She may or may not know Murphy, but she knows Enzo’s the spawn of a shark and she knows my reputation, which has gone from bad to worse in the years since she left Coins. What’s a good Irish Catholic girl and IT systems specialist doing in a basement full of made men?
Could she be working for the FBI? And what wouldn’t I give to strip search her to check for a wire? Glancing at the flesh-colored fabric stretched around her body I decide I’m willing to gamble with my life and my freedom to get a look at her naked. I’m betting her pussy’s as pink as the blush she dusted on her cheeks.
* * *
Laurel
This is all wrong, and I’m in serious trouble.
The dealer keeps the cards coming, and I keep smiling and flicking chips into the pile when what I really want to do is bolt up the stairs and out of the house. Fear and dread knots my insides. Milt lied to me. If I’d known Scott Patrick was going to be here, I never would’ve come.
In school, Scott was rumored to be a wickedly dangerous boy, but I never saw that side of him. When he was around me, he was charming and so, so beautiful that it was hard to look past his face. In summer, his sandy brown hair gets streaks of blond, and year round his blue eyes change in the light and are stunners. He could’ve been a model or a YouTube star or anything that leverages breathtaking good looks. But he doesn’t like to be photographed. And yet, I doubt there’s a woman he went to school with who doesn’t have at least one quickly snapped picture of him on an old phone. His is a face that’s meant to be stared at. I still have seven old pics of him. At one time it was forty-four, but progress has been made.
He’s a man now, and there’s no doubt the rumors are true. He’s in thick with Connor McCann and Sasha Stroviak and they all defected from Frank Palermo’s criminal organization and started their own. Last year amidst a gang war, someone gunned down Palermo. There’s talk that Frank’s own daughter or his ex-mistress could’ve shot him, but how likely is that when Scott Patrick is a known sharpshooter and both his muscle-bound friends are killers, too?
In high school, I couldn’t understand why a boy as a brilliant and handsome as Scott Patrick chose to hang out with thugs. I learned later he was raised to be one of them.
Dropping the medication in his glass makes my breath so short I feel dizzy. No matter what he’s done, I hate being involved in something that will hurt him.
I take another swig of my martini, trying to work up the courage to do what has to be done. My hands threaten to shake. But I’m here and I need to do this. If he’s got nothing to hide, then there’s no harm in it. And my sister needs me to try.
Still, just the thought of trying to trick him is scary. When I was being coached, Milt made everything seem simple and reasonable. But I’m not an actress, and I’m not a criminal. How can I possibly handle myself in this company?
We play hand after hand, but none of the things I’m supposed to say will come out of my mouth. Because I’m convinced if I try at all to lead the conversation to their illegal dealings, one or all of them will immediately see right through me.
An hour in, my leg’s bouncing so fast from nerves that I realize my breasts are shaking. The man named Jack Murphy has his eyes glued to my chest. Jesus. I force myself to be still. This is a disaster.
My own eyes glance at the upturned cards on the table, but I don’t really see much. I put a hand on a stack of chips, ready to recklessly push them in. I’m playing really badly because I’m scared and I’m distracted by the first guy I ever loved.
“You sure?” Trick murmurs out of the corner of his mouth.
We lock eyes, his a deep denim blue, and my hand freezes on the stack of chips.No, I’m not sure, I think. What am I sure of is that Scott has a good idea that I don’t have what it takes to beat him, but I don’t know why he’s warning me of that. Maybe it’s another game he’s playing? He’s an expert game player from way back.
I lay down my cards. Not waiting to see how things play out, I rise and hurry to the bathroom. Once locked inside, I reach down the sausage casing that is my borrowed dress and yank out the tiny microphone. I crush it under the heel of my borrowed shoe. I’ve been outfitted in designer clothing seized by the FBI. That’s where the cash on the poker table came from too. But I can’t go forward with any more of this. I open the basement window and drop the mic outside, then close the window again, getting caught by a gust of cold air. It’s spring, but the night almost feels like winter’s back.
Exhaling, I try to breathe slowly to get my hammering heart to slow. When they lose the signal, will the FBI burst in? And if so, will all three of the gangsters at the table then come after me and my family? I almost get sick at the thought. How did I ever let myself get talked into coming here?
Because Monet’s in legal trouble. And because C Crue is doing vile things and needs to be stopped. This operation is something that I should press on with, but Scott Patrick giving me advice at the poker table stopped me. Whatever else he did in high school, he never failed to watch out for me when he thought I was in trouble.
I run some cold water, cup my hands and drink a few swallows. No more vodka. And no more Scott Patrick. I’ll take his drugged drink like I want a sip and then I’ll drop it so he can’t drink anymore. Afterward I’ll lose quickly and leave.
Returning to the table, the mood has worsened and I see that the mountain of chips in front of Trick has risen. Also, his drink’s gone. Oh, God. Did he chug it down? Now I’ll have to wait to be sure he’s okay.
Across the table Enzo Palermo sneers, his face flushed an angry red. Everyone’s losing to Trick, but no one else gets needled by him every hand.
“Luck’s just not on your side tonight, huh, Enzo?” Trick asks. “Could be because you’re not Irish. You could try rubbing Murphy’s balls for luck.”
Enzo jumps to his feet, knocking his chair back. There were supposed to be no weapons, but he pulls a small gun from somewhere and points it menacingly at Trick.
I freeze while everyone else pushes back, except Trick. He lifts my drink and takes a sip, like he’s at a table in the Bellagio. Even I want to shoot him in his beautiful face.
Enzo is not having Trick’s endless cool. He stalks around the table and puts the gun to Trick’s head.
Trick cocks a brow and smirks.
Oh, my God, why?
Enzo cracks the gun against Trick’s scalp, making me wince. Trick stays still. Clearly he’s braced himself for this attack, but why provoke it? That’s insane.
