Chapter 4

4

JACK

T he fourth night in a row of heading to Bettino's from the office, I get a call from Ronnie himself.

"How are you feeling?" I ask as I swing my car into a parking space behind the bar.

"Like shit, how you think I feel?" he says with a chuckle that's a bit of a wheeze, "you know you don't gotta go into the bar every night. Foz could run the whole thing except the books. You can do that from your computer these days and be at home in comfort."

"Thanks, Ron. I got it covered."

"You gotta be getting, what, four hours' sleep now? If you're running straight to the bar from the office that's putting you at eighteen- or twenty-hour workdays. You're the boss, you oughta get somebody else to do the long hours for ya."

"Don't worry about me. Just get back on your feet and do everything the doctors tell you."

"Barb said thank you for the food and the flowers. I guess those were the biggest flowers they ever seen at the hospital. They got a cart to wheel them in on."

"Just wanted to make sure you know we're thinking about you is all," I say. "Did Barbara get the stuff my secretary sent over?" I ask.

"The blanket and slippers and stuff? Yeah, she's been doing those crosswords all day. Asking me stuff like what movie won the Oscar in 2021, like I know that even if I'm not doped up on pain meds!" he gives another wheezy laugh.

"I'm glad she's enjoying the gift basket."

"How's the bar gettin' along? Philly got plenty of business?"

"More than enough. Receipts are on par with last month's take, and Foz hasn't been swamped or said anything about it."

"Good, good," he says, "Just checkin' in. Thanks for taking over my job like I never thought I'd see a Marino man do, to stand in my spot," he sounds emotional, and I want to throw the phone in the floor of my car and leave it behind.

"Don't mention it," I said, meaning it literally.

"Has there been any trouble? I wondered why you gotta go in every night?"

"I like to keep an eye on things, deter any troublemakers, you know, just by making my presence known."

"That's smart thinking. Thanks again for everything. I'll be out tomorrow morning, and I can stop by and check in—"

"Don't you even think about it. You try and show up before next Monday and I'll have Foz change the locks on you," I say firmly. "Get some rest, take your meds, and follow doctor's orders."

"Okay, okay, I see how it is," he says fondly.

"I'm going to head on in, maybe look over the scheduling for next week. It's gotta be past your bedtime," I say gruffly.

I want to get off the phone and go inside. Not because I'm so fascinated by the spreadsheets, but because Serena Mayfield will be there waiting tables.

The reason I'm spending my nights at Bettino's isn't for the atmosphere, that's for damn sure. It's for the scenery and the few minutes of conversation that I have with the newest barmaid. She and Lisa get along fine. Lisa's been there for years and so has Heather, the other full-timers.

They're paid too good to have any complaints, and Ronnie keeps Vito or Ryan on the door every night in case there's any trouble. Philly holds court at the big table in the back underneath the TV. He has his own muscle to carry the briefcase of money and manage any disagreements that might break out regarding the terms of a wager.

I take a seat at my spot, a table for two between the office and the bar. I can watch both exits and keep an eye out for what goes on around me. It's quieter on that side of the room if you don't count the scratchy background of Springsteen and Bon Jovi—the down-on-your-luck blue collar music from the eighties and nineties that appealed to this sad sack crowd.

As soon as I sit down, Foz clocks my appearance and gives me a nod. Though my table is in Lisa's section, she just winks and moves on, knowing Serena will bring my drink. Just one, not a double and never a refill.

Serena leans over a table under the neon Bud sign. She's talking to a woman sitting with Craig Barger. A barstool regular, but tonight he has on a clean shirt and took a table with the lady, so I guess it's a date.

After Serena points toward the bathroom, she turns back and her gaze falls on me. Recognition clicks in her face and the warm smile she had given the customers recedes leaving an expression not quite of resignation but not quite anything better either.

"Water?" she asks me when she reaches the table.

Three nights in a row now she's greeted me the same way. I give her the same answer. "Whiskey neat."

We don't exchange pleasantries. I don't ask her how her day has been. She doesn't smile at me, at least not at first. She's wearing jeans tonight. Night one was the red dress and heels. The next two nights she wore a billowy skirt and tank top. Tonight, it's down to jeans and a Jets shirt with flip flops. Her hair is pulled back, and I miss seeing it loose, miss the way she tucks it behind her ear when it falls across her face.

I tense at the memory. Four nights in a row I've gone home dead tired at two in the morning, wanting to sleep. Unable to fight the restless urge, I had to take my cock in hand and tame it to thoughts of Serena riding me, her hair wrapped around my hand as I drive into her. I wish I'd taken her up on the offer of water, because the slow burn of whiskey does nothing to cool my body.

"I need to talk to you on my break," she tells me.

She's not asking for a few minutes of my time. She's telling me. While I instinctively start to put her in her place, I stop the words. I hold back a chuckle because I've never had anyone, but my father issue orders to me, and it's sort of cute how this feisty little nursing student thinks she can boss me around.

For a second, I recall my dream last night, one that left me in sweat-soaked sheets. A dream of Serena Mayfield breaking into my penthouse, tying me to the bed and saying she can get to me anytime she wants, security be damned, and she's going to do whatever she wants with me until I agree to let her father go.

I take all the torment I can stand and more—her hair brushing my bare thighs, her hand, her mouth, until I'm begging, offering her anything. Her dad's debt free and clear, a car, a diamond ring, half my kingdom, anything. In my dream, she laughs at me as I twist my wrists in the bindings that hold me, eyes squeezing shut against the delicious agony of teetering right on the edge. I grow harder at the shard of my dream coming back to me and have to clear my throat.

"About twenty minutes from now?" she says.

"I'll be in the office," I say and take my drink with me.

Once I've shut the door behind me, I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves. It's hot in here. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine as I flick on the fluorescents overhead. I'm sure she wants to formally work out a payment schedule to handle her dad's debt.

My integrity about positions of power, harassment, ethics—now that I'm in a situation where the woman I want owes a large sum to my family, I don't want to turn it to my advantage, but I won't pretend it hasn't crossed my mind. It's an unworthy thought, one born of desperation and unvarnished lust.

Serena enters my office and shuts the door. She's got her t-shirt tied up now, showing a sliver of her stomach. Even the scent of her sweat in the confines of the small office makes me want to growl. I don't remember the last time I wanted a woman this much, and I know if I had, I wouldn't have waited this long to let her know.

I force myself to stay there, to keep the desk between us. She's looking at me so frankly that I'm not even sure what to say. If Ronnie had told me last week that while he was out for a medical procedure that I'd let some sassy girl order me around and I'd find myself at a loss for words, I'd have told him the doctor needed to examine his brain, not his balls. I never expected this, never encountered anyone like Serena Mayfield before.

"What do you need?" I say, aiming for a tone just north of boredom.

I am not warm and friendly. I don't tell her to have a seat or offer her a bottle of water from Ronnie's mini fridge. I stand there, my hands braced on the desk, and wait to hear what she has to say, all business and absolutely no pleasure.

"I need—not help exactly. Advice, or options," Serena sounds a little uncertain.

She's giving me an opening to tell her what to do, to give my opinion of her situation. It leaves me off balance for the blink of an eye before it registers what she's doing. She's appealing to my position of power and giving me the chance to ‘guide' her out of a thorny situation. Somehow, she seems to have decided that she can manipulate me into thinking I'm in charge just long enough to find her young and vulnerable, endearingly in need of my wisdom and protection. Because I don't for a minute think she's asking for my help. She's too damn smart for that.

I don't change my expression, not so much as a quirk of an eyebrow, when I meet her eyes. They are a little too wide, and I think she's trying for a Disney princess kind of innocence.

"Try again," I say, "That gambit was bold, and it nearly worked on me. If you hadn't thrown in the wide-eyed innocent look you might have gotten away with it."

"Shit," she says, "It was my best hope."

I take a seat in the chair. "Pretending to be helpless? If you're going to try that, don't walk in here ready to do battle for your dad and accept a job on the spot. Don't prove yourself up to the task by being competent at everything we've thrown at you. You can't walk that back to act overwhelmed. A bluff like that only works when I don't already know the cards in your hand, Serena."

"If you'd believed me, what would you have told me to do, advice-wise?"

"I can't imagine anything I could suggest that wouldn't piss you off even more."

"Why not?" she says, color rising in her cheeks, "Why shouldn't I be mad? I'm paying a pretty steep price for my father's problem."

"That's your choice. Law of the animal kingdom, sweetheart, survival of the fittest." I'm half-waiting for her to take a swing at me for calling her sweetheart.

"That's bullshit," she says, "The lion catches and kills the weak gazelle. They don't capture it and torment it first just for fun. That's the law of the wild, for the hunter and the hunted. It's necessity, not cruelty. This is torture. Coming here day after day knowing it will take forever to pay off this debt when any halfway decent bookie would've turned my dad away."

"Phil's an excellent bookmaker. I wouldn't vouch for his decency though, not even on a good day," I concede.

"You've got all this power and money, you can't just let one guy float? Or do you need more cash so you can buy more cars and shit and show off?"

"I have enough cars. I'm not looking for a new toy," I say.

"Aren't you though?" she challenges, "I'm not an expert, but rich boys like you, they like the drama. Otherwise, life's too boring."

"Do you think I'm here because I'm bored? I have plenty of work to do elsewhere."

"No, I think you're calculating," she drops that word and pauses a minute to see if I react. When I don't, she smirks and continues. "Not like it's a bad thing. I think you do things with intention. You seem like you've got a plan all the time."

"What's my plan, do you think?" I steeple my fingers on the desk and wait.

"I can't figure it out. Face value is you're here because you're helping out a friend even though it's clearly beneath your pay grade. I mean, look at you. You don't spend a lot of time in places like this."

"Why do you say that?" I ask, more eager to hear her assessment of me than I care to admit.

"Your suit for one thing. It looks like something a celebrity would wear like, oh here's Austin Butler or Ryan Gosling or somebody just striding through a fancy hotel lobby in a Tom Ford suit," she shrugs. "You look like a million bucks, but you're slumming here. Why not send one of your underlings to look after the place? Why sit at a table and wait for me to take your order every night? I stay awake thinking about it."

"You lie awake thinking about me?" I say, my voice slow as a cat toying with a mouse. She realizes what she's said and rolls her eyes.

"Yeah, I just said so. It's not like I'm fantasizing about you or something." she groans. "You don't have to look so pleased about it. You're good-looking and mysterious. I can't be the only woman wondering about what makes you tick."

"You're the only one I've bothered to ask about it," I point out. "Why don't you tell me what you think about exactly?"

"Despite what it looks like trying to waitress off my dad's gambling debts and barging into your office to blurt out personal things to you, I'm not actually stupid enough to answer that question. My break isn't that long, and I came in here for a reason. And that reason wasn't to tell you how hot you look with your sleeves rolled up or how I think about you when I should be thinking about other things. Practical things," she is so flustered and so clearly furious with herself that she rambles on in a way that's almost adorable.

"If you want to cut straight to the point, be my guest," I say.

"What do I need to do?" she said, her hands spread as if she's hoping a solution will fall from the sky and into her open palms. Her shoulders sag and she seems to droop all at once like she's wilted. No longer animated by the brightness of interest and challenge in her eyes, not propped up by some strategy or hope.

"About what?" I ask, because I'm not clear on whether she's asking how to clear her father's debt faster or what to do about lying awake thinking of me at night.

"All of it," she says. "The debts, how to keep him from doing this again, how to finish nursing school and have a life of my own that's more than just cleaning up after—" she breaks off, and I can tell she said too much.

"You decide what the plan is, follow through with it, and let your dad know this is the last time you bail him out. Otherwise, he will go on expecting you to rescue him so he doesn't have to face any consequences."

"You mean, so you won't kill him."

"I don't kill anyone."

She narrows her eyes at me and blows out a breath that says she doesn't believe me but says nothing.

"I get my hands dirty when it's called for. I'm not sitting in some ivory tower while my minions—as you call them—do all the work and take all the risks. My position in the organization is more administrative than it once was," I say with a trace of pride. "You need to talk to Philly."

"I kind of doubt that he'll let me put my dad in layaway and pay a little bit each month until he's paid off and I can take him home." She puts her hands on her hips, squares up, and huffs out an aggravated breath. "Besides, if I wanted to talk to Philly, I'd be spending my break with him and not you."

"I'm not the one you owe money to," I point out.

"No, but you're the boss, Jack," she says, and I don't miss the way she says my name.

"What were you hoping I'd say?"

"I don't know—" she says, looking away.

"Yeah, you do. What were you prepared to offer me?" I'm baiting her.

"I really don't know," she says.

"Were you going to offer me one night with you to wipe out the debt?" I ask.

"What? No! I'm not a whore!"

"So what else do you have to offer?" I goad her, ruthlessly enjoying her fire.

"I can use my nursing skills."

"You already offered to patch up the wounded in my organization and keep it discreet."

"I know it's not much," she says, then lifts her chin, "but it's not nothing."

"I didn't say it was nothing. It could be a valuable asset," I agree.

"You're infuriating, you know that?" she says. "You talk in circles but never get to a point."

"You want me to get to a point? Okay, here's a point. I can't sleep either, because I'm thinking about you, how you wound up in my path, what it means and how to make you mine."

Her pupils dilate and her cheeks flush.

"Is that all?" she asks, almost meekly now.

"No."

"What else?"

"How I've got a bet with myself that if you'd let me, I could make you come in three minutes or less, anytime, anyplace."

I see her bristle at my word choice and wait for her to call it out. But I can see that the thought excites and confuses her. She doesn't recoil, doesn't storm out or reach over to slap me. I watch the flush creep up her neck. I see her body heats in response to my words, to the way I look at her.

I decide to put her out of her misery. "I've never accepted that kind of payment and I don't plan to. You'd enjoy it though, if I took you up on the offer. A night with you would be worth sixteen thousand and more. Don't sell yourself short. In fact, don't sell yourself at all."

"Would Phil take the deal?" she says, almost choking on the words.

"Not if he wants to keep breathing," I answer darkly.

"What do you mean?" Serena is puzzled by my swift response.

"I mean if he lays a hand on you, I'll notify his next of kin to pick up his remains myself," I say clearly. "Because I will tear him apart with my bare hands."

"Why?"

"Nobody takes advantage of you, Serena. Not on my watch. And nobody is going to make you compromise yourself. I'll fucking kill them if they try."

"You're acting like you have to protect me. I fight my own battles." She crosses her arms, her cheeks still flushed.

"You have until now. I'll clear the debt. You tell Foz to give you whatever we owe you for working this week. Walk away. Go home, tell your dad this is the end of the line, no more bailing him out. Finish school or whatever. I don't want to see you back here. I'll make sure he's turned away if he tries to come back. No go," I shove my hand through my hair in frustration.

I need her the hell out of my sight. The sooner the better.

"I don't need charity," she protests.

"I can afford it."

"I can pay my own way—"

"Get out of here." I practically growl it at her.

"I didn't come in here looking for a handout," she says defiantly.

"It's your only option, Serena. Take the offer and run. Don't look back. You don't belong here, and I was an idiot to give you a job. Stay far away from this joint and cut your dad loose. You deserve to have a life, start over free and clear."

"I'm not a kid," she says, still protesting.

"If you don't get out of this office right now, you're going to get a lot more than a handout," I practically roar at her, shooting to my feet and rounding the desk.

I grab her arm, warm, soft skin sears my palm like I've grabbed molten steel. I make a noise, a throttled gasp that catches in my throat. She steps in toward me, her eyes blazing, instead of trying to pull out of my grip like any sensible person would.

"You want me to leave because you're afraid what you'll do if I stay," she says.

"Serena," my voice is rough, a low warning. "You need to leave."

One hand grips her upper arm, the other fists at my side as I try to white knuckle my way through waves of something intoxicating. It's not just lust. Lust is my old friend, and this is nothing like it. I want to gather her in my arms and protect her. I want to jerk her jeans down and bend her over Ronnie's desk, rail her right there on top of the papers, watch her scrabble for purchase frantically with her fingertips as I stuff her full of me.

She's looking up at me, eyes on mine, so I see it when she understands what I'm thinking.