by Layla Frost
_______________
“Do you know what’s up with the TV?” I asked Ms. Vera when she returned with dinner later.
I’d finished one of the mystery novels, despite it being boring, long-winded, and so predictable, I’d correctly guessed the clichéd villain in the second chapter.
My brain needed a rest.
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked.
“None of the channels are working.”
She glanced at it. “I’ll ask one of the men.”
“Thanks.”
She set down the tray. “It’s time for medicine and cream.”
Damn.
“Okay,” I muttered.
I scootered after her into the bedroom. Like the morning, I took the pill and did my legs before she helped me reach my back.
“Thanks,” I said when she finished.
She offered me one of her motherly smiles. “Go wash your hands then eat.”
I didn’t argue because my disassembled fishy sandwich had left a lot to be desired.
When I returned to the sitting room, Ms. Vera was already gone. Loneliness swirled around me.
A familiar feeling.
Sighing, I flipped through the three channels that worked. Two were playing the news and one had a decade-old syndicated sitcom. Leaving it on that, I lifted the dome to reveal a huge piece of roasted chicken. I didn’t even care that it was accompanied by a few roasted carrots and a butt-ton of disgusting yellow squash coins. The chicken was massive and would be more than enough on its own.
Cutting a big piece, I stabbed it with a fork and shoved the whole chunk into my mouth.
And then I spit it back out into a napkin.
Rosemary.
The smell I hadn’t been able to place was my nemesis herb. My mouth tasted like I’d just made out with a Christmas tree.
I peeled the skin back and picked at the meat. The flavor was still there but not as strong. I ate the carrots before trying a piece of squash out of desperation. The texture and taste were as off-putting as I remembered. More so, actually.
There was no fruit, just a glass of milk I chugged to clear away the pine tree taste.
Ms. Vera must not have told Mr. Freddy what I hated.
Hopefully he’s still paying attention to what I’ve left behind.
Like after lunch, there was a knock on the door before the newly-glaring guy came in. He was silent as he grabbed the tray.
“Uh, hey—” I started, wanting to ask for something else to eat. When his angry eyes aimed at me, though, I changed my mind. Putting my knees to my chest like a shield, I wrapped my arms around my legs and stammered an apology. “Sorry, forget I said anything.”
His expression went scary hard, but his tone was gentle when he asked, “What do you need?”
“Nothing.” He glowered, and I scooted into the corner which just made him glower more. Since he didn’t seem willing to leave until I spoke, I said, “I, uh, wanted to say I’m sorry about yesterday. It won’t happen again.”
His expression stayed tight, but he lifted his chin and left.
Okay then.
Apology accepted?
_______________
The next morning, it wasn’t Ms. Vera who woke me. It was the OG glaring goon and he showed up even earlier than Ms. Vera did.
I was grumpy at the early wakeup after having tossed and turned the night before.
I was even grumpier when I got to the sitting room to see there was no coffee on my tray.
And I was damn disgruntled to see my breakfast was a frittata filled with squash, mushrooms, and chopped breakfast sausage.
I ate around the squash, but it was cut small, infiltrating every damn bite. The rest of the frittata was a work of delicious art, so the inclusion of the squash was even more infuriating.
I hate Mr. Freddy.
_______________
Despite the fact I’d started reading during breakfast, I was only a handful of chapters into a dull book about ancient civilizations when the goon brought lunch.
Desperate for human interaction, I set down my iPad to say hi to him, but he put the tray on the table and hauled ass out again like the room was on fire.
Do I smell bad?
At the thought of unpleasant odors, I inhaled, my shoulder slumping in relief when I didn’t catch a whiff of tuna from under the dome. I excitedly whipped it off to see another sandwich. I wasn’t sure what it was, but it wasn’t tuna, so that was a step in the right direction.
I took a tentative bite before grimacing.
The rosemary chicken.
All the times I offered to eat my leftovers, and they finally took me up on it with rosemary freaking chicken.
I opened the sandwich, willing to eat the lettuce, tomato, and cheese again, but there was nothing but the awful rosemary chicken salad.
Pushing it aside, I grabbed the small spoon out of the orange half that was in a small bowl.
Who gives someone half an orange and a weird spoon?
I scooped out a chunk and popped it into my mouth only to quickly realize it wasn’t an orange at all. It was a bitter, tart, disgusting grapefruit.
Stupid grapefruit, piggybacking off a grape’s good name to trick people into thinking it’s delicious, too.
Giving up on lunch all together, I picked up the iPad to read the stupid book.
There’s only so much Mesopotamia a girl can handle before she wishes she was wiped out by conquerors.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sick Fuck
Juliet
I CAN’T DO IT.
I just can’t freaking eat this.
I glared at my dinner—a triple whammy of slices of sage pork covered in a rosemary sauce with sautéed squash. I’d lived on small, crappy meals for years. I should’ve been able to suck it up and choke down the gross food, but I couldn’t do it again. I just couldn’t.
For an entire week, all my meals had consisted exclusively of food I loathed. Tuna sandwiches. Rosemary chicken. Sage pork. Omelets filled with sausage and covered in oregano. Sides of squash and gross grapefruit—something I hadn’t known I hated but I very much did.
I was being punished.
I’d suspected it after a couple days, because, really, what were the chances they kept serving me my most hated foods? But it’d seemed egotistical that meals would be planned around messing with me.
Then it became obvious it wasn’t a coincidence.
It was planned and precise torture.
Because it didn’t end at the food. The TV no longer worked at all. My iPad had disappeared, and I hadn’t been able to ask Ms. Vera because she’d disappeared, too. My clothes were back to oversized and my bath stuff had been cleared out and replaced by the same cheap stuff I’d used at home.
I was hungry for something that actually tasted good.
I was exhausted thanks to the goons waking me with the sun every day.
I was stir-crazy from being stuck in the room with no TV or books.
And because Ms. Vera had been replaced with silent goons, I was lonely. Gut-wrenchingly lonely.
So I snapped.
Scootering to the door, I banged on it. When no one came, I shouted, “I’m not eating this!”
No response.
“I’m hungry!” I tried, hoping someone would take pity on me and my inability to force down the sage and squash mess.
But still nothing.
“I hate you all so fucking much! Just give me some damn toast. Actually, just give me bread. I don’t care, assholes!”
Nothing.
I’m alone.
I’m always alone.
Trapped and suffocating, the four walls I’d been stuck within felt as though they were closing in. A choked sob tore through me, and I cursed my weakness. I should’ve been stronger. I should’ve been able to hold out.
I shouldn’t have broken.
But that was exactly what I did.
Maximo
Fucking hell, I need sleep.
Once I’d had that under control and had been about to leave, security at Star had paged to report a possible sighting of Viktor Dobrow.
Dobrow was a scumbag club owner who had aspirations of Vegas power. Since he was also stupid and a shitty businessman, he worked to achieve that goal by being a loan shark, pimp, and dealer. He’d tried multiple times to get me to allow his drugs and women to be distributed in my casinos. Rejected every time, he’d stopped asking and had tried running that shit behind my back. Since nothing happened at my properties without my knowledge, it hadn’t been long before he’d been caught.
He’d thought I’d see my cut and reconsider.
He’d been mistaken.
In addition to a broken arm and smashed face, Dobrow had been banned from my resorts and fights.
I’d driven to Star to search the place myself, but it’d been a waste of time. If he’d been there at all, he was long gone by the time I’d arrived.
Climbing the stairs, I ran my palm down my face. If I were smart, I’d steer clear of my office and go right to my room to crash.
I wasn’t smart, though. Not when it came to her.
I turned down the hallway to see someone sitting on the floor, looking at their cell.
“Just me, boss,” Cole whispered.
He wouldn’t have been sitting in front of Juliet’s door unless something was wrong.
Swear to Christ, if she tried to escape again, I’m gonna tie her to the damn bed.
Ignoring my body’s response to that inappropriate thought, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“She had a rough night. Figured I’d stay close in case she needed anything.”
“What happened?”
He stood. “She’s not too happy with your stunts.”
“Neither are Vera or Freddy.”
Vera didn’t like not being allowed to see Juliet. Freddy was disgruntled at cooking the same shit every day, especially when so much of it went untouched. He was a chef whose ego depended on people loving his dishes. Normally they did, so the mostly untouched meals were a blow he wasn’t accustomed to.
Cole shook his head. “I mean she’s really not happy.”
“Good.” Truth be told, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep it up. There was a good chance I’d break before the stubborn, ballsy dove did.
“Watch the footage.” Stretching, he started for the stairs. “I’m crashing in the pool house.”
He usually did.
Rather than getting the sleep I needed, I went into my office and sat, grabbing the remote.
Security monitors hung on the wall opposite my desk in all my offices—including my home. I could switch between my casinos, the back offices, and outside my house.
And Juliet’s sitting room and bedroom.
I hadn’t turned on the bedroom camera. Not that I was a saint. Unless someone was with me, her sitting room was always on the main screen. Watching her had become a sick obsession.
I turned on the camera to see her sleeping on her couch with the light on and no blanket.
Standing back up, I went down the hall to her room. I opened the door, quietly closing it behind me so I didn’t wake her. She didn’t look comfortable, and I was tempted to carry her to bed, but I didn’t. Moving the coffee table, I grabbed her blanket and covered her.
And then I turned off the lights and got the hell out.
Returning to my office, I grabbed a tumbler and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. I drank as the footage from the night slowly rewound.
When she moved from sleeping on the couch to the door, I pressed play.
Like Cole said, she wasn’t happy. I’d have smiled at her calling us assholes had it not been for the emotion threading her words.
She’s killing me.
I was about to wake her and feed her whatever the hell she wanted when it happened.
She broke.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Her crying grew louder. “I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate what I had before.” Her forehead hit the door with a thud. “I tried to come back! I tried to crawl back to you!”
She’d tried to crawl back to me.
Not the house. Not here.
Me.
Fuck, that went straight to my dick.
I should’ve gone to sleep. I should’ve at least turned off the camera.
I didn’t do either.
Instead, I took a quick shower and changed clothes before returning to my office and my whiskey.
And Juliet.
Juliet
Itchy, flat pillow. Neck hurting. Scrunched positioning on a lumpy bed.
I’m back home.
Still mostly asleep, I stretched and rolled.
And then I fell.
“Oof,” I wheezed. Sitting up, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes to see I wasn’t home—or what used to be home. I was on the floor of the sitting room.
Thankfully, one of the goons or Ms. Vera had moved the table and covered me with the puffy blanket that offered a bit of cushion. Otherwise, I’d have likely hit my head or hurt myself worse than I already had.
As it was, pain radiated from my hip bone.
I moved my hand around to feel for my scooter in the dark, but there was nothing.
Well, shit.
Before I could pull myself back onto the couch, the door opened, light filtering through from the hallway.
I expected one of the goons, but it wasn’t. Instead, Maximo stood in the open doorway. Wearing only a pair of low riding joggers, he was shirtless, showing off his insane muscles. Guiltily, my eyes darted up from his abs to his disheveled hair. I wondered if I’d woken him with my fall, which made me also wonder how close his room was that he’d been able to hear. With the light behind him, I wasn’t able to make out the details of his expression, so I didn’t know if he was pissed at being disturbed.
“I fell off the couch in my sleep,” I said feebly when the silence stretched. I glanced around before pointing to where my scooter had ended up. “Can you push that to me?”
He didn’t move.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “I’ll figure it out.”
I was going to climb back on the couch to sleep there for the night. It wasn’t as comfortable as the bed—especially without a pillow—but it beat the floor.
When I shifted, he finally walked toward me but stopped a foot away.
My eyes caught on his torso and the tattoos there. His arms were a mix of designs, but the left side of his torso was all Vegas. The sign. Chips. His upper chest and part of his shoulder were covered with a king—the playing card kind. A spike on the king’s crown was what stretched onto Maximo’s neck.
Hoping the poor lighting hid my inspection of his tattoos—and his cut muscles—I tipped my head back to look at his shadowed face.
“You can go back to bed,” I tried, not even sure he was actually awake. I used to sleepwalk as a kid—a side effect of stress. Shifting onto my knees, I was about to pull myself onto the couch when his hand stroked my head, his fingers combing through my hair.
My breath seized in my lungs at the unexpected and gentle touch. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I wanted it to continue. Even as my heart raced and my palms grew sweaty, I stayed as still as possible so I didn’t break the spell.
His hand was gone just as quick, but before I could mourn the loss, he bent to pick me up. Only instead of cradling me like he’d done before, I was positioned with my front to his. He took a step and my legs automatically wrapped around his waist as my hands clutched his shoulder.
He froze and inhaled deeply, letting it out in a harsh rush.
Whiskey.
With my face close to his, I could smell the smokiness of the liquor on his breath. It wasn’t the cheap, turpentine kind I’d often smelled, but I still recognized it.
No wonder he’s
being so weird.
He’s drunk.
I tried to drop my legs, but he lowered one arm from my back to hold my thigh and keep it in place. Carrying me into the bedroom, he set me on the bed before going back into the sitting room. He returned a moment later, leaving the scooter within reach and tossing the blanket on the bed.
And then he left, never saying a single word the whole time.
Definitely drunk.
Being drunk explained his weirdness. It didn’t, however, explain my body’s reaction to him. To his body. To his touch. My heart still raced in my chest, and my legs shifted restlessly, wanting to ease an ache I shouldn’t have felt. I could’ve blamed it on my loneliness or that I was far too tired to use my brain. But it was more than that.
It was the feelings he evoked. The pull. His tender touch.
It was just Maximo.
And that was proof I’d lost my mind.
Life held enough disappointments, I wasn’t big on setting myself up for more by building up fantasies in my head.
And I wasn’t Belle going all Stockholm Syndrome for a beast.
Because, sure, Maximo—with his tattoos, pelvic muscles, and broodingly dark eyes—was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my life, but that didn’t matter. Appearances weren’t everything. He was a bad man.
Which is what I kept telling myself, over and over as the tension in my belly tightened like a coiled spring. I ignored it and tried to sleep but kept tossing and turning like I was back in my tiny twin bed with uncomfortable threadbare sheets. My mind fought my body.
And my body won.
Kicking the blanket off, my hand went down my pants to cup myself between my legs. I blanked my thoughts as I touched my clit with hurried, practiced circles, but it didn’t work like it usually did.
I tried cupping my breast, but even needy and on the edge of the cliff, it wasn’t enough to make me dive.
Past the point of no return, desperation kicked in and I let the fantasy I’d been fighting take over. I imagined Maximo in bed with me. Guiding my touches before replacing my hand with his tattooed one. I pictured the perfection that was his tall, muscular body as I ran my fingers along the deep vee I’d seen above the waistband of his joggers.
His joggers.
They look exactly like the ones I wore a few days ago.