14. Wren

CHAPTER 14

Wren

E verything would get back to normal, Blane said. Well, that was a big fat lie, wasn’t it? How could I ever forget what had happened? That a woman was dead, that my best friend was missing, that a man had come to my apartment to kidnap me too, and that now I was holed up in my boss’s luxury penthouse. The tall, dark, and handsome boss that maybe, just maybe, I’d secretly had a crush on for months.

Not an “I hope we match on Tinder” crush, more of an “unattainable and therefore safe” crush, the kind of pointless infatuation usually reserved for movie stars and pop singers. And wealthy-but-slightly-dangerous businessmen. As in, one step up from a book boyfriend but a hundred steps down from an actual dating prospect. A man who might say a few words to you every once in a while, but the only place he’d be getting naked was in your dreams. And perhaps I’d had those dreams once or twice. Okay, once or twice a week, but definitely no more than that.

And now I’d accidentally told him he was hot. Well, not told him, but a picture painted a thousand words, and my cheeks had said them all.

Totally inappropriate.

Caria was missing, Blane was going above and beyond to help me, and even his weird assistant was being supportive. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Joseph Beauregard. I’d seen him around, and he was what Caria called a “little” man. Not in size—he was average height and probably went to the gym a couple of times a week—but in character. A little too slick. A little too watchful. A little too obsequious when it came to Blane. A man who didn’t do anything wrong, per se, but there was something off that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Paola in housekeeping had mentioned he was a lawyer, which might have explained a thing or two. I’d dated a lawyer once. Big mistake.

Huge.

After the breakup, I’d vowed that my days of messing up were over, that the move to Vegas to be near Kayden would be a fresh start. And until last week, I’d stayed more or less on track. Found a job I didn’t dread going to, earned enough to cover the rent, and made one good friend. Then life fell apart again. This time, the poor judgment was Caria’s rather than mine, but it didn’t make the fallout any easier to bear.

“You don’t like calzone?” Blane asked.

“Huh?” Sugar honey iced tea, I’d zoned out, and now he was looking at me funny. The calzone was a picked-apart mess on my plate. “No. I mean, yes, I do like calzone, but I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment.”

“Understandable, but you should try to eat. Starving would be suboptimal. Do you want Joseph to run out and pick up something else?”

“More wine?” Beauregard suggested. “Chocolate? Xanax? ”

“Xanax isn’t food,” Blane told him.

“Well, Perla eats it like candy, and she says it changed her life.”

Perla, the bartender at Tilt? She knew the ingredients of every cocktail by heart, always wore shoes I’d barely be able to stand in, let alone walk in, and—until recently—had spent half her breaks crying in the bathroom. Boyfriend trouble. Couldn’t live with him, didn’t want to do the time for killing him. When I’d gently suggested there might be another solution, more of a halfway house, she’d given me a condescending look and told me I just didn’t understand.

But apparently, Beauregard did, seeing as she’d confided in him about her medical care.

“This isn’t exactly something I can discuss with a physician. What would I say? ‘Oh, hi, doctor. I’m feeling kinda down because my best friend was kidnapped by a gangster, so could I get a prescription’?”

“No need. There’s a guy who hangs out in the diner next to the Devil’s Den, and he can get as many Xanax as you need, no questions asked.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Only if you get caught.”

“Aren’t you an attorney?”

“If everyone followed the rules, I’d be out of a job.”

A reasonable point, but I still wasn’t going to purchase dubiously sourced drugs, and I especially wasn’t going to purchase dubiously sourced drugs from the Lucky 7 Grill.

Blane gave him a sharp look. “Wren isn’t taking Xanax.”

“And there’s no way I’m going near the Devil’s Den,” I told him. Although it had closed almost a year ago, its reputation as Vegas’s seediest casino had been well-deserved, and the whole street was a no-go area. I knew that because I used to work there. My boss was okay—he’d given me the opportunity to deal blackjack when no one else would—but I’d been so nervous walking to the bus stop at night that I’d only stuck it out for six months. “What were you doing there? Trolling for new clients?”

Blane’s lips quirked in amusement, but he shook his head. “Joseph only works for me now. But I’m interested in buying the Devil’s Den, which means paying a visit or two.”

Was he serious? His expression suggested that he was. “But…but you already own Tilt. And Club Dead. Both of those are real nice places, and the Devil’s Den…”

“Isn’t? Yes, I’m aware of that. But it’s in a good location overall, and it has potential.”

“Didn’t someone get shot right outside?”

“Yes, but if I redevelop the casino, it’ll drag the surrounding businesses out of the gutter along with it.”

Well, okay then. I figured he knew what he was doing. The tables at Tilt were always packed with high-rollers, tips were great, and there hadn’t been a single raid on the place since I started working there. Not like at my first job in Vegas. I’d waited tables at Destiny’s Gate—which I always thought sounded more like a cult than a casino—and the staff used to joke that the cops had reserved parking next to the front door.

“I don’t know much about the business side of casinos, but I hope it works out. And I’ll pass on the prescription medication.”

“Suit yourself,” Beauregard said.

Blane agreed with me. “Good choice.”

“How about a cake instead?” Beauregard suggested. “Marianna’s here.”

Where? I glanced around, and ten seconds later, the buzzer sounded. Beauregard got up to open the door. Was he psychic or something? How had he known she was outside? My ex used to do spooky stuff like that, and he’d told me we had “a special connection,” which I’d thought was cute until I realised he’d installed tracking software on my phone. I suppressed a shudder at the memory.

Marianna was a petite Latina carrying an insulated bag in one hand and a small boy on the opposite hip. A girl followed behind her, three or four years old, and she held a small pink bag of her own.

“ Hola ,” Marianna said, beaming at all of us, even Beauregard. “How are you?”

Beauregard shrugged. “Can’t complain.”

“Oh, he can and frequently does.” Blane returned Marianna’s smile and rose to kiss her on the cheek. “My day just got better now that you’ve arrived.”

Even with her olive skin, Marianna couldn’t hide her blush. “You’d say that about anyone who brought you food.”

“I definitely don’t say it to Joseph. Or the pizza delivery guy. Or Feng from Wong Fu’s, even when he doles out extra fortune cookies.”

The little girl had seemed shy when she first walked in, trailing behind her mom and staring at her feet, but when she got near Blane, she suddenly grinned and threw her arms around his legs.

“ Hola , Lucian. I made cookies.”

Lucian? That was his first name? How come the little girl used it when nobody else did?

“What kind of cookies?” He patted her on the shoulder, then lifted her onto one of the high stools at the counter. “Are they chocolate?”

She nodded solemnly. “They’re the best kind.”

“Are you going to stay and eat one?”

She looked to her mom, who said, “Yes, that’s okay. You’re our last delivery.”

“Excellent. Coffee?”

“Please, that sounds good.”

“I want coffee,” the little girl announced.

“You don’t like coffee, mi cielito ,” Marianna told her. “How about juice?”

“I want coffee.”

Blane winked at her. “We’ll make your special coffee, angelito .”

She giggled, and sheesh, Blane even knew how to charm a young child. A grown woman stood no chance.

And maybe the magnetism was contagious? The girl turned to me and smiled. “ Hola , Wren. You can have a cookie too.”

The oddest feeling came over me. A strange familiarity, strong and somehow comforting. As if I’d seen the little girl before, but that was impossible. I’d certainly remember her piercing blue eyes and impish grin. And how did she know my name? She pronounced it “Rin,” but it was close enough.

Marianna was looking at me curiously. “Have you met Lola somewhere already?”

“Not that I remember. Uh, I love cookies.”

Lola put her bag down on a stool. “I know. Next time, we’ll make the peanut butter ones.”

My stomach clenched. How did she know that peanut butter cookies were my favourite? Or was it just a lucky guess? Lola couldn’t have been out of pre-K, but she unsettled me.

“Can I help with the coffee?” I asked Blane, not only because I owed him a debt of gratitude, but because I needed to gather my thoughts. “I worked as a barista for a while.”

“A woman of many skills. But also a guest, so I don’t expect you to lift a finger.”

“What if I want to?”

He studied me for a moment, and maybe he understood how awkward I felt here in this beautiful apartment. “Then I won’t stop you.” A pause. “Marianna, meet Wren. She’s staying with me while we iron out a few kinks in her personal life.”

Curiosity turned to sympathy. “Man trouble? I know all about that.”

Blane answered for me. “In a manner of speaking. Let’s make those drinks.”