“Hi, you two,” Alice says, taking a pencil from behind her ear. “Long time, no see. How are you, Mr. Monroe?”
Dad nods. “Doing well.” He yawns again, and I notice for the first time how thin his face looks, almost gaunt. His greyish skin stands out in the warm afternoon lighting, and even his thick brown hair seems to be thinning.
Alice beams. “And you?”
“Great.” For a moment, I think about inviting her to Tribe of Amazons for a class. One step at a time, Joslyn, I tell myself. “I’m doing well.”
“What can I get for you? The usual?”
My stomach rumbles, and I shake my head. “I’ll have a gyro with a side salad. Oh, and cheese fries.” I hand her the greasy menu. “And iced tea, please. Unsweetened.”
Dad chuckles. “Someone brought her appetite today.” I flush as he turns to the waitress and continues, “I’ll just have a fruit cup, please.”
“Dad.” I can’t stop a frown from furrowing my brow and wrinkling my nose. I love my dad more than anything. More than life. “That’s like, nothing. Are you feeling okay?” Before he can reply, I reach across the table and put my hand on his forehead. “What’s the matter? You love gyros.”
“Nothing. Really, pumpkin. It’s nothing. Just not up for the greasy spoon today.”
The waitress stands there awkwardly for a minute.
“I’m fine,” Dad repeats.
Alice gives a thin smile. “Okay,” she says in a chirpy voice. “I’ll be right back with your iced tea.”
As soon as she’s gone, I bite my lip. “Dad, what’s going on? You’d better tell me the truth,” I warn. “Because I can always tell when you’re lying.”
Dad sighs. “Honey, it’s nothing.” He reaches across the table and takes my hands in his. His skin is warm but paper-thin, and it just makes me all the more worried.
“Are you sick?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Well, have you been to a doctor?”
“No. I’m not sick, I promise.”
“I’ll take you this weekend to see Dr. Clark.” At the firmness of my words, I wince. I feel like we’ve had a role reversal and I’m now the parent. “And there’s no getting out of it. Remind me after we eat, and I’ll call and make–”
“Joslyn,” Dad snaps, and I rear back. I know that tone. I’ve pushed him too far. “I’m not going to be treated like an invalid by my own daughter. I’m fine. I’m tired, that’s all. You know I’m turning sixty-five soon.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” I placate him, not knowing what else might be appropriate to say to someone about to receive his Medicare card. “And Dad, I’m sorry – I’m not trying to push. You know I just want the best for you. I want you to be okay. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Dad stares at me for a long moment before squeezing my hand in his. “I know. And I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just very stressed right now, with work.”
“Oh,” I say softly.
I feel like an idiot – it hadn’t even occurred to me that soon, my father would be of retirement age. Dad’s always loved his work, throwing himself into it for as long as I can remember. But he always took the time to be a good father too. We’ve been so close throughout the years due to his dedication. Working as the chairman of the Nevada Gaming Commission has been my dad’s second passion in life…second only to being a father to me, his only child.
“Yeah.” Dad swallows and wrinkles his forehead. There’s something he’s not telling me. I know him, and I know when he’s withholding.
“I know you don’t want to retire,” I say. “But Dad, it’s not going to be all bad. You can finally travel, you know. Get out of Vegas for a few days. Maybe we could even take a trip together, didn’t you always say that you wanted to go to Italy?”
Dad shakes his head. “Honey, I don’t know if we’ll have time to do that.”
I blink, not understanding why a man with the world’s most stressful job wouldn’t want to finally hang it up and see the world. Just like he’s always dreamed about. “And why not?”
The waitress appears with our food. My gyro looks heavenly – the lamb steams hot, and the creamy tzatziki looks amazing. Even the diced tomatoes on top look ripe and succulent. My dad’s fruit cup, on the other hand, looks sad. Mostly cantaloupe and honeydew, it’s about the size of a teacup.
“Dad, you’re sharing some of this.” I reach for my iced tea and take a long sip. It’s cold and refreshing, and I have to make an effort not to drink the whole glass in one swallow.
Dad frowns as he stares at my overflowing plate of grub.
“Come on,” I say. “I insist. Besides, there’s no way I could eat all of this.” That’s a lie. After a huge workout, I’m always starving…and I’m pretty sure I could inhale the whole gyro and platter of cheese fries in the time it would take my dad to find the lone grape at the bottom of his fruit cup.
Dad purses his lips.
“You’re sharing with me, and that’s an order,” I demand. “Come on.” I push the plate of cheese fries to my dad’s side of the table and watch like a hawk as he reaches down and takes a lone fry, gnawing on the end.
“Thanks, honey,” Dad concedes. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such a grump. I know you had a great day. I want to hear all about it.”
“We already talked about my day.” I frown and try to steer the conversation back to him. He’s withholding, and inquiring minds want to know why. My appetite begins to fade, even with the delicious scent of roasted meat directly in front of me. “Dad, I know there’s something else going on. Please, I’m your only daughter. Won’t you tell me?”
Dad takes a long time chewing his cheese fry. He takes a long sip of water, then looks into my eyes. His eyes are the exact same as mine – bright blue.
“Honey, I just don’t want you to worry about me. An old-timer like me doesn’t know anything but work. I can’t imagine being retired…not when I still feel like I have so many years left.” He sighs, and the sound does nothing to dissipate my anxiety. “And I know I’m going to be bored as heck when it’s time for me to step down.”
“I promise, I’ll make sure you’re not bored. There’s tons of stuff for you to be doing – you could join a book club, or maybe start volunteering. And maybe we could learn to sail together, didn’t you always say you wanted a boat? I think they teach sailing lessons on Lake Mead. If not, we could go somewhere else. Take a trip together.”
“Joslyn, I love you more than anything.” He reaches for another fry. “But I really don’t want to discuss this any further, okay?”
I bite my lip. Even though I’m twenty-eight, my dad still knows how to make me feel like a kid. I don’t like it. I’ve spent my entire life kicking ass and taking names. Feelings of inferiority make my skin crawl.
“Okay.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand once more. “I promise, I won’t bring it up again.”
But I will.
After lunch, I’m exhausted. I know I should go home and sleep, but I can’t. I can’t stop worrying about my dad. I’ve read too many horror stories about people who retire and go crazy with boredom, or even develop depression later in life. Then they die. If anything happens to my dad, it would kill me.
As I watch my dad’s figure slowly walking away down the sidewalk, I make the mental commitment to make sure he’s never bored or unhappy. After all, we’re family. But I know that I’ve got my work cut out for me.
Chapter Four
Troy
I pace back and forth in front of the Armónico. It’s late, and my head feels like shit. By now, a bruise the size of a baseball balloons the side of my face, and my eye is almost swollen shut. I know I should go home and get some sleep, but after the day I’ve had, I want nothing more than to go to a bar and drink my sorrows away.
Surprisingly, Nixon wasn’t angry about what happened. The Clapton statue survived the fall. Since it’s Nixon’s favorite, I’d worried about it. They’d played “Tears In Heaven�
� at every Nixon family memorial since his dad committed suicide. The Forever Man has been restored to his pedestal at the front of the casino. Nixon even told me to go home and get some rest, but I yank myself up by my bootstraps, suck it up and pull my determination around me like a cloak. I’m going to finish this shift as long as I’m conscious.
And after a few excruciating hours, I make it. The clock on my phone says midnight. Time to shove off and put this horse shit day in the not so distant past.
I groan as a group of drunk girls push past me, stumbling into the casino on too-tall heels as their inebriated giggles pierce the air. Normally, I’d be staring at their asses. But right now, the only thing I feel like staring at is a bottle of whiskey and an empty shot glass.
Getting rip-roaring drunk will numb the pain. The only thing that will. Both the physical and the darker pain that lingers in my heart.
Shoving my hands in my pockets, I wander down the Strip and into a liquor store. People bustle around inside, despite the hour, grabbing bottles off the shelves as if they’re Snickers bars. I clutch a bottle of Maker’s Mark – classier than my normal rotgut – and push my way to the front.
A petite girl with dark skin and big eyes stands behind the register. When she sees my face, her jaw drops. Normally, the ladies admire my face. I wince and slam the bottle on the counter in front of her. I just want to get the fuck out of here without the grating third degree.
“You should put some ice on that.” She narrows her eyes at me as she keeps staring, her brow furrowing into an uncomely grimace. “You want to buy some? We’ve got bags outside.”
“Sure,” I say, giving in. Why are women constantly trying to nurture us? Some of us just want to be left the fuck alone. “Why not.”
The girl flushes, reaching out a hand to caress my face. She stops short and shudders. I watch the gentle quakes rack her body. I feel nothing while she seems to feel everything. “Sorry. It just looks painful.”
I’d roll my eyes, but the pain would be too much. “It is.”
I clip out the words as I pass over my credit card. The girl bags up my whiskey and I wrap my hand around the neck, feeling the paper crackle under my fingers. As I stumble outside, I grab a bag of ice from the cooler since I paid for it already. For a moment, I’m tempted to rip open the bag right then and there, take some ice, and put it right on that big shiner of mine. But the Vegas heat radiates up from the sidewalk and street, and I know it would be nothing but a puddle by the time I get home.
When I get back to my apartment, I take a shot glass and crash in front of the television. I rip open the whiskey bag and pour myself a big shot before tilting my head back and swallowing the amber liquid. It coats the inside of my mouth like a prayer, and I close my eyes and groan. My head throbs in pain – I should’ve gotten some aspirin along with the Maker’s – but I’m so wiped that I can’t even pull myself off the couch.
I sleep on the couch all night. In the morning, the Maker’s bottle looks close to empty and my head feels like a fishbowl full of concrete and pain. I wince as I climb to my feet. Nausea blooms in my stomach, and I brace myself against the back of the couch. Walking to the bathroom feels like I’m heading to a gallows of my own making, and I slump down on the closed toilet and bury my face in my hands until the powerful wave of nausea passes. When I get to my feet, I force myself to look in the mirror.
What I see makes me groan. Ass isn’t even strong enough to describe the visage staring back at me. My puffy and swollen face wouldn’t even make a homeless woman swoon. Dark blood pools under my right eye, and I can’t touch the lump on the side of my head without wincing.
Great. Nixon’s going to love this thug working security at his casino.
I’m sure I’ll be great for the whole image of ‘class’ he’s going for with his C-suite execs. He’s a little hoity-toity, best friend or not. His dress and mannerisms reek wealth and privilege. I don’t fit. It’s like a fucking Game of Thrones version of Ernie singing one of these things is not like the others.
And I fucking don’t belong.
I shake my head. Everything hurts. My head throbs and my limbs ache, and my stomach feels like I’m on a rollercoaster that I can’t seem to escape. When I get in the shower, even the water hurts as it pelts my skin. But I do have to admit that by the time I get out, I feel slightly better. My headache starts to fade, and the worst of the hangover shakes float away.
As I get dressed, I hear my phone buzz on the table. With a groan, I reach down and look at the screen. It’s not a call – it’s an event reminder.
Pussy self-defense class – Tribe of Amazons – 10:30 a.m.
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter under my breath. The last thing I feel like doing is going to a women’s gym and letting a bunch of scrawny little girls with fake boobs try to kick and punch me. The thought of it just makes my head throb a new shade of agony. But I promised Nixon that I’d connect with this Joslyn chick today to see what she needs me to do. I can’t exactly back down from my promises now. Not when I’m trying to make VP of Security.
And certainly not when I’m trying to prove to Nixon that I do, in fact, have leadership skills. And coordination…normally. I can lead some pussy posers. How hard can it be?
As soon as I step outside my apartment for the Armónico, the sun shines hot and bright in the sky. I drip sweat by the time I get to my car, and my shirt clings to me when I reach the casino. I ignore the main doors of the casino and walk to the Promenade, where Tribe of Amazons sits squeezed between Taryn’s high-end boutique with a fussy, French-sounding name and a little café serving tapas and frozen yogurt.
Loud, intense music blares from the door of Tribe of Amazons, and when I push open the front doors, no one even looks back. What I see makes me stop and stare. These women – most of them, anyway – aren’t the obvious trophy wives. They’re gorgeous but real, not plastic-looking. And the instructor stops me dead in my tracks. All the breath leaves my body on a sigh of lust.
She wears a striped sports bra that shows off her tanned, taut abdomen and a pair of black leggings that hug the curves of her thighs and ass. Her black, curly hair is pulled back into a messy bun, and even from the back of the room, her bright blue eyes pierce me. Straight to my fucking soul.
At my tentative step forward, she stops moving and cocks her head to the side. Then she bends down and hits a button on the stereo. The music cuts and all of the other women freeze in place before turning around.
“Come on in,” the instructor calls. She clears her throat. “I’m Joslyn.”
I nod. “Troy,” I call back.
Marcella gives me a flirty little wave. I try to smile at her but wince when it stretches the swollen skin of my face too tight. She narrows her eyes in concern. A curious smile spreads over Joslyn’s pretty face as she steps closer. Her glistening radiance can’t be ignored. My cock doesn’t. That damn organ stiffens and aches.
I will it to stand down as I admire Joslyn’s heaving breaths that cause her perfect, real tits to rise and fall. Up close, she’s a hard wall of muscle. Shredded but still feminine. It doesn’t look like there’s an inch of fat anywhere on that trim body of hers.
“So, ladies,” Joslyn calls. “Troy is here to help us by playing our vicious perpetrator today. I want you to pay very close attention.”
Shit. This isn’t exactly going the way I’d thought. I assumed that she was going to introduce me to the class, maybe try a few exercises. But Joslyn stares at me with lust in her eyes the color of a calm ocean.
Bloodlust.
She wants me. But not in the way that I’m aching for. She wants to kick my ass.
“This man followed me home one night.” Joslyn steps around me in a slow circle, never turning her back. “A pervert. A maniacal, venomous, deranged piece of shit. And what do you think I did?”
Fuck. So, it’s going to go down like this, is it? Which is stupid considering we haven’t had a conversation about it yet. I turn toward the woman, ready to follow her
lead.
A nervous ripple of laughter rips through the room just as Joslyn’s powerful fist connects with my jaw. Her speed rushes forward like a bolt of lightning that I don’t see coming, and I stagger backward.
“No ad-libbing, Troy,” Joslyn hisses under her breath. “This is important. If you’re a woman, you’re a target of men’s warped desires. A victim just waiting to happen. These women are my responsibility. Violence isn’t going to darken their door on my watch.”
I wonder what the fuck kind of men she’s used to dealing with. Jesus Christ. It’s like the entire feminist movement has taken up residence inside her petite body. She begins to bounce back and forth on the balls of her feet.
“Now, girls.” The tone of Joslyn’s voice gets my attention. It’s almost as if she wants to kill me. I wonder who hurt her. If that douche stood in front of me right now, I’d kill him. “If someone reaches out and tries to grab you, this is what you do.”
Joslyn grabs my right arm by the wrist and twists it behind my back. I let her, but I’m also astonished that someone so petite can have so much strength. In a matter of seconds, I’m hunched over, and it feels like my arm is going to pop out of the socket.
“Grab and twist,” Joslyn yells. “That’s what you do – you have to disarm him. If you physically defend yourself, you’ll possess the element of surprise. Use it to your advantage. And another thing. The FBI did a study that discovered almost one hundred percent of women close their eyes during an attack. Never, ever, close your eyes.”
She lets go of me, and I stagger backward, surprised at her animosity. That a woman like her bristles with a toughness I’ve never even seen in another man. Not even Nixon Caldwell. I’ve never encountered anything like it before. I’m not sure I like it. One thing I do know, I like her. I’m attracted to her. Pulled toward her in a warped way I don’t understand.
“And, obviously, you know where the sensitive spots are,” Joslyn says with a smirk before rushing at me. Holding my spot, I don’t move as she grabs my face and twists my head to the side, harder than necessary. Her fingers dig into the bruise, and I bite back the groan of pain as she mimes putting her fingers in my eye sockets and pulling.
All In (Caldwell Brothers Book 5) Page 3