by Meghan March
I can’t help but wonder if her bending forward until her nipples are practically showing is for the benefit of the eggplants or because she’s really planning to tell me a secret. She lowers her voice to a whisper, and I have my answer.
“They line up for him now that they think he could possibly be the next head of the family. Power is the ultimate pussy magnet.”
The next head of the family. I don’t know where Randi got this much information, but I assume it’s from one of those women who didn’t get a second shot at the man in question.
It’s not difficult to imagine Cannon Freeman strolling through a room packed with women, his hands in the pockets of his tailored suit pants, surveying the offerings. He’d stop in front of one and give her a chin lift and say something like, “Come on. You’re coming with me tonight. All night.”
For some stupid reason, my thighs clench together at the image. The man has enough power and presence to pull it off, regardless of the cheesy line.
“I can see that,” I tell her, sipping like the information is nothing but anecdotal.
Randi’s sparkling brown eyes snap to my face. “You want to fuck him. Don’t deny it. I knew you would.” She pumps her fist in the air like she won a prize.
“What? No. Of course not.”
I deny it vehemently, even though part of me did consider using seduction to get the information I need, but only one night isn’t going to do jack. Cannon Freeman isn’t the kind of man who would spill everything in pillow talk after a single killer orgasm. No, he needs to trust me implicitly before he’ll tell me anything worthwhile. You don’t live this long in a mob family by being stupid or indiscreet.
“Psh. He’d fuck you. Maybe even more than once. God, wouldn’t that be the tits? If you were the woman to break the one-night spell?”
I roll my eyes at her. “Like he’s Sleeping Beauty waiting for a kiss from the prince?”
“If Sleeping Beauty were a guy with a big ol’ dick waiting for the right pussy to fuck twice,” Randi says with a laugh. “Damn, that’d be a good story. I should write that shit down.”
She untucks her phone from where it’s trapped between her black lacy bra and her right boob, and her thumbs fly over the screen as she makes notes.
As soon as she puts it down, I can’t help but ask, “Anything else you want to share that you didn’t mention before the interview? Anything that’ll help me keep my job?”
Randi taps a nail against the side of her phone, and the glitter flashes in the light of the bar. “I’ve heard he fucks everyone who works for him, but that’s not wildly surprising. How could anyone resist? Hmm . . .”
“How’s his relationship with his dad?” I ask, leading her away from the sexual topics that make me want to squirm in my seat.
Randi’s eyes widen, and she ducks her head down toward me and the champagne flutes. “Don’t say that out loud. Not in public, and for God’s sake, not that loud.” She scans the bar as if looking for a hit squad coming to kill us.
I lower my voice and lean closer. “It’s not a secret, though. At least, I thought that’s what you said when I applied for the job.”
“It might be the worst-kept secret, but it’s not something you wanna be talking about . . . if you know what I mean,” Randi whispers.
I know exactly what she means. Because people who get caught digging too close to the Casso family end up six feet under. If they’re lucky.
As my celebratory mood fades with that thought, a man comes up behind Randi and covers both shoulders with his hands.
“Watching you over here is killing me, babe. You and your friend want to come join us? We’ll show you both a real good time.”
The guy is about as tall as Randi is while seated, but she glances down at his hand on her left shoulder—his massive hand—and looks up at him from under her eyelashes. “You’re pretty bold for a little guy.”
“I ain’t little everywhere. Promise.”
I avoid the awkwardness of overhearing their flirting by staring down at my almost-empty champagne glass. After about five minutes, I decide my presence is de trop.
“I gotta go, Randi. Big day tomorrow with the new job. Thank you so much for the champagne. You’re the best.”
Randi and her friend both watch me slide off my stool and slip my bag over my shoulder. Once I’m on my feet, he scans me from the top of my blond wig to the toes of my black leather boots.
“You’re more than welcome to join us, babe.”
I’m five foot five, and I can look him directly in the eye. Not exactly what I would have pegged as Randi’s type . . . until I remember that her self-professed type is pretty much everyone.
“Thanks, but I’m heading home.” I round the table to slip an arm around Randi’s shoulder and give her a halfway hug while avoiding touching her date. “Be safe.”
She catches me against her even tighter. “Always. No glove, no love. Talk at you after your first day. Knock ’em dead.”
As I walk out of the bar, I feel a sting of remorse that I’ve forged this friendship with Randi under false pretenses. She’s good people. I vow to myself that whatever happens next, none of this will blow back on her.
5
Drew
The next morning, I inhale the moneyed air of the Upper Ten as I cross the threshold into the foyer. Sir No Neck, whose name I don’t yet know, is standing in a big-and-tall-collection suit with his arms crossed.
At first, I think it’s a casual pose, at least until I see the subtle variation in the lines of his suit. Nope, his arms aren’t crossed to look casual. He’s probably able to draw two pistols from his discreet shoulder holsters faster than I could duck to miss the bullets.
“Ms. Carson,” he says in a voice deeper than the ocean, with Brooklyn vividly coloring his speech. “Welcome to the Upper Ten. If you ever need something, you let me know. I take care of things around here for Mr. Freeman.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . .”
“No mister. Just Grice.”
Wanting to start insinuating myself with every single person I can, as soon as possible, I hold out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Grice. I’m Drew. That Ms. Carson business is too formal for me too.”
His bearlike paw closes around my proffered hand. “Nah. You’re a classy broad. Ms. Carson it is.”
As I smile, he gives my hand a shake gentler than I would have expected, and then releases me to open the door behind him.
“Give her hell. She’s all bark. You know the type.”
“What? Who?” I ask the question, but his attention is already on the next person walking through the entrance into the foyer.
With Grice’s cryptic remark on my mind, I step into the Upper Ten and pause to survey the empty lounge.
It’s a haven for rich men. Every wingback chair invites a man to sit down and drink a snifter of cognac and smoke a cigar, away from the hustle and bustle of the city streets sixteen stories below us. With its exclusive clientele, members of the Upper Ten don’t have to be worried about being bothered, regardless of whether they’re famous or notorious.
The tinge of lemon I detected yesterday is even stronger today, which I assume means the housekeeping crew has been through to keep the luxurious space meticulous.
“You’re late.”
A sharp tone cuts me from behind, and I spin around to face a tall, fit woman with a light brown lob as she stares daggers at me.
“I was supposed to be here at ten, right?”
I glance down at my watch, but forget I took it off because I didn’t think a waitress should be wearing an engraved Cartier timepiece without a solid explanation, and my father gave it to me for graduating summa cum laude from journalism school would be the absolute worst one to give. I try not to lie about stupid things, so even though I hate not wearing it, it’s tucked safely in my drawer at home. But still, I know from my last glance at my cell phone that I’m still at least ten minutes early. After being a reporter for years, I show up ea
“It’s nine forty-seven. All training meetings start at nine thirty, which means you’re late. Come on, you’ve got a lot to learn in a morning.” She spins on her shiny black heels and marches toward the panel where Cannon took me for my interview yesterday.
Give her hell. She’s all bark. Now I know exactly what Grice was talking about.
I also know that Cannon told me to be here at ten, but I’m not going to argue with the woman, especially since she walked away without introducing herself. I have to assume she’s Tanya, the head waitress, which means my new job is going to be fabulous.
Stepping quickly to keep up with her as she disappears into the secret door, I slip inside and follow her down the hallway.
“Employee break room is right here.” She stops in front of the last door on the left. The one at the end of the hall is closed, and I wonder if the boss is inside.
The thought of seeing Cannon again sends a cavalcade of shivers running up and down my spine. Those are not shivers of anticipation. They’re dread, I tell myself.
The woman snaps her fingers, and I jerk my chin toward her.
“Pay attention, Carson.” She shoves through the door and points to a wall of wooden lockers. “You’re locker number seven. Don’t lose the key. Cannon hates to break out the bolt cutters.”
From her bitchy attitude, it’s obvious she doesn’t like me. Anyone could figure that out, but I don’t know what I did to earn her animosity.
“Got it.” I sweep by her, careful to keep a few inches between us, and make my way to locker number seven.
As I’m tucking my purse inside, she produces a set of keys out of her pocket and uses them to unlock a closet on the other wall. She yanks out two pristine white shirts.
“Try these both on. Choose whichever fits best but doesn’t leave your tits busting out. That’s not what we’re here for, get me?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes narrow like she’s trying to determine whether I’m lying and got this job for the purpose of trying to snag myself a rich man. If she only knew the truth . . .
“Do you drink?” The next question out of her mouth surprises me even more.
“Some. A glass of wine with dinner or a cocktail with friends. I’ve bartended before, so I know my way around if you need backup there—”
She cuts me off with a militant expression. “That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about all day, every day. Not just to wind down in the evening.”
I shake my head, and whatever she sees on my face must pass inspection.
Nodding, she says, “Good. The last thing we need here is someone slipping behind the bar to take a shot to get through the shift. You ever drink the alcohol here, you’re fired. If I catch you snorting anything or popping pills, Cannon will toss you out himself. Understand?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I would never dream of it.”
She steps away from the closet, and her features lose some of their aggression. “We’ll order you a few more in whatever size you need. I’ll be waiting in the bar area for you when you’re done. Make it quick.”
After she shoves the two hangers at me and I grab them, I hold my breath until she disappears from the employee break room.
Riiight. She’s definitely all bark.
I quickly try on the shirt and choose the larger size just to be safe, because I don’t want to misstep any further when it comes to her. With the shirt I was wearing tucked into the locker with my purse, the discarded size hung precisely where it goes in the closet, I straighten my shoulders and head out to face her straight on.
She won’t scare me away, no matter how hard she tries.
The next hour flies by in a blur.
I meet the day-shift bartender, Letty, a cheerful single mom in black slacks, a white shirt, and black vest that I assume is the bartender uniform. It certainly suits her black angled pixie-cut hairstyle and dark brown eyes. She tells me that her evening shift counterpart is Stefano, and that I’ll love him. I take her word for it but reserve judgment for when I meet the man with a name straight out of the soap opera my grandma watched up until she died three years ago.
I learn the layout of the club, including which rooms are for cigars and which don’t permit smoking. The glassed-in room is referred to as the conservatory, which immediately starts me thinking about Clue and how it was probably Colonel Mustard, with the candlestick.
A rush of the grief I’ve shoved down so effectively bubbles up with the thought. Dad and I played Clue all the time. And it was always motherfucking Colonel Mustard with the goddamned candlestick.
I promise you’ll have justice, Dad. I promise.
Unfortunately, my little jaunt down memory lane earns me a reprimand in the midst of Tanya’s spiel on why I’m not allowed to ever leave with a member, which seems to correspond directly to her warning not to choose a shirt that leaves my tits busting out. As if that would really be an issue.
“Are you paying attention? Jesus. How is it possible he hired you?” Tanya snaps, although she has yet to introduce herself to me. Then she looks over my shoulder, and immediately, the sour expression that has pinched her features since the minute I walked in morphs into a sweet, welcoming smile. “Hey, Cannon. How are you this morning?”
Instantly, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I can feel him walking closer, even though the thick carpet muffles his footsteps. But nothing could mute the sheer magnitude of his presence. I curl my fingers into fists, fighting my unsettling awareness of him.
“Morning, Tanya. Drew.” He halts beside me, and I glance up at his carved cheekbones, strong jaw, and intense hazel eyes. “How’s the training going?”
I expect Tanya to immediately give him the rundown on how horrible she thinks I am, starting with me allegedly showing up late, which I’m hoping Cannon will then correct her about because he told me to come in at ten. But shockingly, she doesn’t.
“Too soon to tell, but I trust your judgment, Boss. You know that.” Her gaze clings to Cannon and her fingers flex at her sides, like she wants to reach out to touch him, but won’t because they have an audience.
“He fucks everyone who works for him,” Randi’s voice whispers in my brain. “It’s not his wandering hands you’ll have to worry about. He’s a dog with a big, wandering dick. He’ll never fuck the same pussy twice.”
Oh Lord. I really hope that’s not the case, because having my new superior hate me because she’s sure the boss is going to try to sleep with me when he won’t come back to her bed would be awkward as hell and supremely unhelpful.
“I knew you’d take good care of her. When you’re done today, make sure you introduce her to Matteo. He’s training her on the inventory this afternoon.” Only after he’s made the declaration about something that’s happening in my life shortly, which no one has bothered to inform me about, does Cannon Freeman turn the full force of his magnetic personality on me.
He stares directly into my eyes, his brow furrowing as though he’s trying to see beneath the layers of my makeup.
Good luck. I’ve got the stuff caked on for a reason.
“You have any questions yet, Drew?”
I have thousands of questions for Cannon, but only two very, very important ones—why did the Casso family order my father’s death, and who did it? But of course, I can’t ask them.
“No questions.” I lie with a cheerful smile on my face that’s as fake as my name. “Tanya is doing a great job. I’m excited to shadow her today and learn the ropes firsthand.”
I expect to hear a pissed huff from Tanya, but her expression is one of pure worship.
Oh, good Lord. This is so weird.
“Perfect.” Cannon’s gaze tracks over my uniform shirt. “I’m glad. I don’t like to make hiring mistakes. No good comes of that. I’ll catch up with you later to answer any questions Tanya and Matteo can’t.”
Even after his eyes leave me and he takes a half step back, clearly intending to leave us, his scrutiny remains like tiny pinpricks all over my skin. I’ve never been this hyperaware of a man before, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“I have a question for you,” Tanya says with honey dripping from her tone before he can turn.
It’s impressive that the edges of her phony smile aren’t wearing thin already. It has to be a lot of effort for her to pretend this effectively when only moments ago she could have won a contest for superbitch.
“Can we talk about it in your office after the lunch rush?” she asks. “I’m sure you know what I want to discuss.”
Did her lashes just flutter? Lord, she’s got it bad.
“Not today, Tanya. I’m busy.” Cannon’s tone shifts from easy to harsh in a heartbeat.
Tanya bites down on her lower lip, as if holding in a protest, but says nothing further as Cannon disappears into the hidden hallway. As soon as he’s gone, her chin rises an inch and she glares down her nose at me.
“Don’t make me look bad while we’re working, or you’ll be out on your ass tomorrow.”
And . . . superbitch is back.
6
Drew
For the next two hours, I shadow Tanya as she works the room, efficiently moving from table to table, taking orders and chatting amiably with the club members.
For all that she’s a complete bitch to me, I have to admit she handles the members with laughable ease. Apparently, I’m not the only chameleon in this place.
We move to a new table, and her bright smile, just a few watts dimmer than the one she graced Cannon with, lands on a celebrity actor who has a reputation for being extremely private. I remember reading once that he doesn’t have any social media accounts, and he once told a journalist that he only owed the public his performances, not his soul. Of course, the media just tried harder to hound him for interviews after that—an assignment that I turned down because digging through his trash to find out what he was really up to wasn’t of interest to me.
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