Page 102 of That Girl is Trouble

“Uh, impressed with… what?”

He cocks a brow. “The house. It’s something, isn’t it? All custom built,” he says, scanning the room. “Paintings all curated to my tastes. That rug you’re standing on? Authentic Persian import.”

I follow his gaze, only then realizing that my short, high-heeled boots are dripping dirty snow onto his rug. I squeak and immediately leap off it.

He chuckles like I didn’t just ruin a rug that probably cost more than my car, then turns to face the wall closest to us and nods at a painting. It’s more of that clinical white, with big, black brush strokes randomly thrown across the canvas.

“Do you like art?” When I shrug, he says, “This painting is one of my favourites. I bought it at an art auction in Madrid for just under a million.”

I nearly choke. “I, uh, hate to tell you this, Mr. Rossi. But I’m not sure you needed to pay a million dollars for that thing. I could have painted something just like it for… half the price, at least.”

A grin slides over his face, his eyes flashing. “It wasn’t about the art. I paid what I did because someone else wanted it.” He takes a step towards me, invading my space.

I swallow, fighting the urge to step back, and tip my chin up.

“I like to collect impressive and beautiful things, Katherine. Things that other people covet. There’s power in that. Taking what others want. I bought this painting because someone else thought it was beautiful. Now it hangs in my foyer, and only I get to look at it. Do you understand?”

His focus drops to my throat, to where his ring hangs around my neck. Suddenly, it isn’t just a necklace. It’s a collar. A mark. Ownership.

I nod, because what could I possibly say to that? My legs tingle, and the rhythm of my heart kicks up a notch. Like maybe my body is telling me to run.

“I’ll take your coat,” he says, holding out his arm.

I shrug out of it and hand it to him. More goose bumps scuttle over my skin when his eyes rove over my body. The short pleated black skirt, the thigh-highs, and the white lace corset that cuts off at my midsection. I hold tight to my bag, gripping the bottom, taking solace in the heavy weight of the gun. Tonight, my bag is my safety.

But it won’t come to that.

This is nothing. This is work. This is just another asshole with his eyes on my tits.

Rossi motions for me to follow him, and I do, but I keep my distance as we move deeper into the bowels of his house. It’s dead quiet, but when he pushes through a tall glass door that seemingly divides a long hallway, it’s like we step into another place entirely—one with boisterous laughter and thumping music and the sounds of clinking glasses.

“Soundproof,” Mr. Rossi says, no doubt noticing my surprise.

I nod, because yeah, that’s the most normal thing in the world.

He leads me down a spiral staircase and into a large room filled with people. A lot of men, and maybe a handful of half-naked women.

Green-topped poker tables are set up across the vast space. There’s a small bar towards the back, where a woman in a short black dress mixes drinks. One wall is made of glass, and on the other side is a huge square pool, uncovered and shining blue, with steam rising off the heated surface. In it, Barbie from the Garden has her arms wrapped around a man’s neck, her huge bare tits pressed against his face.

The scene is not totally unexpected, though when I pictured high-stakes poker game, I was thinking cigars and black ties, not stripper poles and body shots. But this makes me feel better. It’s exactly like the Garden. Like work. Like I said it would be.

The tension drains from my body, and I loosen my grip on my bag. “This is, uh, interesting,” I say to Rossi as I take in the room.

“This is where my guests let off steam. The real fun is in there,” he says, jerking his head to a closed door on the far back wall. A large man in a suit stands outside. A bouncer, I guess. The security Mr. Rossi promised. “Come, Katherine. My break’s about up.”

He grasps my hand and pulls me through the room to the door, giving the man beside it a nod before ushering me inside.

Ok, this was what I was expecting. The thrum of the music dies as the door closes behind me, revealing a much smaller room. It’s thick with a haze from cigarettes and cigars. A small unmanned bar is set up on the far left side, stocked with expensive bottles of liquor. At the centre of the room is a poker table surrounded by five men, one of which has a pretty topless woman on his lap.

The scrutiny directed my way makes my skin tingle again. I grip my bag and pull it closer to my ribcage, but Rossi tugs it out of my hold and tosses it onto a small ledge beside the door. Then he drags me to the table and pulls me onto his lap.

“’Bout time, Rossi,” an older balding man growls. He takes a sip from the tumbler next to him and jerks his head to me. “That your chip?”

Rossi smiles and rubs his hand over my thigh. I shift away, but he holds me in place.

My stomach sinks. Fuck. Jade was right. This is a lot more than shaking my ass and doing a few twirls around a pole. This is hands on me that aren’t supposed to be there, because the only man I want touching my skin like this is Axe. The only man I want to see this much of me is Axe. Not Rossi. Not these strangers. Not the customers at the Garden. Just Axe.

I clear my throat. “A chip? Like a poker chip?”

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