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“There’sloadsofthings I miss about Atlantic City.” I set my cell on the bathroom counter and drag a brush through my hair with a shaky hand. “But nothing…big, you know? The salmon and cream cheese bagel from that little cafe on the pier. The passion fruit martinis at Ronnie’s bar. Um…what else…”
I pick up my phone and carry it into the bedroom, holding it up to my mouth while I rifle through my closet. I pick out a pair of jeans and a sweater, then drop my cell on the bed to change. As it bounces off the mattress, I get a glimpse at the call time and balk. Jesus. I’ve been on the line to Sinners Anonymous for forty-five minutes. Talking utter shit, simply to fill my empty apartment with something other than my own nervous energy.
Every bone in my body hums from the aftermath of last night. The ghost of textured wool still caresses the space between my thighs. Soft commands in strangled tones still nip at the shells of my ears. And every time I look at one of my stark white walls, the image of Raphael’s inked skin flashes against them.
My nerves are tinged with something…odd. Something that toes the line between unease and defeat. I called Raphael’s bluff and gave him a lap dance, so why don’t I feel like I beat him at his own game?
Bringing myself to orgasm like a fucking rabid animal against the front fold of his slacks might have something to do with it. Or, you know, the fact that I fell asleep in his passenger seat.
My cheeks heat for the millionth time today. Why can’t I repress last night like I can with all my other problems? The fear of being caught by Martin O’Hare barely rears its ugly head. Raphael Visconti, from his sharp suit to his hidden ink to his stupid collar pin: he fills every cubic square meter of my conscience, to the point I might burst at the seams.
Biting out a noise of frustration, I cross the room and peer out the window, taking in the empty street below.
“Doing nothing all day was torture. I’m also not working tonight and I have no plans,” I tell the hotline. “Matt’s coaching his hockey team, Rory’s got a flying lesson, Tayce is working, and so is Wren. Well, I suppose I could go down and see Wren at the Rusty Anchor…”
Earlier, I almost told the hotline about Raphael, but something stopped me. I guess growing up with the line makes the robotic woman on the other end of it feel more like a childhood friend. I don’t want to pollute her with sordid tales of lap dances and dry-humping. So, I keep it superficial.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
I frown, squint at my cell, and realize I’ve got an incoming call from Laurie.
Shit. Heart skipping a beat, I stab the ‘switch lines’ button. “Yeah?”
An easy chuckle floats down the line. “Relax, hun. I’m not firing you quite yet. Actually, I was calling to see if you can come in today? I know it’s late notice but there’s a super intimate meeting onboard and—”
“Yes! Yes, I’m free.”
“Jeez, that was easy. Usually, I have to bribe people with double pay before I can get them to agree to come in on their days off.”
Dammit. I’m about to backpedal when my gaze flicks to the mountain of money on my dresser. It’s more than I’ve seen in my life.
She tells me the staff shuttle craft will be waiting for me in an hour and hangs up.
An hour later, I’m being hoisted off the small boat by a heavy-handed Blake. By the wink he flashes me as his grip slides off my hip, he hasn’t realized I stole his wallet yet, or that it’s a very real possibility I’ll shove him overboard if he continues to wolf whistle every time I walk away from him.
I make a stop at the locker room to get rid of my shoes and coat, then follow Laurie’s earlier instructions to head to the bar on the sky deck. It’s only me and one other bartender today, so either barely anyone at this meeting drinks, or they’re super low maintenance. Somehow, I highly doubt either is true.
As I reach the top of the stairs, I can’t stop myself from rolling my eyes at the sight of Blake. Again. Christ, all of Raphael’s men are idiots in one shape or form, but this one really is the biggest dunce of them all. Why is he everywhere? He’s guarding the sky lounge along with a bald-headed lackey who doesn’t talk much, and when I shove past without so much as a smile, I’m treated to another wolf-whistle.
It stiffens my back and makes white heat spark in my fist. “I’m not a fucking dog,” I hiss.
“Bet you fuck like one, though,” he mutters back.
Baldy snorts.
Glaring at the gold doorknob, I suck in a lungful of air and wait for the red mist to fade. Gone straight. Gone straight. Gone straight.
Fury cooling to a simmer, I roll my shoulders back and shove into the lounge.
The door is lighter than I think, so it crashes against the back wall and I wince. When I pop my eyes open, I slow to a stop.
Oh, shit.
I didn’t realize it was happening in here; it’s a smaller room off the sky lounge. But it makes sense, because it only consists of three people, a deck of cards, and a box of Cuba’s finest.
And a very loud Irish accent. It belongs to a cherub-looking man with a gray buzz-cut and piercing blue eyes. But there’s nothing angelic about his voice: he’s obnoxious, and every other word that slides through his mouth is a curse. All three pairs of eyes come to me, but I train my gaze on my toes and scurry along the wall until I reach the safety of the bar behind another set of doors. I open this one a lot more gently, and turn to catch it before it slams shut behind me.
In the narrowing gap, I meet Raphael’s amused gaze.
