Kickback (Caldwell Brothers Book 3)

by Colleen Charles

  Or maybe it’s because all I’ve been doing since I got here is thinking about her, fantasizing, with my head so firmly up my own ass I can’t even watch where I’m going.

  A Hawaiian shirt-clad tourist laughs at my near face plant, so I give him a little salute, adjust my glasses, and scan the signs for the café. All I want is something to fill my rumbling belly and then return to my suite so I can hit the hay before my meeting tomorrow. I probably do look like crap. All I did was keep my head down writing code for hours on end, not even stopping when Nix’s assistant, Carol, threw some take-out in my direction. I can’t even remember if I ate it all.

  Coming back home to Vegas might not have been my brightest move, and I never should have agreed to stay here. My swanky San Fran condo might be sterile and cold, but it’s home. Now, I’m living in a damn hotel suite like a homeless bum. Well, maybe not quite that dramatic. Suites in the Armónico offer décor and amenities like luxury apartments. And Nix won’t kick me out, so I’ve been dragging my feet on finding my own place, not sure where I want to land. I kind of like the ready food, entertainment, and twenty-four seven atmosphere in the casino. A few nights ago, I caught a performance of Piglet’s Tail on the main stage from the VIP section, something I never would have had the chance to do in the bay area.

  Now that we’ve reconnected, it’s been nice to have an office on Nix’s executive floor and help him with all his tech needs. I don’t even miss running my own company. Business ownership presents too many headaches for a creative man who just wants to invent apps and code them into fruition. I have more damn money than King Midas. More than I could spend in twenty lifetimes. Helping others makes me feel like I’m making a difference in this world.

  Since I’ll never be a husband or a father like Nixon and Reagan, I’ll settle for making disabled kid’s lives better in my little brother, Linc’s, honor. Maybe even as a strange homage to myself. My mind drifts to the cutting edge genetic testing my genius doctor friend, Jack Richardson, performed on me. I’d been plagued by some minor headaches, and the Mayo was doing some clinical trials using Jack’s cutting edge technology. I’ll never forget his words: You have the autism gene, Ford. You may even have a tiny bit of Asperger’s yourself. Hell, all you do is write code and stay home alone. You’ve never been much for the social scene or talking to strangers. Be watchful if you have kids someday.

  Someday’s not going to come.

  As I approach the hostess stand, my Cloudflyers stick on the polished tile walkway and squeak to high heaven. My fingers itch to cover my own ears. I’ve always hated that damn fingernails-on-a-chalkboard sound. Hey, I’m a techy, living in my own head, sensitive, artist-type. I’m nothing like my alpha badass brother Nixon, or my funny, sharp, and dogged brother Reagan. I’m my own man, and I have been ever since I left Vegas. There’s a grey hoodie over my plaid shirt and tie. The Vegas heat is going to end up destroying my casual, disheveled look.

  “Welcome to Manzo, sir. How many?” The hostess looks me up and down and flashes a brilliant smile.

  “Ah, I think I’ve got a reservation. I’m Ford Caldwell. Nixon’s brother.”

  She grabs one menu from a slot behind her, and I wonder what’s going on. Nixon’s supposed to be meeting me at the café.

  “Yes, Mr. Caldwell. Carol called down and said Nixon’s running late. Do you still want to be seated? Perhaps have a cocktail while you’re waiting?”

  A beer sounds good, so I nod and trail behind her as she meanders through the tables to seat me in a private booth in the corner. The smell of grilled burgers, fries, and wings reaches my nostrils and my mouth waters. I usually get so busy working, I forget to eat. My stomach screams in protest of my ignorance in not taking lunch seriously enough. Maybe I should snag an appetizer to hold me over until Nix gets here.

  As I settle into the gold leather seat, the hostess hands me the open menu.

  “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Caldwell. It’s good to have you back.”

  Jesus, does everyone in this damn city know I’m here? So much for keeping a low profile until I get my sea legs underneath me. I’m surprised Nixon and Reagan didn’t take out a billboard on the strip, complete with my nerdy but smiling mug. A busboy pours me a glass of water, and I take a sip, welcoming the hydration. Since I’ve been living in San Fran, my blood has thickened and the heat’s getting to me in a way it never did when I was a kid. Some days, I don’t even want to step outside because it feels like my insides are cooking and close to liquefying.

  “It’s a great night here at Manzo. I’m Dixie, and I’ll be taking care of you.”

  A sexy southern drawl snaps my head up in time to see my middle-aged server standing over me with a pen and pad. She’s wearing the standard uniform, but her hair’s dyed a bright auburn that complements her soulful brown eyes. The woman would be attractive if it wasn’t for her makeup. She looks like the oops offspring of a drunken mating ritual between Tammy Fay Baker and Acid Betty. My eyes itch to close and stop the insanity, but instead, I stare, unable to take my eyes off the train wreck happening on her face.

  “Ah…” The air around us intensifies as her eyes seem to bore into my soul. I almost feel like I’ve met her before but can’t remember it.

  “Can I start you off with a cocktail? Scotch perhaps?”

  Only Nixon drinks top-shelf scotch. I’m more of a beer and wings kind of guy. “I’ll have a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, please.”

  “Very good. I’ll be right back with that.”

  While I wait for Dixie to return with some adult refreshment, I scan the menu, deciding on a rare burger and sweet potato fries. Once I’m done, I lean back and shut my eyes. Sick of room service, I foolishly made a reservation thinking some human interaction might break me out of my funk. But nothing’s going to do that except her. Knowing she’s okay. That she doesn’t hate me. Dammit, she has every right to hate me, and her keeping herself from me just proves it’s true. But I’ve looked everywhere, including all the usual places. I can’t find her, and it makes me want to punch something.

  Like my own face.

  “Hey, whippersnapper. Are you even old enough to drink?”

  The rumbling but familiar voice snaps my eyes open and brings the beginnings of a smile to my lips. “It appears so,” I say.

  Troy Cass hasn’t changed a bit. He’s still intimidating as hell but even bigger now, the fabric of his designer suit stretched across the expanse of his back. Dixie must have delivered my beer during my interlude with myself because the bottle’s in front of me resting on an embossed coaster. As I watch the little rivers of condensation drip down to land on the cardboard, Troy leans in.

  “Nixon had a card counting emergency in the pit. I’m here to fill you in on all things shithead. Also known as one Dante Giovanetti. Ever heard of him?”

  I laugh and take a swig of my pale ale. It’s good. Damn good. After another long draught, I almost feel human. But only almost. I’ll never feel whole again until I make the mistakes of my past right again, and I’m not sure how I’m going to make that happen. The thought of never seeing her again makes me shiver, my insides wanting to poke out of my skin. For right now, I’ll focus on taking down the evil, criminal piece of work that Troy’s referring to in his usual droll tones.

  “I wish the answer was no.” I take another long sip. “I’ve put most of the puzzle together already, but the only thing missing is that one piece that you think should fit. But, damn, every time you try to snap it into place, it bends.”

  We spend the better part of an hour reconnecting over burgers, fries, and an Italian mafia asshat. After three more pale ales, my blood’s coursing through my veins, my creative juices are flowing, and I can think of about six ways to Sunday that I could make the motherfucker pay. Now, I just have to narrow them down.

  Troy’s fiddling with his napkin, rubbing it all over his beer bottle. He’s wound tight. Either Nixon’s riding him too hard or he needs to get laid.

  Probably both.

 
“So, any Mrs. Cass that I should know about?”

  Troy scoffs and rolls his eyes. I chuckle at the deer in the headlights look on his face. He’s not ugly. He’s built like a bodybuilder. I have no idea why he hasn’t willingly put his head in the noose yet.

  “Never. I’m married to the job.”

  “Good thing it’s just the job and not my brother,” I tease. “I’d worry about you otherwise.”

  Bang!

  All heads turn toward a commotion in the center of the restaurant, near a server station. I stare at the back of a female server, the stack of dishes she’d been carrying in pieces at her feet. There’s ketchup, mustard, and fries flung around in a three-foot radius. Some drunken asshole towers over her, getting close.

  Too. Fucking. Close.

  I stand and stride toward the scene. In Nixon’s absence, I feel like I’m in charge here and I have to do something. If management’s in the kitchen or in the back office, something bad could happen before they could be notified. As head of security, Troy trails after me. There’s nothing that pisses me off more than drunken losers harassing women, especially at their place of employment.

  “You’re real pretty, sweetheart. When’s your shift over? Want to come up to my room and suck my cock?” As he talks, slurring his words, his hand goes to his zipper and starts pulling the tab down.

  Troy grabs his upper arm in a vice grip. “Sir,” he says, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Just who in the hell do you think you are?” the man blusters as he’s pulled backward toward the door. “Me and Holly here were just gettin’ acquainted. So, she’s a little clumsy. That don’t matter none. I’m sure she can work her mouth and open her legs without much fuss. Them there’s a good lookin’ piece of ass. Iffin I want it, Ima gonna take it!”

  As Troy strong arms this perverted motherfucker toward the door, I stare at the rigid back of Holly. She’s shaking, whether from fear or anger, I’m not sure. The guy really got to her. After a few tortured seconds where I just stand there, wishing I could hug her and comfort her, she crouches down and starts picking up the shards of broken china. Before long, a busboy joins her, scrambling around to get all the pieces of food that hit the deck during the accident.

  “Ouch!” She snatches her finger away from the carnage and puts it to her lips, sucking on the tip.

  “You’re hurt,” I say, bending down next to her. If she’s injured, there’s at least something I can do about that. The other diners have gone back to their eating and drinking, confident the show’s over. At least until the next deep in their cups patron rolls through the door pissed off because they left a few Benjamins behind in a slot machine. “Here, let me see that.”

  Her eyes are cast downward, and she doesn’t move. At first, I think she’s going to stand up and run away from me. But she doesn’t. She exhales a long breath and holds out her trembling hand to my personal inspection. There’s a small cut at the tip of her pointer finger. It’s not serious, but it probably stings. But I know in my heart that the physical pain isn’t even important when compared with the emotional abuse she just suffered. My brother needs to clean up this place. The Armónico’s just become a high-class casino with low-class problems.

  “I don’t think it needs to be amputated,” I joke, taking her hand gently within my own. A sudden jolt of electricity flows through her hand into my body. My heart races as if I just stuck my finger into a live outlet. The breath leaves my lungs, sucking all the oxygen from my brain and the room. I’ve never had a reaction to a woman like this since…

  “Good, I need all my fingers to keep working,” she says. Her voice is raspy and deep, and it reaches places within me I didn’t even remember I had. Her body shifts slightly, and she turns her head. Those blue-green eyes. They pierce right through to my soul as all the planets in the universe shift into a different alignment. I don’t remember where I am. I don’t even remember my own name. She says something in a tortured whisper.

  And I fall apart.

  Chapter 3

  Haylee

  “I have to work today, Haylee.”

  Ah, douche bag Brad has to work, and my heart pumps piss for him. Not that I lack empathy. Not at all. I feel sorry for plenty of losers. Thirty-year old men wearing Luke Skywalker costumes as they beat off in their mom’s basements. That high school girl with coke bottle glasses and her battered copy of Tolstoy clutched to her chest so faded you can’t make out the title. Even that homeless guy on the corner of Tropicana and Tee Pee who makes more money than most people put together but doesn’t have to file a W-2.

  I nod, slapping his stack of hotcakes with extra butter down in front of him with a resounding thud that doesn’t even cause him to flinch.

  “Hmm…that sucks, Brad. I won’t be able to show you that new triple fudge caramel extra shot macchiato I just invented. While standing on my head.”

  He shot me a goofy grin. “Really? I could skip work for that.”

  Never. Getting. Laid.

  “Hayleeberry-pie, you’re needed in the kitchen, darlin,” my co-worker and bestie, Dixie Pendergrass, calls from behind the counter of the server station.

  Dixie’s from Mobile, Alabama and she’s as redneck as moonshine and NASCAR, but she’s also been blessed with a heart of gold. Fifteen years ago, she drove into Vegas on the fumes coming from her rusted Chevy Vega that I’d call a rattletrap, but she refers to as a classic. My friend will do anything for anyone, no questions asked. There are so many times she’s helped me out with Atlee that I’ve lost count. All I know is that I owe her so many solids, I’ll go to my grave owing her so big I’d need to use all of my nine lives to pay her back.

  She’s got one hand on an ample and saucy hip and the other on that little silver bell that we sometimes use when we need to communicate there’s an order up under the lights. And boy, do I need a little saving. Brad’s in here every single evening before heading off to work the graveyard shift at a local factory, hitting on me. He’s handsy and annoying, kind of like a buzzing fly. After hitting the bell so many times it sounds like a cross between the Tibetan Healing Bells and Beethoven’s Fifth, Dixie starts waving at me. Her middle age bat wings flap so hard they could take out a small child.

  “Gotta go, Brad. Have a nice day at work. See ya.”

  I hightail it back behind the counter to where Dixie clucks her tongue and shakes her auburn hair. Usually, it’s a frizzy mass of waves, but for work, she ties it back in a mess of hair bands and bobby pins. Her name tag is askew, in danger of falling off her bright gold polyester shirt. According to Vegas Magazine, the highly successful and rich Nixon Caldwell is a fan of all things that glitter being gold. Yeah, my baby daddy’s brother’s casino looks like it’s emulating Fort Knox, that’s for sure. But I kind of like it, so don’t judge.

  Before I can recover from all things Brad, a wavering, wobbling man careens toward me, arms outstretched. He reeks like gin and bad decisions. Since he’s not stable, his attempt to grab my arm fails, and he puts the full force of his massive body straight into the center of the stack of dirty dishes I’m carrying. I try in vain to hang on but lose my grip over ketchup and mustard. Can’t people keep their condiments on the damn plate?

  The entire restaurant comes to a hushed standstill as the cacophony of sounds ratchet up to unacceptable levels. Plates breaking, silverware pinging the floor, my pride shattering into a million pieces. And this one isn’t even my fault. I glance around, searching for my manager, but Ginny’s AWOL, working on paperwork in the back office. Before I can bend down to clean up the mess, the huge guy starts getting fresh and begins insulting me, asking me to perform some graphic sex acts on him. I’d like to tell him to whip it out so I can bite it so hard I draw blood, but my mouth’s so dry nothing comes out. A woman from behind me gasps so loud she starts choking. She daps at her eyes with her cloth napkin, a grimace on her face. I’m not sure if I should run to get help or suck it up and just get it cleaned up as fast as I can.


  “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Saved.

  By a gigantic, stern, hulk of a man better known as Troy Cass, Nixon Caldwell’s head of security. More like head of all things needed and never anything else. He’s more like a henchman or a right-hand man. At this point, I don’t care if he fluffs Caldwell’s cock or buys his Preparation H. I hate having all eyes on me, and more than a hundred pairs have been staring for at least a minute. All I want is for things to return to normal in this damn restaurant, go about my business, and end my shift in peace.

  Troy wrests the man away from me and shoves him toward the door. But even after they’ve gone, I still feel someone staring into my back, their hot gaze boring a hole. It feels hot across my entire spine, and I wonder if I forgot their second beer or their side of ranch. Before I can turn to look, a sliver of glass pricks the end of my finger, but I don’t really even feel it as the adrenaline pulses through me. The sensation makes me feel alive. Human. I stare at the tiny droplet of blood that’s pooled there.

  “Ouch,” I say a few seconds later, shaking my arm at the elbow before popping it into my mouth.

  “You’re hurt. Let me see that,” the stranger says, his voice low and steady. Something in the way he talks makes me want to hand my finger over for inspection. Maybe even my whole body. It’s like I can trust him. Like I already know him. “I don’t think it needs to be amputated.”

  Everybody’s a fucking comedian in this casino. If I had a dollar for every time a drunk gambler cracked a pathetic joke, I’d be on a beach in the Caribbean with a mojito in one hand and the tanned to perfection pool boy in the other. But in this case, I humor him because his tone flows over me like melted butter and I just want him to keep talking.