Page 11 of Dirty Deal

My pillow hides my smile.

See, Weston James may want to punish me with his presence, but the joke’s on him.

I’m counting down the hours until I see that jerk again.

* * *

One comatose nap, a scalding hot shower, and a hasty dinner later, I’m back on the sidewalk outside the Merritt casino. I peer up at the building that dominated so much of my life. It stands nine stories high, with pale stone columns on either side of the front entrance. Huge spotlights light the building from below.

Before my great-grandfather got hold of it, this building used to be a grand old bank, complete with gold bars and priceless gems held in its vaults. Kinda ironic what it became under my family’s ownership.

Since Weston took over, the Merritt has had another makeover, though it’s only noticeable once you step inside. I hurry through the doors, eager to reach my father’s ex-protege on time.

See, once you get past the lobby and coatroom, the first floor of the casino used to be packed with rows and rows of slot machines. With my father in charge, this was always the busiest floor, crammed with everyday people who’d wandered in off the street, ready to pull levers and blow their whole paycheck in one sitting.

Under Weston’s rule, those slot machines are all gone. The first floor now has a mix of roulette, craps, and blackjack, and the clientele is visibly wealthier. Everyone is dressed to the nines in evening gowns and tuxedos, and even the staff uniforms look fancier too.

No one’s flushing away their social security check in Weston James’s casino. No, sir. He’s shaking down the rich and famousinstead, letting them blow their trust funds and blockbuster movie payouts.

It’s so much better. My shoulders relax an inch as I weave my way through the tables, heading for the door at the side of the room.

Weston works on the eighth floor, the one below the penthouse. What’s on the top floor now? Is it still a private apartment? Does he live up there full time, or does he just use it to crash when he can’t get away from work?

My father never worked long enough hours to bother using that apartment at all, and it spent his whole tenure gathering dust. I remember sneaking up there once as a kid, lifting all the white sheets to peer at the abandoned furniture beneath.

“Lena Merritt,” a blackjack croupier says out of the corner of his mouth as I pass his table. He’s an older gentleman, maybe in his late fifties, and dapper in a burgundy tuxedo.

I pause, smiling but confused. The man winks and clicks his heels together, showing off freshly polished shoes. A laugh bursts out of me, and the croupier smiles wider.

“Have a good night, young lady.”

I waggle my polish-stained fingers in a wave. “Oh, I will.”

Up, up, up I go, winding my way through the back corridors of the building. Three separate elevators give me partial rides, and the rest of the way, I stomp up deserted stairwells, my thighs screaming.

I guess I could take a more direct route to Weston’s office, but old habits die hard. This was the roundabout way I used to visit my father as a kid, and retracing those old steps feels good for some reason. Comfortable.

At eight o’clock precisely, I rap on Weston’s door then hold my breath. Every inch of my body flushes hot as I wait for his response.

It’s the stairs,I tell myself.You’re hot from the stairs.

But when Weston calls out in that deep, rumbly voice, my legs turn to jelly. I can barely make my hand work to grip the door handle and turn it.

The man who has haunted my every waking moment is behind his desk when I step inside, his shirt collar unbuttoned and his dark hair tousled. Like he’s been tugging on it, maybe frustrated over some fancy business contract or spreadsheet. Weston eyes me as I shut the door and walk further into his office, coming to stand right in front of his desk.

“You’re back,” Weston says, and he sounds almost disappointed. Like he hoped one night of menial labor would be enough to send me away screaming.

Listen: this man doesn’t know me at all. Even if my parents’ welfare weren’t on the line, my pride would never allow me to be beaten so easily.

“Yep. I’m back and reporting for duty.” My jokey salute is met with a frown, and Weston settles deeper into his chair. I’m a bug under his microscope again, his dark gaze scanning every inch of me. Searching for signs of weakness. Sadly, there are many.

“You’re tired, princess.”

I force a bland smile, even though that nickname makes my stomach twist. “Guilty as charged.”

“And your hands are stained.”

My fingers knit together to keep from fidgeting. “So they are.”

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