Chapter Six
Izzie took a moment to center herself—the way she’d been taught in the Acting 101 course she’d signed up for freshman year when she’d had bright ideas about finding herself and veering off her parents’ journalism- and law-focused paths in a pursuit of happiness—before she strutted into the only establishment in Las Vegas she considered a true-blue friend.
Cleopatra’s Barge wasn’t the epitome of glamor, wasn’t the most exclusive lounge in this city and yes, some were intimidated by the floating craft’s unique, proudly wanton breast-baring statues that provocatively greeted you at the entrance, but for her it was something she could depend on when she wanted an extra shot of confidence or pizzazz. The place had a personality that meshed with Izzie’s, and without judgment or chastisement it welcomed her into its warm hospitality.
Patrons probably didn’t see past the red-and-gold décor, dance space, live bands, and the prices of the drinks at the bar, but Izzie sort of enjoyed figuring out the soul of a place. More than a building or a gimmicky tourist haunt, the Barge was a friend. Izzie knew, because when her wolf of an ex-fiancé had begun to shed his sheep’s clothing and she’d dropped soundlessly out of Vegas society’s favor, she’d watched her friends trot one by one out of her life, until there was just this club left to hold her up. It hadn’t abandoned her when she’d lost her chance at reality TV celebrity. It hadn’t changed its attitude or appearance. It hadn’t turned her away like a rat seeking shelter from the cold.
Maybe she was searching for hope in the wrong places, but she needed all the confidence she could find to get through tonight’s meeting with Rick Smoltz. The Vegas Beat maintained a rivalry with the Las Vegas Sun, competing for readership and relevance in a technology-dependent world. The editor-in-chief had Hollywood-star charm and hunted news as though he were a predator beyond all redemption, but Izzie knew the extremes he’d take to gain an edge or get what he wanted.
She’d stuck to her guns when she’d contacted him to schedule a talk. No, she wouldn’t come to his office, when most of the staffers would be gone for the night. No, she wouldn’t give him her address and let him bring over Chinese food. No, she wouldn’t meet him in anyone’s VIP room.
A public place, with people around, and where—God willing—a man and woman sitting down and talking business wouldn’t be misconstrued as a serial gold-digger looking for her next conquest.
Rick had at one point threatened to call off the deal, but when Izzie had calmly replied that she could accept his decision, he’d tried to steamroll her again. Now, as she entered the club and looked through the strands of patrons moving about, she felt icky. She’d be nothing but professional tonight—would shake Rick’s hand if he offered it and would be as transparent as any solid journalist strived to be. But it was the sleaziness of her knee-jerk reflex to make a side alliance with this man that she second-guessed.
An entire day after parting ways with Milo at McCarran International, she was still raw from his duplicity. She was torn straight down the middle, half of her so livid that the shock of it made her catch her breath and the other half so unwound from being with him on the island that she imagined her skin tingling everywhere his mouth had touched her.
She’d had a clear goal when she stepped off the ferryboat on Cora Island: get her shit together. With a kiss and a touch and a night of sex she couldn’t erase, he’d unwrapped her ambitions and undone her progress. And by lying to her, stripping away the integrity she’d appreciated most about him, he’d lost her respect. He hadn’t tossed her taxi fare, swatted her ass, and sent her on her way, but he’d damaged some piece of her all the same.
Or, he would if she didn’t go through with her gut reaction to turn the tables. Sex was sex, but now they were dealing with survival. Journalism was the only career that might take in a disgraced politician’s daughter who hadn’t finished her college degree and had spent ten years screwing one rich Boomer after the next. It was the only industry that might pay her bills, even as it constantly held up a cruelly revealing mirror every time she pursued someone else’s hardship.
She couldn’t say she wanted this life any more than she wanted to give up her body and affection and future to men like Luca Tarantino. She’d prefer to someday look at her reflection and recognize someone she loved. She’d prefer to look at a man who loved her for her flaws, because her ugliness was as vital as her beauty.
A dream, though. It was just a dream.
Fully awake now, Izzie found Rick at the bar and prepared herself to do business.
Hollywood-charm in position and his enormous ego no doubt polished by his inclusion in a TIME feature on America’s über-successful Millennials, Rick slid off his stool and grabbed her hand as she approached. “Izzie Phillips, you’re trying to kill me. I like the dark hair. Sexy as fuck.”
“Rick, hello.”
“Level with me.”
“About?”
“What are you?”
Izzie paused. What was she? “A human being. A woman…”
Rick licked his lips in a way that made her feel naked, and she didn’t like it. Eyes half-mast, he said, “Don’t get me wrong—I like that you’ve got an exotic look about you.”
Exotic?
“But,” he continued, “I need to know what kind of pussy I’m getting. So what are you?”
Wrath nearly blinded her. Insulted, offended, she felt herself trembling. Yet she appeared to be not moving at all. “Does it threaten you, to not know what I ‘am’?”
“Not at all. I’m just curious about your recipe.”
Recipe? What the actual— “Rick, I’m the product of people being free to travel this world and courageous enough to not let skin color, or culture, or religion be an obstacle.” Eventually those factors had pressured her father to identify however best suited his political goals. They’d also influenced her mother to convert to his religion to “simplify” their family. “And I prefer genealogy, not recipe. I’m not a fucking soup.”
There went her resolve to be utterly professional.
“Watch your tone,” Rick said, his gaze dropping low then riding up her body. “I didn’t intend to offend. Do yourself a favor and stop being so goddamn sensitive. That is, if you want to work for me.”
She didn’t want to work for him, per se. She wanted a steady paycheck with benefits and some stability and a chance to contribute to society. Her world had shut her out, to be sure, but she was still a part of a social web, and she found it only fair that she pay it forward in some meaningful fashion. Donating the excess funds from an extravagant vacation was one thing. But suppose she were to find herself more involved in environmental conservation, in horticulture and rebirth and renewal and all the hopeful second-chance things that some believed nature symbolized?
If enduring the likes of Rick Smoltz led to that path, could she be courageous enough to crawl past adversity to find her way? Did she have to make more mistakes to make lasting changes?
“Rick Smoltz, I won’t tolerate sexism or racism or anti-Semitism or any other filth you might be comfortable spewing at the Beat. I’ll sue you if I have to. I will offer my services elsewhere if you have a problem with that.”
“I said watch your tone. You’re seeing things that aren’t there.”
“Bastard. Just try to gaslight me—”
“Take this stool and let’s talk business.”
She sat beside him to find a clear drink waiting.
“Vodka work for you?” he asked, reclaiming his stool and swiveling to face her fully. His polished blond-haired, blue-eyed veneer was attractive, but it hid the predator that lived in him. “I think it’ll get you good and relaxed for me.”
He reeked of cinnamon-flavored cigarettes, and on closer inspection his jaws jumped about every second and a half. He was chewing cinnamon gum to disguise the cigarette odor.
“I don’t mind vodka, but I’m not drinking any tonight,” she said as she flagged a barte
nder. “A beer, please. Whatever’s good on tap.” One glass of vodka would hit her faster than three beers, and she wouldn’t put it past Rick-the-Dick to have banked on that.
“That wasn’t a freebie,” he protested, raising a hand to ward off the bartender. “Take your drink, Izzie.”
“No, thank you.” She opened her purse, shuffled through a few checkout-lane gadget-y trinkets, slid her fingers across her smartphone, and grabbed her wallet. Thanks to her video recording of a primetime drama sweetheart’s tirade at a Reno shopping plaza last month, she could afford to buy herself a beer—and pay Rick for a drink she hadn’t ordered. “Let me reimburse you for the vodka. The last thing I want is to start this professional relationship indebted to you.”
Rick cursed, turned up the ginger-colored contents of his glass. “Forget it. Business expense. I’ll write it off.”
“My refreshments aren’t your business expenses,” she said after the bartender delivered the beer. “We’re not in business together yet. That’s why we’re here, to establish some boundaries and rethink any unrealistic expectations either of us might have.”
“Unrealistic expectations?” Rick suddenly gripped her thighs, prying them apart so harshly that she flinched. “You walk in here dressed like a slut and think I’m not going to notice? You offer your pussy to any man with money and think I’m not going to join the line? Those are unrealistic expectations.”
Izzie shook her head, confused. She was wearing a gauzy black sweater and metallic gold jeggings. No, it wasn’t a power suit, but it wasn’t lingerie and a bow tie, either. Besides, her clothes didn’t give him the right to touch her. “Off. Take your hands off. Now.”
He did, though not before pushing a knuckle into the juncture of her thighs. “That’s your problem. You’ve been with men from a different generation. They don’t operate the way I do.”
“Bullies come in all different ages, Rick. Did you enjoy grabbing me? Violating me? Because it’s going to have to last you. You’ll never touch me again.”
“I will.”
“No.”
“You don’t say no,” he objected, grinning. “All you know is yes. That’s what you’re going to be saying when we take this little discussion out to my car and we get those shiny pants off.”
“No,” she said again, firmly. She was wearing crotch-stomping boots tonight but wouldn’t call on them. She had something else that’d change Rick’s mind. “All these people here don’t want to have their dancing ruined by security guards coming through to show you out.”
“Security? They’d believe someone like you?”
“Eh…” She tipped her head to one side, then the other. “I’d like to think so, since my phone’s been recording this conversation from the moment you tried to force that vodka on me. And I’m thinking security cameras got a clear visual of you forcing my legs open. By the way, I really hope you don’t try that again, because next time I will go for the nuts and won’t let up until they look more like raisins.”
“Bitch.”
“If by ‘bitch,’ you mean a clever and perceptive woman who gets shit done, then thanks.” She took a careful swallow of her beer, a toast to her guardian half-nude statue. “Can we discuss business now? I do have other engagements.”
“Other men to fuck for money?”
“I’m not searching for a relationship now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Luca Tarantino scared you celibate?”
“Yes,” she said, smirking so that he couldn’t tell whether she was slyly joking or confessing the truth. If no one counted the no-boundaries night she’d shared with Milo, then yes, she was celibate. And it wasn’t as though she cared that she rested on the shelf. The shelf was safe. For her, sex had never been designed for her pleasure. No man had worked hard to take her up high then let her tumble into the kind of ecstasy that made a woman sweat and scream.
Scream.
Izzie set down her bottle, blinked quickly. Her imagination shook apart, conjuring pictures of her naked with damp hair, sweat-misted skin, and an irresistible devil of a man dining on her body.
Recalling every spectacularly dirty maneuver, she felt her toes curl in her boots and her fingers flex as though she could feel his taut flesh, and she thought for one stupid moment that Milo Tarantino was designed for her pleasure.
Was she designed for his? Of course she wasn’t. He’d said his ex-girlfriend Tabitha had been his paradise. Paradise would be a tough act to follow, especially for a woman who had the trust capacity of a neglected and abused animal.
For that matter, what was she doing to even consider this? She and Milo had shared one night on an island, and on the island was where the details and the memories should stay. There’d been no mile-highing on the flights back to Las Vegas, no getting laid during the layover.
Only a solemn sense of unresolved tension that neither of them had—or would—explore now that they were in Sin City and partnering up to see to it that his father answered for his sins.
And Milo had double-crossed her. She couldn’t forget that. She couldn’t let that fury slip, because the man was swift and knew to target her weaknesses.
“I want to know why Luca Tarantino’s golden boy would enlist you,” Rick said flatly.
Milo was as far from a “golden boy” as anyone, she thought. No golden boy would rack up as many in-game penalties as he had during his tenure as a tight end. No golden boy would hold her down on a fluffy mattress and use his tongue to—
“Uh—uh—” she stuttered, bringing her beer back into close range. She took a swallow. Nope, didn’t work. Her body was still set on five-alarm arousal. “Thirsty.”
Yeah, she was thirsty, all right.
“So…why?”
Izzie glanced around the club’s interior. “Milo thinks his father wants to find me. He believes I have something Luca wants.”
“You?” Rick snorted. “Criminals can be dumb as shit, but would a man who ran a billion-dollar gambling ring in this city risk getting caught for you? Doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t do it.”
“Good to know that should you find yourself facing criminal charges you won’t be coming to me to save your ass.”
“What does Milo plan to do when he gets ahold of his father?”
“Turn him in.”
Rick frowned. “He’d hand his father—and his godfather, Antony-Fucking-Grimaldi—over to the feds? Not in a million years. Not with all that money at stake. Milo’s got his own fortune, granted, but the Las Vegas Villains was a multibillion-dollar franchise that his father sold for cheap. Where are the Villains now? Damn Disneyworld.” He laughed. “They’ve got championship rings. J.T. Greer and his wife performed a miracle. They took a pile of shit and turned it into gold. They’re the ones raking in all that money, all the publicity. And Milo’s supposed to be okay with it? Hell, no, but I’m going see what information you give me. I want weekly updates. That’s non-negotiable.”
“You called him a golden boy. Why would it be surprising that he’d have Luca shake hands with justice?”
“Hey, now. I said he was a golden boy. I never said golden boys were stupid,” Rick said, getting off his stool, holding up one hand, and signaling for a fresh brandy with the other. “We’re through here.”
Released, Izzie grabbed her purse, turned off the recorder on her phone, and went into the restroom to freshen her makeup. A quick stop to the apartment, and then she’d be on the road again, headed to Los Angeles. The bloggers she reported to had received a tip that a pair of rival hip-hop artists would be at an after-midnight club on Las Palmas. They’d contacted her, which was a rare event even though she had several months’ seniority with their group. If she successfully made it into the club and walked out with enough pictures and videos to satisfy the team, she’d be able to not only pay the bills, but she could also store a little away in her neglected savings account. One couldn’t live off the sale of a luxury car alone. Beyond that
, payday had a way of making her feel accomplished.
“So you finally figured out brunettes have more fun,” a lilting feminine voice said.
Izzie turned away from the mirror with her lipstick uncapped. “Toya. What are you doing at the Barge?”
Toya Messa shook out her corkscrew curls, fluffed her hair, and eyed Izzie through naturally lush lashes. The no-mascara-necessary lashes, prominent cheekbones and flawless consistently toasty skin tone had always provoked Izzie’s envy. “Getting my dance on.”
“You don’t dance,” Izzie pointed out, applying the lipstick with an expert hand. She’d been wearing makeup kindergarten and could probably apply a full face with her eyes closed. “At your wedding reception, you rocked in Asher’s arms but didn’t move your feet.”
“Oh, I’m sure that was just my feet trying to warn me to turn and run from the courtyard,” Toya said dryly. She’d been a stunning April bride that year, barely out of college and joined in holy matrimony to Asher Messa of Messa Technologies. “Did it rain that day?”
“Uh-uh. Clear skies during the ceremony and a starry night canopying the reception.” It’d been a fairy tale kind of day. Perfect wedding, imperfect marriage. It made sense in a twisted way. “Why do you think it rained?”
“It would’ve been appropriate, had it rained.” Toya shrugged her delicate shoulders. Not exactly petite, but almost shallowly thin, she didn’t appear capable of holding much on those shoulders. Which made it heartbreaking that she was a few months divorced and a single mom on top of it. News of Toya’s divorce, and an estimate of what she’d stood to gain in the settlement, had come as Izzie’s prospects were slipping away. Toya had slipped away from whatever impersonation of a friendship they’d shared then, and Izzie had let herself wallow in moments of despair because unlike Toya, she wasn’t under twenty-five and college educated and it all had seemed so unfair.
Today, she could look through the mirror at the woman she’d wanted to be her friend and smile with empathy. “You don’t like the rain, Toya. It makes your hair wild. You used to call it Frizzed As Fuck.”
The Hook: The End Game Series (Book 4) Page 10