressed his fist into the bloody crotch of the man, putting his weight into the action, and appreciated the painful wheeze that resulted.
* * *
“Tell me. Tell me what you've done."
* * *
Finally, the man's mouth moved and the right words came out.
Seventeen
BELL
* * *
Lydia groaned. “I can’t believe you screwed us out of front row seats, Bell. You know I’ve never been to a hockey game.”
* * *
Meredith nodded. “Plus, he was hot. You should have at least taken his number.”
* * *
I shifted my weight and pushed the seatbelt in, thinking of the cute Ukrainian, his cautious smile and the gentle way his fingers had curled along my lower back. He'd offered us front row seats and a tour of their facilities. He'd also asked me to come home with him.
* * *
There’d been a moment where I’d thought about leaving with him. He’d leaned in close, whispering in my ear, and I’d thought about turning my head. Letting him kiss me. Seeing if there was a connection—the sort that might lead to a night of rumpled sheets and moans and orgasms.
* * *
But I hadn’t. Instead, I’d pulled away from his lap and turned down the hockey invite, and absolutely none of it made sense because I shouldn’t, couldn’t, make decisions based on Dario, or on any man’s weak comparison to him. And that had been half the problem—that the goalie, that Ian, that every man seemed suddenly unimpressive when compared to Dario’s pull on me.
* * *
“In regards to your heart? I can’t protect that. That’s a risk you’re going to have to decide whether to take.”
* * *
I’d always been a gambler, with my money, my time, my safety … but never my heart. Still, didn’t it mean something that it was even at risk? Didn’t the fact that I had the potential to fall for someone mean that I should take the jump?
* * *
For four days I’d been mulling over that question. Four days. Countries made peace treaties and war decisions in less time. I’d buried myself in studying and work and had made no headway with the decision.
* * *
I could take the jump. Be Dario Capece’s girlfriend. Live in his million-dollar suite. Accept his decadent lifestyle and ignore the wedding band on his finger. I could do it.
* * *
But would I? Should I?
* * *
Meredith turned on the radio, and I rested my head against the window. When we got home, I changed into sweats, washed my face, and called a taxi.
The access card got me into the garage, and I rode the giant car elevator up on foot. When I got to the coded door, I paused, taking a moment to remember the sequence. Birthday. Last four of my phone number. 04182996#. The lights changed and the knob gave underneath my palm. I pushed the door open and stepped into quiet tranquility, everything smooth and perfect. A lamp on the entry table illuminated woods, leathers, and fabrics, a gorgeous place I didn’t fit into.
* * *
I moved into the bedroom and stripped, leaving my clothes where they fell and crawling into the bed. I unlocked my phone and stared at the text from Dario, sent a half-hour ago.
* * *
-- Let me know when you’re home safely.
* * *
It was the same text I’d gotten the last four nights. Short and sweet, easy to ignore. But, I hadn’t. Each night, I had texted him from bed, my phone now filled with short chatter about my shifts, classes, and life. I typed out a quick response.
* * *
I decided to come to the suite for the night. I hope that’s okay.
* * *
-- More than okay. It’s yours, for as much or as little as you want to use it.
* * *
I settled into the pillows and curled onto one side, cupping the phone close to my face. The bed, which had seemed so cozy with him beside me, suddenly felt cold and empty.
* * *
The bed feels lonely without you :(
* * *
I repositioned the pillow under my head and watched as dots appeared, then his response quickly followed.
* * *
-- Is that an invite?
* * *
Yes
* * *
-- On my way.
* * *
I grabbed one of the giant feather pillows and pushed it between my knees, settling into a cocoon of comfort. I laid the phone on the bed beside me and watched the clock, wondering how long it would take him to pull on clothes, make an excuse to his wife, and come down to this level.
* * *
Though, maybe he didn’t need to make excuses to her. According to him, they slept in separate beds. Maybe he just came and went as he pleased, and she did the same.
* * *
I was half asleep when the bedroom door clicked open, my head lifting off the pillow enough to recognize his build. I threw back the covers, inviting him in, and smiled when I felt the warm length of him, curling up behind me.
* * *
He kissed my bare shoulder and I felt his arm tighten around my waist. Before I could tell him goodnight, I was asleep.
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