AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Not being a girlfriend. At least, not to Ian.
I was becoming less sure of how I felt about everything else.
* * *
“Who’s hungry?” Lance kicked open the door to the control room, then maneuvered in, his hands full of bags from…. I leaned sideways on the couch in an attempt to read the ticket. Thai Garden.
I raised a hand. “Me. Feed me now, oh great leader.”
“About time. I’m starving.” Rick grabbed a bag from Lance and started pulling out mini boxes of takeout. I heaved myself off the couch and grabbed a handful of paper plates. My phone buzzed from the coffee table, and Lance snagged it, glancing at the display before he handed it over. His brows raised.
“What?” I snatched it from him.
“Nothing.”
I glanced down, saw Dario’s name on the text message notification, then swiped open the message.
—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch. Sitting down, I used chopsticks to pull out a chunk of noodles.
“Dario Capece?” Lance asked.
So much for him not commenting on it. I ignored him, scooping up a mouthful of Pad Thai.
“What about Dario Capece?” Rick chomped on the bait like a rabid raccoon.
“He’s texting B.”
“What about?”
Rick’s question hung in the air and, with only three of us in the room, was impossible to ignore.
“Stupid stuff.” I shrugged. “You know guys like him. They think they can take what they want. It’s not anything serious.”
“It’s not anything serious?” Lance repeated. “B, I’m pretty sure that every fucking thing Dario Capece does is serious.”
Rick followed suit. “If Capece is interested in you, you’ve got to keep a lid on this. You know who his father-in-law is, right?”
I finished chewing and took a sip of my soda before answering him. “Super-rich guy. And … let me guess—some mobster?”
Lance and Rick exchanged a look that had me setting down my paper plate. “What? Spit it out.”
Lance leaned forward, pressing his palms together before speaking. “He’s not connected, it’s more that he’s a fuckin’ psychopath. He cut the fingers off his last GM when he suspected him of embezzling. Had the guy so scared, he didn’t even press charges.”
Rick nodded. “A decade ago, before Dario came around—The Majestic was losing cocktail waitresses. Not because they were quitting, but because they were disappearing. Rumor on the Strip was that he liked to keep them as pets.”
“Pets?”
Lance jumped in. “Chained up in his basement. A few parents called the cops, reported their daughters missing, and LVPD sniffed around Hawk, but they could never find anything. Plus, you know those guys. They got half the department in their pockets.”
“And you guys don’t?” I smiled, but they didn’t take the bait, the somber expressions on their faces causing me to change tactics. “Fine. You’ve scared me, okay? I’ll stay away.”
Rick wasn’t done. “And don’t talk to anyone about this. Not your roommates, or Britni, or anyone. You need to gush over Capece’s gigantic cock? Tell us about it.”
“A modified version, please.” Lance grinned at me. “I can’t have my ego damaged by some Italian asshole.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to need to share any sordid details. Like I just said, I’ll stay away.”
“Sordid?” Lance laughed before popping a crunchy noodle into his mouth. “You can’t use big words like that in here, B. Rick gets confused.”
Rick flicked a soy sauce package toward Lance in response, and I stood up, reaching for it and dropping it into the takeout bag.
“You. Guys. Are. Pigs. Are those small enough words for you?” I dropped the bag on the table before him and smacked Lance on the back of the head.
He laughed in response. “But seriously, B. Watch your back.”
“Forget watching your back. Just don’t let Capece put you on your back,” Rick added.
I thought of the fantasies that had plagued me ever since that kiss in the club. His eyes, burning across my skin, my legs open, his fingers and mouth strumming over me in sweet concert. Don’t let Capece put you on your back. I winced and tried to redirect my thoughts, turning to their stories of Robert Hawk, chopped-off fingers, and missing cocktail waitresses. Waitresses like me, serving drinks, counting tips, and trying to get from one week to the next. Girls kept and probably killed by a psychotic billionaire whose daughter was married to Dario Capece.
Girls like me didn’t have a great track record with luck, and a dinner on Sunday night would be hell on my odds.
“I don’t like to waste my time, Bell. If you don’t want me to chase you, I won’t.”
He had said the words with such solemnness. Maybe he would leave me alone. Maybe all I had to do was tell him to go away, and he would disappear. Problem over. Fates averted.
I sat down on the couch and reopened his text.
