Beck had dinner and a private card game with an associate tonight. I’m uncertain whether any actual card playing will take place. Either way, I’m on my own. I didn’t see Axel at all today—or yesterday for that matter. Maybe he’s done with me. He made his point. It’s fine. Other than acquiring a membership, focusing solely on him doesn’t serve the directive. But the employees have proven to be challenging to interact with. It seems they’re instructed to be invisible for their job, like I usually am for mine. They’re a tight-knit group, as entertaining to observe as the wealthy and wicked.
Beck did introduce me to several members. I met a few Mafia dons. That was a treat. They have their own enforcers, so hobnobbing with them is a rarity. There were several businessmen and a few politicians that Beck was most chummy with. And two fellow assassins. I’d stolen a job from one of themabout a year ago. It was a double-booked situation, and I was faster. I’m always faster. Too bad for him. It was a three-million-dollar hit. He didn’t recognize me though.
The other went through my father’s camp years ago, but ever the good soldier, he didn’t mention any association. You can never be sure if an assassin is working, so it’s always best to play into the possible ruse.
Leaning back in my booth, I indulge in a marasca fizz with extra cherries while reading a book by the table lamp and the room beyond the pages. Much to my delight, the most delectablesex in a suitstruts in.
He wades through the crowd. His presence unveils a multitude of information about the others in attendance here. Some roll their shoulders back, lift their chins, and meet him eye to eye. Others avert their gaze, feigning deep immersion in conversation even though, moments ago, they were engrossed in people-watching. The employees perk up. And several women stare. Not the dons’ wives. That would be suicide. But the women who are here as members and those who are married to businessmen or politicians? They practically drool. I’m guessing some of the latter have open arrangements and are hoping to check Axel Noire off their laminated free passes.
One lady, who’s clad in lace and feathers and an inebriation level that is likely what her bloodstream calls a baseline, approaches him. She’s gorgeous. Blonde and curvy, with a golden tan lingering from lazy pool days. Late thirties. Her naked ring finger was stripped within the last couple of months. Based on her other accessories, several of them dripping with diamonds far larger than any engagement rock, her bank account was padded to cushion the blow.
She trails her manicured nail along the lapel of Axel’s charcoal-gray suit, and he grins at her, though she’s doing most of the talking. I’ll be referring to her as Miss Hannigan fromhere on out. We could say it’s because of her feathered boa and maybe because she appears to be a tad too intoxicated and hella desperate. But that’s only a fraction of the basis for her new moniker. Logical or not, I hate her as much as I did that old hag inAnnie. I can’t recall the last time I felt hatred toward a person, let alone someone I’ve never spoken to. But here we are.
The pit boss interrupts them apologetically, and he and Axel stroll away. They chat briefly, chuckle, and the pit boss nonchalantly peers over Axel’s shoulder. It was a diversion. Everyone in this place wants him, serves him, wishes they were him, or has plans to kill him.
Dragging my focus away from the infuriating infatuation I seem to have, I distract myself with an extra maraschino cherry, the sip of a cocktail that tastes like home, and the string of nonsensical words on the page.
“Miss West,” he rasps three minutes later, and I loathe that his velvet and gravel voice sings to my core.
On the flip side, it’s as though I just stomped on Miss Hannigan’s foot.He runs from you and seeks me out.
My pettiness is new. I may be spiraling.
I raise my chin slowly, my eyes still glued to the page I can’t process, like I used to when my father called me but I didn’t want to stop reading. I’m not sure why since I’m happy Axel’s here. Maybe simply to be the one person in this whole establishment who won’t lie down at his feet and pant. Which serves my objective—for my job.
He chuckles softly, appreciating my antics, and makes himself comfortable beside me. Before I return his greeting, a server is at the table with a snifter, filled with cognac or brandy, and an eagerness to take his order for appetizers.
“Would you like something, Zara?”
Not to melt every time you say my name, thank you.
“I’m not very hungry, but please, go ahead.”Lie.I’m starving for the alluring man who smells like autumn, indulgence, and demise.
I should have insisted my father pull me from this mission. A confession as to how messed up my head is and a plea to replace me would’ve been humiliating, but it might have saved my life and his. This is a slippery slope. I’m losing my edge here, and I just arrived.
Axel orders crawfish bread and cheesy shrimp and grits bites. The blend of opulence and Big Easy charm is perplexing. And addictive.
He spreads his arm out behind me, sipping his drink and not saying much. Perhaps I’m a cover so he can enjoy himself without being ravaged. Assuming this is so, I go back to reading and decide I’ll let him dictate whether we interact in this encounter or simply bask in companionable silence. Of course, his proximity chips away at that resolve. An energy wafts off his body, holding mine hostage. But I man my space.
The food comes in under ten minutes, and he makes a plate and sets it before me. “I know you’re not hungry, but it would be a shame to have New Orleans cuisine in front of you and not indulge. At least a bite.”
He seems genuine, and something inside me leaps at the opportunity to please him. This encounter is as weird as our restroom rendezvous.
My first taste of the crawfish bread evokes an unbidden moan. It’s savory and rich. Creole food might end up being a weakness for me. He smiles and watches me clean my plate, but still doesn’t interject anything other than a few tidbits about the cuisine. He carries both the weight of the world and not a single fuck on his shoulders as he eats in a fishbowl, where the scrutiny from a crowded room—albeit covert—never departs from him.
Finally, he wipes his hands, pushes his dish aside, glides on a pair of glasses, and taps my book. “T.S. Eliot poems?”
He wears freaking glasses. My heart chants.Thump-thud. Thump-thud. Thump-thud.
“Maybe I have a thing for poets.” It’s flirty and out before I’ve determined whether it’s the best play, but that’s probably what beingmefor this job entails.
“Or a dark side,” he challenges, tucking those erotic frames back inside his inner suit pocket, his sapphires twinkling with mischief and buried desires. “This is the way the world ends./Not with a bang but with a whimper.”
“You have ‘The Hollow Men’ memorized.” My shock escorts that. I thought he was teasing with his comment about being a poet the other day, but maybe there is one tucked in there.
“As do you,” he accuses with a smirk.
He got me. I furnished the title without hesitation, based on a single line. Who’s learning who here?
