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I stared at Dodds until he moved out of my way, yanking the door open so it smacked against the painted concrete wall and marched out.
Fucking cops, useless. I made my way back to the car and fished my phone out of my purse, not easy with only one hand available to me, my other sweltering in the cast. Before I could start my car I had to make the call to the one person I knew would help without asking too many questions.
“Hey, Teddy, I need a favor.”
***
Looking around the lavishly appointed office, complete with a Renoir on the walls, I felt completely out of my depth and pretty sure that this was the dumbest shit I’d ever done. I was either about to make a deal with the devil or take control of my life. What possessed me to walk into Siren Resort & Casino and demand to speak with the owner and CEO, Drake Foster, I hadn’t a clue. I could blame the painkillers or the late-night staring at the mute TV in my motel room, delusions of grandeur or just plain fucking survival. But the truth was, this was it. My only shot. Two days had passed since the cops told me not to leave town and they hadn’t said anything more about it.
They were no fucking help. Roadkill MC would kill me before the cops pulled their heads out of their respective asses.
“It’s pretty ballsy of you to come in here like this, considering.”
Drake studied me, and I studied him right back. He was a handsome guy, in a mobbed-up kind of way with dark hair he wore slicked back, beautiful skin a deep olive tone that said he spent more time on his yacht than in a windowless casino. He had big brown eyes with large flakes of gold and green, the five-thousand-dollar suit bringing the green to the forefront. But as beautiful as they were, his eyes were cold. And hard.
Yeah, considering that I’d admitted to Drake Foster that back in the day I’d counted cards in what was now his casino. “I know. I’ve been warned that I might end up in a shallow grave in the desert.”
“Yet here you are,” he said with a smile that smacked of respect even as he leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankle on one end of his desk.
“Here I am,” I repeated while I gathered my words. “I decided to risk it because I was a minor at the time and using a fake I.D., which is as bad for you and the gaming commission as it is for me and the desert. Besides, I’m admitting to it because I don’t do it anymore. Haven’t since I left this city a decade ago.”
He nodded, understanding the truth of my words. “Then why, Ms. Sutton, are you here?”
“Because I don’t have a fucking choice.” I sucked in a shallow breath because it was still the only thing I could manage and then told him all about Krissy and Roadkill, the deb
t and the tournament. “I don’t really know what else to do other than keep my entry to the tournament.”
Drake looked ready to throw me out of his casino right on my ass, but I kept talking. “I don’t want to do this, but the cops are no help and the gang has already killed the girl who owed the money.”
Why that didn’t let me off the hook for this dumb shit, I didn’t know. Then again, gangsters didn’t really require logic to do their crimes. “I’m certain I won’t win because I don’t play casino games anymore but if I place, the money will go back to you or the casino, I don’t care. I just have to be seen playing.”
As he stared at me, I could see in his eyes he thought I was crazy or stupid. My money was on both.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, little girl,” he said assessing me before he said anything further.
I shrugged, not bothering to respond to the comment meant to rattle me. “It’s dangerous either way. This way gives me a shot to live. I’m not trying to play on your sympathy, all right?”
“No?”
My laugh was harsh and bitter. “Fuck no. Not that you have any to give, but I’m not.”
“Then what are you doing?” he asked, brows arched high in question.
“I’m hoping for a fucking miracle.”
I didn’t know what I was thinking. Maybe he’d disqualify me because of my past; it was stupid, whatever it was. I could kick myself for even thinking this could work. I had yet to meet a person I could rely on, especially those of the male persuasion. I stood, biting back the wince in my ribs just in case he thought I was trying for sympathy again. “Thanks, anyway.”
“That’s it? You’re just giving up?” He shook his head and smacked his lips. “Guess you’re not the survivor you think you are.”
“Maybe not, but I do know when to cut my losses.” I was disappointed but not surprised as I made my way to the door, ready to get as far from him and this place as possible.
“But you haven’t lost, not yet. I have a counteroffer.”
He grinned, and I braced myself for a disgusting proposition that included me on my knees and his dick in my mouth.
“I’m listening.”
“My pastry chef ran off with one of my high rollers to live a life of luxury off the coast of Spain, and I have a new gourmet confectionery opening in three months. Will you be healed by then?” I shrugged and told him about the doctor’s six to ten-week prognosis.
