“I’m so sorry,” the older woman is saying, frantic as she grabs her purse from the chair she was occupying a moment ago at the blackjack table.
“Mr. Caruso, you need to come with us,” one of the guards says.
For the first time, I notice another guy in their group. He’s hanging back a few feet, looking resigned to the proceedings. He’s well over six foot, but stands with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders rounded, like he’s trying to avoid drawing any attention to himself. The tearful bride barrels into him for a hug as Mr. Caruso is led off the floor.
“You two. Come with me,” the remaining security officer says.
My gaze falls to the security tag clipped to his lapel. Muscles bulge beneath the suit sleeves. He looks like a bodybuilder dressed for a job interview. Like he probably moonlights as a professional wrestler called The Boulder.
He is not the sort of person you argue with.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I say, even as I fall into step beside him and Adam.
“We’ll discuss this off the floor.” The guard keeps walking, brooking no room for argument. My heart races—I knew things could still get worse. They’re going to take our winnings back. Or make us give them to that Mr. Caruso guy. Or—god—call the actual police to sort this thing out, and then we’ll miss the show, and Josie will see the police report—
I am fully spiraling by the time we reach a nondescript door along the back wall of the casino. The security guard tugs on his ID, which is connected by one of those pulley strings, and touches it to a black electronic keypad. The light turns green as the automatic lock opens. He holds the door open for us, and I hesitate a moment before stepping through. I’m trying to recall Tyler’s number from memory as the heavy door clicks shut behind us.
CHAPTER FOURTEENADAM
We’re led down a fluorescent-lit hall to a windowless room that seems straight out of the movies—the kind of place they hold people who cheat at cards while giant men like our security guard friend toss them around to send a message.
That kind of thing probably doesn’t happen in real life.
The guard gestures toward the metal table and four chairs. “Have a seat,” he says.
Eleanor sits first, tucking her hands under the table and glancing around the room. I wonder if she finds it as vaguely threatening as I do. I slide the second seat closer to hers before I sit, and have to consciously stop myself from draping my arm protectively across the back of her chair. It’s possible I’m still stuck in fight-or-flight mode. Doesn’t help that she looks a little worse for wear at this point. Her hair’s a bit frizzy and tangled again, like it was first thing this morning, and her mascara has started to smudge under her eyes. Though I have no room to talk. My clothes are rumpled, andthe slippers have turned a disgusting shade of gray around the bottoms, and my feet have been sweating in them for hours. I am very ready to get my hands on some new shoes.
The guard stays by the door while we get situated. “Would either of you like a bottle of water?”
“Yes, please,” Eleanor says. Her voice trembles a bit, and it has my hackles up. She’s scared, and it’s that Caruso guy’s fault.
She tips her head toward me. “One for him too.”
Then the guard is gone, shutting us alone in the room that may or may not be locked from the outside. The room is small and exceedingly bright from the fluorescents overhead and four white walls that feel like they’re closing in on us. Despite no evidence of a two-way mirror or anything of the sort, I’m fairly certain somewhere in this room is a microphone, and the casino can hear whatever we say to each other. Which is why I probably shouldn’t say anything to Eleanor, at least until we figure out whether we’re in some kind of trouble. Evidently, Eleanor has no such reservations.
“You okay?”
“Me? Yeah.” I grimace and touch my eye again. “I’ll live.”
“You fully got punched in the face back there.”
“I did,” I say with a slow nod.
The concern doesn’t leave her eyes. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
I suck my cheeks in, ignoring the way it sends another twinge of pain across one side of my face. It’s hard to feel anything other than pleased, at the moment. “Aw, you care.”
Eleanor immediately leans back and crosses her arms, all traces of distress vanishing. “About your face? I mean sure, it’s a nice face.”
I grin. “Is it?”
She scoffs, trying and failing to look irritated. “Oh, whatever. You know you have a pretty face.”
“Not as pretty as yours.”
Speaking of pretty, her cheeks are rosy now, eyes bright. She squirms in her chair and huffs again. Oh, she wants so badly to seem flippant. “Obviously.”
My grin gets wider—wide enough it kind of stings my bruised cheekbone. “Obviously,” I echo, soft and earnest.
