Page 11 of One Love

It may seem heartless to some, the way I can close off my emotions, but it’s gotten me this far and I’m not about to stop now.

The cool night air whips past me as I ride to the casino. Fuck, I’ve missed my bike. The truck wasn’t the worst thing in the world, but my bike is like a slice of peace at my fingertips. I’d give her a name, but that would be too sentimental if I lost her again.

Time moves too quickly and I’m already arriving at the casino. I’ll need to make some time to take a longer ride later in the week. One of the hostesses greets me as I walk in, the usual cheery smile that they all share on her face, and I head straight for the poker table, spotting Mr. Wright immediately. His thinning hair and scrawny complexion are a dead giveaway, no matter how much he tries to dress himself up in designer suits.

My trademark leather pants and black tank-top don’t look too out of place this evening. The weekends are usually when the high-rollers play, wearing their suits or cocktail dresses, but for a Tuesday, it’s pretty casual. Except for the douches like Mr. Wright, of course.

As soon as I sit down, Mr. Douche himself glances up from the cards in his hand and actually snarls at me before throwing themdown, gathering his chips, and moving to stand. He doesn’t spare me another look as he grumbles to himself and walks toward one of the Blackjack tables.

I can’t help the small grin that forms on my lips, knowing that just my presence has annoyed him so much.

He’s still close enough for me to keep an eye on him, although my plan is to catch him on his way out rather than trying to tail the sly fucknut—because that shit just ain’t working.

We still don’t know his deal, his importance, but he’s sneaky enough to have gained my interest.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I turn to the hostess now standing beside me, a tray on her palm holding a glass of what appears to be whiskey on the rocks. Just how I like it.

Instead of answering her, I raise a brow, encouraging her to say what she needs to say.

She clears her throat before lifting the glass and trying to hand it to me. “This is for you.”

“I didn’t order a drink.” I never do, because I can’t trust a soul in this place and I’m not dumb enough to put myself in that kind of vulnerable position.

“Apologies, ma’am. I just do as I’m told.” She smiles and continues to hold the glass out toward me.

Firstly, I am not old enough to be a ma’am. And secondly, why is my glare not making her fuck right off?

“Take it back. Thank you.” I try to remember that she’s just doing her job, and aside from calling me ma’am, she hasn’t done anything to deserve my rudeness. I can respect a woman who stands in front of me for this long without wilting like a dead flower.

She finally turns and walks away, placing the glass back on the tray. I watch to see if she speaks to anyone, but she just heads toward the bar. The only person in this building who couldpossibly know my drink of choice is Zavier, though I can’t recall telling him at any point, so much has happened since I began this job. I’ve allowed too much to slide.

My phone buzzes, and as much as I would like it to be one of my Reapers, I have a feeling it’s my stalker with a death wish.

PIMFA:Could’ve sworn you were a whiskey girl.

Okay, so this means he’s here now. Watching me. But where?

I scan the room, my senses on high alert as I’m still trying to keep an eye on Mr. Wright too. I don’t need this kind of distraction. Although, my stalker told me Mr. Wright was here. Have I walked into some kind of fucked up trap? I mean, I’m armed, so good luck to them if I have.

Zavier has just walked into the casino through the door that leads to the back offices and I decide to test my current theory on the mystery texter.

Me:I’m not.

I watch him as I wait for a response. He’s talking to the security guard and checking his watch.

PIMFA:Liar

If he’s got one of those smart watches, then it’s got to be him.

Me:No. I’m a whiskey woman. No girls here.

PIMFA:Touché.

This time, Zavier’s hands are in his pockets the whole time, so unless he’s mastered the art of reading and replying to a text without even looking, then my theory is fucked up the ass.

Me:Who the hell are you?

---