Play Me (16 page)

I don't even make it down the stairs before I run into Janet. She's sitting on the bottom couple of steps, leaning against the rickety banister and rocking back and forth. She's drunk, of course. She almost always is at this time of the morning.

“Hey,” I say as I crouch down next to her. “Can I help you to your apartment?”

She looks at me through bleary eyes. “Aria?”

“Yeah, Janet. It's me.” I take the lit cigarette that's dangling from her limp fingertips, stub it out on the ground. Then put an arm under hers and pull her to her feet. It's not exactly hard—she's little more than skin and bones, has been for as long as I've lived here. Of course, she's pretty much been drunk as long as I've lived here, too. Which is a shame. She's only about fifty, maybe a couple years younger, but she looks like she's lived a hard, cold life.

“I lost my reading glasses again,” she tells me. “I couldn't get the key in the lock.”

“You'd have a better shot at getting the key in the lock if you weren't so out of it you can barely stand.” The words come easily—it's part of a routine with us, one that has played out nearly every day for the last fourteen months.

“It's my glasses,” she slurs. “If I had my glasses…”

“I know, Janet. I know.” We move slowly toward her door, inching along the passageway as she tries to walk on legs that are too tired and too wobbly to cooperate much. “Where are your keys?”

“My keys?” She looks bewildered, like she has no idea what I'm talking about. Like we weren't just having a conversation about that very subject.

“I need your keys to open your door,” I tell her.

“Oh.” She still looks like she has no idea what I'm talking about. But then she gestures awkwardly toward the parking lot. “I think I threw them somewhere over there. Stupid keys. No good to me if they won't open the door.”

Great. Awesome. Fantastic. It's not like I'm already running late to see my sister or anything. Not like I have about a million other things to do than to hunt for her keys in the trash-strewn parking lot. But I can't just leave her out here, either. She's been beaten up more than once in the time I've lived here.

I prop her against her door well with a sigh. “I'll go find them. But you've got to stay right here, okay? Don't wander off.”

She sags against the door. “I won't go anywhere, darlin'. These old bones of mine are tired.”

I know the feeling. Shoving the thought to the back of my head—I have enough to deal with right now without my own past coming back to haunt me—I head in the general direction of where Janet had gestured.

The keys aren't there, of course, and so I gradually widen my search area until I find them under her car at the back of the lot. Her very badly parked car. Shit. She drove home drunk, when she'd promised me just the other day she wouldn't do that again.

I grab the keys then hurry back across the lot before Janet can get into any more trouble. Thankfully, she's exactly where I left her this time—except she's on the ground, eyes closed, back and head resting against the door.

I get her back on her feet, then unlock the door and lead her into her apartment.

It's in better shape than I expected, considering the state it was in yesterday when I brought her home. A sign that she's actually been sober sometime in the last twenty-four hours. Sober enough to clear away the beer bottles and plastic cups. Sober enough even to dust the pictures she has scattered on every available surface of her apartment.

Almost all of the pictures are of her and her son and they tell a very different story than the one she's living now. In almost all of the photos, she's happy, healthy. She still looks tired, but it's a different kind of tired. One that's interspersed with a contentment that's definitely missing now.

Not for the first time, I wonder about her son. About what happened to him. About whether he died or got arrested or just went away and left Janet alone to drink herself to death. I hope it's not the last one, hope he's not out there somewhere knowing what's happening to her, why it's happening, and just not giving a fuck.

“I'll make you some coffee,” I tell her after getting her settled on the couch. But she's out of coffee—she's out of everything except beer and cheap tequila.

For the first time since I opened my fridge this morning, I'm grateful—truly grateful—for what Sebastian did last night. If he hadn't bought me all those groceries, I'd have nothing to give Janet this morning but a carton of yogurt.

“I'll be back in a minute,” I tell her, then run up to my apartment. I pour her a cup of coffee from the still warm pot, then grab a bag and stuff it full of groceries. I'm back down at her place in five minutes, but it's too late. She's already passed out, facedown on the dirty couch.

After turning her head to make sure she can breathe, I quickly put the food away. Then I leave her a note, so she'll know it's there, and let myself out of her apartment. We've been friends of sorts for over a year now and I do this so often that I've even got keys to her place so I can lock up on my way out.

I'm running really late now, so I pretty much break every speed limit there is on my way across town to see my sister. She has a follow-up appointment with her doctor at eleven today and I wanted to spend a couple hours with her before she went in. Normally I go with her and Mom to these appointments, but I have to work this afternoon and there's no way she'll be done before I have to be at the Atlantis.

I reach into my purse, grab my cell phone. Figure I'll text her and let her know I'm on my way. Between last night and the night before, my tips were pretty good. Add in the groceries Sebastian got me, and I figure I can afford to take her to her favorite Thai restaurant for lunch.

But my cell's dead—I was so out of it that I forgot to charge it last night before I went to bed and the call with Sebastian must have finished it off. Damn. Maybe the Thai restaurant will have to wait if Mom doesn't know to get Lucy ready in time.

Thirty-five minutes after I left my apartment, I pull into the circular driveway in front of my parents' house.

It's the same house I grew up in, the only place I've ever lived besides the apartment I now have and my various dorm rooms at college, and I've always loved it. Loved the huge palm trees in front, the high ceilings that let in the best of the desert sunshine, the long, marble hallways that glisten in the afternoon. The secret passages that run behind the walls and provided me with the best hiding places in the world when I was growing up.

I love everything about this place, if I'm honest, which is why I hate so much the way it feels when I come here now. I hate the way my throat tightens with dread, the way my stomach sinks. The way my hands can't quite stay steady. All because of Carlo. All because—

I cut off the thought, refusing to go there now—or ever again. Dwelling on the past won't change things. It won't heal old wounds and it won't make the outcome any different. So what's the point, other than making myself miserable.

There is no point, and I'll do well to remember that.

I take the stairs leading up to the entrance two at a time. Knock three times on the front door and try not to think about what it was like in the days before I had to knock. The days I felt free to just walk right in.

It's not that I want to go back to that time—I don't. I don't like who I was back then, how I always did what I was told and never questioned my father's narrative, no matter how absurd it was. And parts of it were pretty damn absurd if I'm being honest. I was just too stupid to know better. Or worse, too blind.

But that doesn't mean I don't miss being able to see my sister every day. Don't miss being part of a family. And I'd also be lying if I said I didn't miss knowing that the bills would always be paid.

At the same time, though, now that I know how my dad pays those bills…it isn't worth it. Nothing is worth that.

The door finally opens and I smile at Conchita, the housekeeper my parents have employed since before I was born. She's had as big a hand in raising me as my mother has, and I press a quick hello kiss to her cheek before pulling back to smile at her.

She doesn't smile back.

Instead, she whispers, “Lucia and your mama already left, Aria. They decided to go to the mall before the doctor's appointment.”

“Why didn't they text me?” I say before remembering that my phone is dead.

“They did,” Conchita says, rubbing my back even as she tries to shove me out onto the porch. “No answer.”

“Did they say where they were going? Maybe I could—”

“You need to go, Aria.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up at her warning, at the solemn, nervous look on her face as she glances back over her shoulder. Suddenly everything clicks into place and I turn around, ready to flee.

But it's too late. I know it as soon as I hear the sound of a newspaper crinkling.

The sound of his polished wingtips slapping across his prized marble floors.

The sound of a throat being cleared.

“Aria.”

My name sounds foreign on his lips, in his voice—it's been so long since I've heard him say it.

I want to run, want to get as far away from here—from him—as I possibly can. But running away isn't an option now. Not when I can feel the weight of his expectations, feel him biding his time as he waits for me to answer.

So, in the end, I do the only thing I can. I draw a deep breath into my lungs and turn to face him, fake smile firmly in place. “Hi, Daddy. How are you?”

“Sebastian? Is that you?”

I hear the familiar voice as I I'm walking through the hotel reception area after stopping by my father's suite to check on the old man. He's doing as well as can be expected, which means not very well at all. But he was alert and as responsive as possible when I was talking to him, so that's something. And if I took advantage of the fact that he can't speak well enough to tell me how much I'm fucking up his legacy, well then, that's a karmic black mark that I'm more than willing to pay for later.

I almost don't stop to check who's calling to me, because all in all it's been a shit day so far and I'm exhausted. Plus, I'm worried about Aria. I haven't heard from her since she hung up on me this morning and I'm not happy.

Not happy that she hasn't called back.

Even less happy that she hasn't answered any of the three texts I've sent her since then.

And I'm definitely not happy about the fact that I'm still thinking about her two hours later, when a million other things need my attention. The fact that she has that much control over me already…it's not a good feeling.

But the voice is familiar enough—though out of place—that I turn around to see who it is. And nearly lose my shit when I realize Ethan Frost is standing in the middle of my lobby, holding a room key in one hand and a beautiful woman's hand in the other.

“Ethan! What are you doing here?” I'm smiling hugely now as he leans in, gives me a one-armed hug.

“I should be asking you the same thing. The last I heard you were doing a three-month stint in Haiti.”

“Yeah, well, I had to cut the trip short. Thanks for your donation, by the way.”

“Always, man. It's a good cause.” He pulls his woman in closer, wraps an arm around her waist. She's got strawberry blond hair and an infectious smile that I can't help returning. “This is my fiancée, Chloe Girard. Chloe, this is Sebastian Caine. We've been friends since college and are currently on the boards of a couple of charitable foundations together.”

“It's nice to meet you.” Her handshake is as firm as her smile is soft and it impresses me.
She
impresses me, actually, largely because of the way Ethan can't stop grinning like an idiot. She's obviously good for him.

“It's great to meet you, too. Any fiancée of Ethan's is a friend of mine.” I turn to the man whom I've considered one of my closest friends for the better part of a decade. “How come this is the first I'm hearing about your engagement?”

“It just happened. This is kind of a celebration trip, actually.”

“And you're staying in my hotel?”

He laughs. “I was pretty sure you'd kick my ass if you found out I'd stayed somewhere else.”

“Damn straight. Your trip is on me, obviously.”

“That's not necessary—”

“Of course it is. It's not every day one of my best friends gets engaged.” I turn to smile at Chloe, who is looking a little overwhelmed. “Congratul​ations, by the way. To both of you. I hope you'll join me for dinner one night while you're here, so we can celebrate.”

She nods slowly. “I'd like that.”

“Good. Tell Ethan to pick a day and we'll make it happen.”

“Tomorrow night,” Ethan says immediately. “We've got tickets to your Cirque show tonight. Chloe's never been to one.”

“It's a good show,” I tell her. “I think you'll like it.”

“I'm sure I will.”

“All right, then. I'll leave you guys to get settled in.” I clap Ethan on the back. “Give me a call if you want to get a drink after the show tonight. Otherwise, I'll plan on seeing you tomorrow—”

“Actually, Chloe just set up a couple hours at the spa for a facial and pedicure. Do you have some time to talk now?”

I almost tell him no—I've got a shit-ton of work that needs to get done today and at least three new crises that have to be dealt with. But there's a look in his eyes, something that says the request is about more than catching up. So I nod, tell him, “Sure. Just text me whenever you're ready.”

He nods. “Good. I'll see you in a bit, then.”

“Absolutely.” I take hold of Chloe's hand, raise it to my lips. “It was lovely to meet you, Chloe. Back in school we always knew Ethan had good taste, but he's obviously surpassed himself this time.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she answers with an amused eye roll.

“No, it won't,” Ethan says, pulling her even more tightly into his side. “Watch out for this one, Chlo. He's trouble.”

“Once again, Ethan, I'm pretty sure you've gotten us confused.” I bow out with a grin and a wink at Chloe. Squeezing Ethan into my to-do list, though definitely not a hardship, does leave me with a dearth of time this afternoon.

But I barely make it to the elevator before I'm stopped again, this time by the head of security. There's a couple cheating at one of the five hundred dollar minimum tables and he wants to know how he should handle it. I start to tell him to do whatever he normally does in situations like these, but in the end I follow him up to the Eye, the room that handles the video feed from every camera in the casino. If I want to put my mark on this place—to show my division heads that I'm more than just an extension of my father's less than stellar policies—I need to put in the time to do just that.

By the time I finally make my decision—k​icking them out with a severe warning but not involving the police—Ethan's already texted me. I answer him with directions on how to get to my office, then head there myself—after getting what I think is an approving nod from my security chief.

Not an ideal use of time, I figure, but not a bad use, either.

Ethan and I end up hitting the top floor at the same time, though in different elevators—I use the private one that leads straight into my office. The doors haven't even closed behind me, though, before he's knocking on my door.

“Come on in,” I call, heading to the bar my father's kept in the corner of this office for as long as the Atlantis has existed. “Beer?” I ask him, holding up a bottle of Corona. “Or scotch?”

“Scotch, I think.”

I raise a brow but don't say anything else as I pour him two fingers, neat, of Lagavulin. Definitely not just a social visit, then.

I grab a Guinness for myself—I'm not a fan of Ethan's wimpy surfer beers—and then hand him his scotch.

He goes to sit in one of the chairs opposite my desk, but the replacements I ordered the other day haven't come in yet and I'll be damned if one of my best friends is going to play even an unwitting part in one of my dad's damn mind games.

“Let's check out the view,” I tell him, steering him over to the small seating area in front of the picture window. As he drops into one of the chairs, I can't help thinking about the fact that it's been less than twenty-four hours since I had Aria plastered against that window.

Naked.

Submissive.

Totally fucked out.

I end up taking a seat facing away from the window. The last thing I want to do right now is explain to Ethan why I've suddenly popped a fucking hard-on like some fifteen-year-old kid in English class.

“So, what
are
you doing here?” Ethan asks after draining half his scotch in one sip.

“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“I told you, I'm celebrating my engagement to a fabulous woman.” He eyes me over the rim of his glass.

“While I agree that getting a woman like Chloe to marry you definitely deserves a celebration, we've been friends a long time, Eth. Something else is going on, too.”

“You could say that.”

“I am saying that. So spill, man. What's up?”

He shakes his head, looking more than a little sick. “The truth is, I knew you were back from Haiti. I came here because I wanted to talk to you about Brandon.”

“Ahh.” I take a sip of my beer. “Of course.”

I've met Ethan's younger half-brother a couple dozen times through the years and I've always thought he was a dick. A total, out-for-number-one, always-gets-what-he-wants, willing-to-fuck-over-anyone, class-A dick. Of course, I've kept my opinion on the matter to myself. Partly because he's Ethan's little brother and the guy has always looked out for him and partly because my opinion has always been the minority. Most people who know Brandon can't see past his charming demeanor to the asshole who lurks below. Ethan's not one of those people—he knows exactly who his brother is—but he's always taken care of him anyway. Tried to keep him out of trouble.

“What's he done now?”

Ethan looks at me for long seconds, face hard and eyes cold as a desert night. “This doesn't go any further.”

It's not a question, but then again, it doesn't have to be. Ethan and I may play in different pools, but we've had each other's back for years.

“So it's bad, then.” Not a question on my part, either. “Tell me.”

He's silent for a while longer, but eventually he drains his drink and says, “He raped Chloe.”

At first, I'm sure I've heard him wrong. But the look on his face is so grim, the anger in his eyes so violent, that I know I haven't. The silence stretches between us because I don't have a clue what to say. I mean, there's nothing to say, except, “What the fuck, Ethan?”

“It was a long time ago, when they were in school together. He was a senior, she was a freshman.”

“She didn't report it.”

“She did.” He clenches his jaw. “My mother and her husband bought her family off, made her drop the charges. She recanted her statement, signed non-disclosure agreements.”

Again, nothing to say but, “What the fuck?”

I get up this time, though, take his glass from his hand and walk back over to the bar to refill it. And to pour a couple fingers for myself, as well. The fact that he doesn't protest when I hand him three fingers of scotch this time—that, in fact, he slams it back like a sailor on payday—tells me everything I need to know about his state of mind. Or lack thereof.

“I can't fucking sleep. Can't fucking breathe. All I can do is think about what he did to her. About how he raped her and then shoved her out of the car onto the street like she was garbage. Like she was nothing.

“And she's probably not the only one he did that to.” He slams his glass down onto the table in front of him. “He just turned twenty-five. He's running for fucking Congress. It's his first step toward the White House and there's a damn good chance he's going to win the seat. He's a fucking rapist and he's going to be a congressional representa​tive. And then he'll be a senator and then who the fuck knows. President?

“The thought makes me fucking sick. Chloe still has nightmares about what he did to her and that bastard is going to get a seat in Congress? Over my dead body. Over my dead fucking body.”

He looks vicious right now, and totally determined. Not that I blame him. If someone ever hurt Aria—I nip that thought right in the bud. Partly because I can't handle thinking about something happening to her, and partly because I've only known her a couple days. It's insane how much I'm feeling for her already. How attached I am.

“So what's the plan?” I ask after a minute.

He's far away, locked deep in the hell of his own mind and it takes him a few seconds to focus on the question. “The plan?”

“What are we going to do about it?”

He looks me dead in the eye. “We're going to ruin him. I can't send him to jail—at least not for raping Chloe. But I've been digging and the son of a bitch has been playing fast and loose with the law since before he was legal. He's a rapist and a thief and a dealer—and that's just what I know about so far. There's no way he's winning that election. No fucking way.”

“What does Vegas have to do with any of that?” I ask, but I already know. The sinking feeling in my stomach says it all.

“He's got his fingers—and his trust fund—in a bunch of different pies here. Anthony Zanetti. Gabriel Santini.” He looks at me.

“Nico Valducci.” I say the name he wouldn't. “My father's been in bed with him for years.”

“Yeah, I know.”It's why I came to you.”

“I have a meeting set up with Valducci early next week. To discuss the fact that I'm not as amenable to organized crime in my casino as my father has always been.”

“Do you.” Ethan's thinking now. But so am I. And already I can see a couple avenues to exploit—if we're careful. And we don't mind getting our hands a little dirty.

Normally, I'm not a guy who likes to play in the shadows. Things are right or they're wrong. After all, there's not a lot of moral ambiguity that comes with lying, stealing, cheating, killing. But for this—for a chance to bring Nico Valducci down after all these years and help Ethan get justice for his woman? Yeah. For that I'm willing to get my hands dirty. And I won't even have trouble sleeping afterward.

“What are you thinking?” Ethan asks after a minute and I'm just opening my mouth to tell him when there's a sudden commotion at the door. I turn around just in time to see Aria burst through it, looking wilder and hotter than I've ever seen her.

She's dressed in a crimson sundress that hugs every one of her curves even as it makes her olive skin glow. One of the straps has slid down her arm and her hair is a just-rolled-out-of-bed mess. But it's a captivating look on her, one that has my mind flashing to about a million different things I'd like to do with her—all of which start with plopping her firm, lush ass on my desk and burying my face between her thighs. For hours.

I'm so distracted by the thought of making her come that I almost miss the upset on her face, confusion mixed with hurt and panic and fear. Once I get past her breasts and it sinks in, though, I'm off the couch and heading toward her in an instant. “What's wrong, Aria? Are you—”