Chapter 20

TWENTY

SEVEN

Nacho purrs against my neck, and I scratch behind his ears as he starts to knead my skin. His little claws come out with every pass, and I find myself wishing he’d scratch me for real, harder and deeper.

I shouldn’t be wishing that on the fucking cat. He’s trying to comfort him in the best way he knows how, even if there’s no way he can possibly understand just how off-balance and fucked up I feel.

It’s only been a day since the revelation that Caleb really is some gangster, some mafia guy who probably has people like me grabbed and sold daily without batting an eye. I hate him for it, and in a way, I hate Havoc for killing any illusions I’d had of Caleb not being so bad after all.

I might’ve had my reservations when I’d first met him, but it had been easy to believe he was just the mega wealthy CEO of a profitable casino as time had ticked by.

Maybe his darker desires should’ve clued me in to something else, something more, but…

I’d been stupid.

I gently pick Nacho up and get up, depositing him at the top of his cat tree. He rubs against it, meowing plaintively at me, but I leave him behind as I quickly get dressed. There’s an old-fashioned phone on the bedside table, and a pink paper with some numbers on it. It’s signed Havoc , but I don’t know what he expects me to do with it.

I look at the phone with its numbered buttons. I’ve seen people using them in the casino. Usually they only pick up when it rings. I try picking it up, and I hear a low buzzing sound on the other end.

I slowly push the numbers Havoc wrote down, but nothing happens. I try again, but that gets me a high-pitched whine and a robotic voice that says, “ The number you have dialed cannot be reached.”

I hang up, curse Havoc mentally, and head out into the living room of the condo.

It’s silent and lonely, and a quick glance at the TV only reminds me of Caleb’s indifferent reaction to my utter loss of control.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate all of them.

I run my fingernails along my arms—not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to feel the slight discomfort of the scratches. Maybe there’s a knife in the kitchen I can use to carve away some of the pain. A razor blade. Something.

But I have a feeling Caleb would be pissed, and right now…

Right now, I really don’t want him to be pissed off at me. Not when he’s holding so much over my head, not when he seems to know so much—too much—and he could easily abuse that power.

Everyone does, in the end.

I’m dizzy with the need for sex and violence, for the familiar, and it has me shoving my shoes onto my feet and heading for the elevator. The guards exchange a look when they see me, but neither of them stops me from heading downstairs.

I stop in the lobby, torn between the allure of the slot machines and the blackjack table, but neither of those are going to make me feel any better. No, my inadequacy and poor luck—lucky number seven, my ass—are only going to make it worse.

I turn on my heel, heading for the hotel bar instead, and I plant my ass in a stool right in front of the bartender.

“Seven,” he says by way of greeting.

I hate this, too. He shouldn’t know me when I don’t know him, too aware of my existence while I don’t have any idea of who he is or what he does when he isn’t slinging drinks. “Yeah, hi,” I say, fighting back the fluttering feeling in my stomach that’s equal parts nausea and nerves. “I need… a double. Vodka. Neat.” I get the words out in staccato, barely able to remember the bits and pieces of what normal people would order in this kind of situation.

He regards me for entirely too long, then finally says, “I need your ID for that.”

I let out an irritated breath. “I’m in a fucking casino,” I tell him. “You have to be twenty-one to be in here. And I’m Caleb Spade’s boyfriend, which you obviously know. Do you really think he’s dating someone underage and risking his entire business by letting me inside?” I prompt.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he hedges.

I glance at his name tag. “Dave,” I say with more patience than I feel. “I just want a few shots of booze. Just something to relax with. You can keep an eye on me or whatever makes you feel better, but your orders are just to keep me on premises, right?”

My lip curls into something ugly at the thought of it, at the fact that I’m trapped like an animal in a cage, like someone’s pet.

Like his slave .

Dave has the decency to look abashed. “Yeah, okay. A double.”

“A triple,” I amend.

He stares at me.

“I’m not going to drive anywhere. Jesus,” I say, growing impatient as the familiar itch beneath my skin blossoms into goosebumps. “I’ll eat something, too, if that’ll get you off my back, but I just had lunch.”

That’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t have to know that.

He grunts in acknowledgment, and he turns to fix the drink.

I let out a breath. Finally. Fuck.

People get drunk all the time, right? There has to be a reason. It has to help.

Something does.

“Thanks,” I say when he sets the drink in front of me. I try to be polite, even though I sort of want to pull a Grant and make some snarky comment about how that wasn’t really so hard, was it?

It’s not Dave’s fault I’m in a shitty mood, though, and harassing him won’t make things any easier. No, that’ll just make him refuse to serve me, and that’ll leave me at my wit’s end again.

I pick up the drink, staring at the clear liquid inside, and take a sniff. I grimace, not enjoying the taste but wanting the promise of what it might bring.

Escape. Distance from the world I’ve stumbled into, the world I’d tried so fucking hard to avoid.

I’d tried to get anywhere but Calamity City, but Caleb had stopped me. I should’ve known when he’d claimed me so thoroughly that he wasn’t a good person. He’s like everybody else, smiling to my face and backhanding me a second later.

Caleb had said he had vast resources, resources capable of keeping a kitten hidden away, and Havoc had said Caleb’s grandfather had been one of the biggest gangsters in Calamity.

He’s probably just like the families back on the East Coast, all dedicated to making everyone else’s lives hell while they profit off of their misery. That’s what men like him do.

They can’t help it.

It’s who they are .

How had I been so goddamn stupid? I should’ve known .

I finally bring the vodka to my mouth, resisting the urge to hold my nose, and down it. It burns like hell going down, and the smell of it is just as bad as I start to cough.

Dave gives me a look like he’s not sure he should’ve given it to me in the first place, and he’s probably not wrong.

“It’s just strong,” I wheeze, still coughing. “I’m fine.”

“Try something top shelf,” a male voice suggests from just behind me.

I jolt upright, half in a panic, and my gaze locks onto the deep brown eyes of a man I don’t recognize. At least, I don’t think I recognize him.

“Here. I’ll buy you something worthwhile,” he says, handing a fifty to Dave. “Two shots each. The good stuff, this time.”

Dave’s lips purse, and he glances between us, but the guy adds another twenty to the pile. Dave isn’t immune to the allure of cash, obviously, and he takes the two bills without arguing.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say, but I smile at him. I shouldn’t encourage him by accepting the drinks. I know what he’s after, and I’m not exactly hurting for companionship. I have three men vying for my time. I don’t need another.

But maybe a distraction would be nice.

The guy smirks at me and rests his elbow against the bar, so he’s half blocking me in. “I’m always in favor of sharing life’s luxuries.” He extends his other hand for a handshake. “I’m Michael.”

“Seven,” I say automatically, not even having to think about it like I used to. I take his hand, and the greeting is more aggressive than it has any reason to be. Testing me.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Instead, I edge in closer to him, leaning in to the fact that he’s probably the kind of fucking dick who’d buy a guy a drink with the full expectation that he’ll get something out of it.

“Seven? That’s a lucky name,” Michael says. He puts a hand on my back and sits down next to me, scooting the bar stool closer than necessary. “What’s your game?”

I must already be feeling the alcohol in my system, or maybe it’s nerves and desperation that have me giggling. “Not blackjack. I suck at blackjack. God, you know people can count cards? I can’t.”

Dave returns with shot glasses of clear booze that looks exactly the same as before. These shots don’t go down much more smoothly, but the smell isn’t as atrocious.

Michael gives a sympathetic pat on my back. “They go down easier as you get used to them. Not a big drinker?”

I shake my head, wincing at the waves of dizziness. “Not really. How about another?”

Dave clears his throat. “You’re playing with fire, Seven,” he says, ignoring my request as he strides down to the other end of the bar to serve another patron.

“Not your fucking business,” I mutter, glowering after him.

“Some people should focus on their jobs,” Michael agrees, stroking my back before settling his hand just above my ass.

He’s not being subtle, but I don’t need him to be subtle. I don’t want him to be, either. I want him to be everything he’s promising—a rich dick with the need to show off—so I can end up getting railed into the mattress without having to think of anything that’s bothering me.

“Yeah,” I say. “What do you do?” I don’t really care, but men like Michael enjoy talking about themselves. He launches into some self-aggrandizing description about stocks and bonds and day trading and whatever.

I’ve heard these things before from men richer and more powerful than Michael.

At least, I think they were.

I peer at him, considering, as the warmth in my belly grows in intensity. Maybe he’s more well-off and influential than I’m giving him credit for. Maybe he’s connected to the mafia, too, which is why he’s here.

It’s a thought that makes me wish for more vodka, but Dave is pointedly ignoring us now.

Michael’s wearing a suit, which could hide all sorts of damage and tattoos.

Of course, Caleb’s skin is as smooth as if he’s never been in any sort of altercation in his life, and if he’s a mafia baby, it’s possible he’s just gotten all the privilege without any of the work.

“What about you, pretty boy?” Michael asks, signaling that he’s finally done talking about himself.

“Hmm?” I ask, trying to bring myself back to the conversation instead of thinking about fucking Caleb and men like him.

“What do you do when you aren’t drawing everyone’s eyes at the casino bar?” he clarifies.

I laugh, reaching out to trail my fingertips along his knuckles as I contemplate. I should probably make this stop before it goes too far. Caleb might get pissed that I’ve added yet another man to our little… setup.

But I doubt Michael is going to stick around, so he’s safe.

Right. Safe.

“Draw eyes on the casino floor,” I drawl. “Draw eyes everywhere I go. It’s a hard life, but someone has to do it.”

The flirtation is so easy and familiar.

I hate Caleb, suddenly.

I hate that he put me into this situation.

I hate that he made me think, for three seconds, that I was safe.

I hate Vortex and Havoc, too, for not just fucking me and being done with everything. Havoc and his stupid sob story and Vortex and his fake comfort. They both know what kind of man Caleb is, and they don’t care.

Dave suddenly sets a bowl of chips down in front of us. “Seven. Quit while you’re ahead.”

I smirk at him. “I’m not ahead yet,” I say, then turn to Michael and place my hands on his hips. “You know a place around here where somebody might really get a… head?”

Michael laughs at my terrible joke, but he brings his lips closer to mine. “I’m here for a conference. They paid for a very swanky room in the hotel.”

“Cool.” I lean in, brushing my mouth against his before drawing back. I get up, and I sway a little until he steadies me. “Whoops,” I say with another giggle.

Michael smiles indulgently at me. “You okay there?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Seven…” Dave interrupts, his expression wary.

“Oh, fuck off,” I mutter. “No one owns me.” It’s such a ludicrous lie that I laugh again.

Who doesn’t have a claim on my ass at this point? Why the fuck should I not be giving it up again and again?

“Tell him if you want,” I tell Dave, then turn to Michael. “My boyfriend shares,” I say bluntly. “Guess I’m used goods, or claimed, or whatever, but he doesn’t fucking care. Only his spies do, apparently.” I cast a withering look at Dave. “That a problem?”

Michael shrugs. “I have a wife in Florida. Is that a problem?”

I snort. “Not even a little.”

I’m sure half the people who have fucked me have their own wives and kids back home, and that hadn’t bothered them any. Why should I care?

“Let’s go,” I tell Michael, squeezing his hand.

As it turns out, Michael is all too eager to get me up to his room. He isn’t even willing to wait until we get all the way there; he pushes me against the elevator wall to kiss me and paw at me while we ride up to the eighth floor, and I fumble with his belt while he uses the keycard on the door.

As soon as we’re inside a room that’s nice, but not nearly as swanky as Caleb’s suite is, Michael grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it off of me while I undo his shirt buttons and kiss the newly exposed skin of his chest.

I can feel more than see it when he catches sight of my bare skin, and his breath draws in abruptly.

I ignore it, shoving his jacket and dress shirt to the floor.

“Hey, Seven? Is?—”

“It’s fine,” I interrupt him. “I’m into… that thing. You know. BDSM? With the whips and the pain and whatever.” God, my head is swimming, and it’s hard to form coherent thoughts—especially coherent thoughts that involve explaining to someone normal why I look the way I do.

But I don’t want him to be thinking my boyfriend beats me or whatever bullshit is on his mind.

I only want him to be thinking about fucking me.

“Doesn’t hurt or anything. Fuck, just… I wanna suck you. Or you can fuck me, pound me real hard. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Michael says. He snaps out of whatever stupid thoughts he’s having and gets the rest of his clothes off. “I have condoms… somewhere.”

I don’t understand everyone’s fucking obsession with condoms, but I guess he doesn’t want to bring home any surprises to his wife. That would give his little habit of fucking around away pretty fast.

“You’re in charge.” I wrap my arms around him and go back to kissing his throat, down to his collarbone, and I shove my pants and underwear down. “Do whatever you want. I don’t care about condoms.”

I never have, never do, and the idea of taking him bare and feeling him spill into me… I groan. Yeah. That sounds like exactly what I need right now.

Michael grabs my ass, squeezing tightly. “Fuck, that’s so hot.” He turns me around and forces me over the side of the couch.

I spread my legs for him and raise my ass so he has better access, but my head is spinning and fuzzy around the edges. It’s hard to think, hard to breathe, and I can’t wait to let all the thoughts get drowned out by the burn of his cock pounding into me.

No more wondering what Caleb is going to do next.

No more begging for them to pay attention to me.

No more of Havoc’s gentle bruises or Vortex’s forced warmth or Caleb’s authoritative voice in my ears.

Why is it so hard to let go of those thoughts, those desires, even now?

“Fuck, I don’t have lube or anything—” he begins.

“Don’t need it,” I cut him off, closing my eyes against waves of dizziness. “Just use spit or whatever.”

Michael laughs. “Damn, okay.” He spits into his hand, and I hear his groan as he wraps it around his cock.

I squirm, just wanting him to get to the good part.

I didn’t know alcohol could make me feel like this. The loss of control, the horniness, the desire to burst into tears, and the pounding in my head that should’ve been pounding on my ass.

“What the fuck?” Michael says out of nowhere, placing his hand flat on my back. “Go away! I don’t need room service!”

I raise my head and try to look over my shoulder, feeling like I’m reacting far too slowly, but I can’t see who he’s talking to.

Then there’s a distinct beeping sound, and a door slams open.

“Seven!” Havoc shouts. “Are you all right?”

No. Why is Havoc here?

He’s going to fucking ruin everything.

“No,” I mutter. “Fuck.”

Someone is pulling Michael off of me, and I guess it has to be Havoc—but then I see Vortex, too, who looks every bit the nickname with the rage and damage he’s leaving behind.

“What the absolute fuck, Seven?” he thunders, squeezing Michael’s shoulders hard.

Michael looks like he’s about to piss himself. “I thought you said your boyfriend doesn’t care!” he shouts. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“He’s not—” I start to protest.

“Is he the one who’s hurting you?” Michael asks in what I think must be a stupid show of bravado. “I’ll call the cops!”

“Get your hands off of him!” I try to demand of Vortex, but nausea is making my stomach lurch as Havoc pulls me backwards.

I try to fight him off, but I’m boneless and dizzy, and I turn my head at the last second to throw up all over the fucking carpet.

I should’ve just thrown up on Havoc.

“Fuck,” Havoc says, pulling my hair away from my face. “How much did he have to drink?”

I moan and sob, trying to push away from Havoc. His arms are tight around me, though, and I don’t have the strength to fight him off.

“Only a few shots!” Michael says, his voice high pitched. “I didn’t do anything to him he didn’t want!”

I’m too busy retching to argue with him.

“He’s fucking drunk,” Vortex says. “You usually go and fuck drunk guys?”

“He wasn’t drunk when he agreed to come back here!” Michael argues, but he’s edging back even as Vortex keeps advancing on him.

“My god,” I hiccup, my stomach heaving again.

Can this day get any fucking worse?