Night After Night

Chapter Four

The Red Line gave new meaning to the word Lilliputian. The restaurant was one long narrow hallway, as if it had been wedged in between the shops on each side. There was a long bar, and a few tables, and they sat at the far end near the restrooms. Clay had been here a few times; it was a popular neighborhood place on a cobblestoned street in the Village and typified what he loved about this eclectic neighborhood – it was thoroughly New York, but it had an individual feel to it from the black and white pictures of steam engines on the walls to the dark red counter to the hip hop playing faintly overhead, R. Kelly’s Ignition.

Julia had finished texting with her sister, and he was glad of that. He had nothing against cell phones, but the sight of one in a woman’s hands while he was with her didn’t sit well with him, and he had his ex Sabrina to thank for that. She’d kept her twitchy little fingers far too busy on the touch screen of her phone, then lied, lied and lied some more about what she’d been doing. She’d been involved in some bad shit, and had dragged him deep down into her troubles too. It had taken him longer than he wanted to untangle himself from those tall tales Sabrina had spun, and the damage she’d done to him. Since then, he’d vowed to stay away from that kind of woman since.

Julia’s phone was tucked away in her purse again, where it belonged. They’d placed their order and she was nibbling on appetizers. She plucked an olive from a small plate, bit it away from the seed sexily, then said, “Do you realize I don’t even know where you’re from?”

“Do you want to know where I’m from?”

“Obviously. I’m asking. I want to get to know you better. Much better,” she said.

“And I want you to get to know me much better. Where do you think I’m from?” he asked, taking a drink of his scotch.

“Chicago.”

He shook his head. “Try again.”

“Ooh. Is this another game? You like games, don’t you? First Mad Libs. Now I get to guess where you’re from. What do I win if I’m right?”

He leaned in close to her, swept her hair from her ear, and spoke in a low rumble. “You can pick the next position. But I know you won’t win.”

“So you’re saying you’re setting me up to fail so you can choose how to take me?”

“You think I’d choose badly? You think I’d pick a position you wouldn’t like?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly, and she seemed to let down her guard for a second or two. “I like everything you do.”

He couldn’t resist her, especially not when she dropped the snark, though he loved that about her too. But when she revealed her vulnerable side, he found himself wanting to be even closer to her. “I like doing everything to you,” he said, looking her in the eyes, then brushing his thumb gently over her cheek, before he kissed her softly, drawing out the sexiest little whimper from her gorgeous lips.

She reached for his collar gently, holding on as she kissed back, and it was a kiss that held the promise of so much more. So much of their contact was hard and rough, and they both liked it that way, but this was tender and sweet, and he wanted this side of her too. Judging from how she kissed him, she wanted it too.

Soon, she broke the kiss, and brushed one hand against the other, in a most business-like gesture. “Now that that’s settled, let the games begin.” She studied his face curiously. “California?” She shook her head before he could answer. “No, you’re not happy enough to be from California.”

“I’m very happy,” he said defensively.

“Sure, but California people smile all the time. There’s this thing called sunshine that makes us all dopey and happy.”

“Then how do we account for your sarcasm, Miss California?”

“I’m an outlier,” she said, as a waiter brought them water glasses.

“Water for both of you. And the kitchen is working on your orders. They should be out in about five minutes.”

“Thank you very much,” Clay said, then returned his attention to the beautiful woman by his side who wore no underwear. “I’m not from California.”

“Arizona? Nah. Somehow I don’t think they make them so kinky in Arizona.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You never know. Arizona could be an incredibly kinky state. There could be entire colonies of kink in Phoenix.”

“If there are colonies, perhaps we should go exploring. But no, you’re not from Arizona, and you’re not from Oregon or Washington either. You’d be crunchy or have more of a penchant for plaid if either were the case.”

“I enjoy your process of elimination,” he said, leaning casually back in his bar chair, crossing his arms. No one ever guessed where he was from because it was the kind of place you weren’t usually from.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, then pointed at him. “And you’re not from Boston because you don’t have an accent, and that’s also why you’re not from the South. Or Texas, even though you feel very Texas,” she said, placing her palm against his shirt, spreading her fingers across his chest, tapping lightly with her fingertips. He was hard instantly from her touch. Damn this woman; everything she did was a direct line to his dick.

“So is there a guess coming, Julia?”

She shrugged happily, held her hands out in an I give up admission. “Salt Lake City,” she said with a smirk, and he laughed at her guess, so intentionally wrong.

“Vegas, baby.”

Her features registered no reaction at first. She was simply silent. then she laughed. Maybe in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep.”

“No one is from Vegas. Vegas is where you go. Not where you’re from.”

“Born and raised there.”

She held her hand as low to the ground as she could from where she sat. “Like back when you were little?”

He nodded again. “That’s what it means to be born and raised.”

“High school too?”

“Happy to show you my diploma if you need more verification. Lettered in Varsity Football at Desert Hills High on the outskirts of town. Lived there til I moved east for college.”

“And how does one come to live in Vegas?”

“Generally speaking one has parents from there.”

“Clearly. And your parents? What do they do in Vegas?”

“My parents do exactly what you’d expect two people in Vegas to have done. They’re retired now. Mom was a showgirl. Dad owns a small casino off the strip.”

“Wow. That’s just so…” she said, then let her voice trail off.

“So what?”

“Unusual. And surprising,” she said.

“Why is it surprising?”

You have got to be kidding me.

Her heart had raced when he first said Vegas, but she’d reined it in, relying on her well-honed poker face. Because really, what were the chances that he’d hail from the gambling Mecca?

Of all the places he could be from she’d never have thought it would be the one place that had so much in common with her present, and the life of gambling she led. She’d been a card player long before her mandatory attendance at Charlie’s Tuesday night games. She knew her way around a deck of cards since she taught herself to play in high school, and then continued on during college at UCLA, finding late-night games in the dorms, winning handily most of the time, collecting extra money for her expenses, for textbooks and meal plans. Back then, playing had been fun, something she enjoyed. She and her sister had taken many girls trips to Vegas too in their early twenties. McKenna could never back down from a challenge and even though board games and video games were more of her sister’s speed, she was the ideal cheerleader when they’d played the tables late at night at the Bellagio on those trips.

“Just because you hardly meet anyone from Vegas, that’s all I mean,” she said, making light of her comment. She wasn’t going to tell him more. Not even McKenna knew how much Julia played these days, and how desperately she needed to win. Only her hairdresser had an inkling. It was better that way, safer that way for everyone. McKenna had a rough go of things for a while with her douchebag of an ex-fiancé, but now she’d met Chris and was happy beyond measure. Julia wasn’t going to ruin her sister’s happiness by letting her know about the crap she was dealing with. McKenna would only be worried, like a good big sister. But there was nothing McKenna could do about her debt, so there was no reason to let her know. She had to shield her sister from her troubles. If she kept McKenna in the dark, she could better protect her from Charlie’s shadow, and any harm he might do. The same went for Charlie; the less he knew about her family, the better. Chris and McKenna both ran successful, high-profile TV shows; she didn’t want Charlie to get a piece of them. They were precisely the type of meal he enjoyed best – they were flush with green.

“You like Vegas?”

“I do. And I can hold my own at a blackjack table.”

“Yeah?”

“Why? You think women can’t gamble?”

“Why would I think that? Do I look like a sexist pig?”

“No,” she said with a laugh, and held up her hands in surrender. “Do you play?”

He nodded. “I play poker a couple times a month. One of my lawyer buddies has a regular card game going on. A few of my clients play.”

“Do you let them win?”

He laughed, and shook his head. “Never. They’d know if I were letting them win. Besides, they’re A-list actors and producers.”

“Name dropper,” she said, bumping her shoulder against his.

“Did I say their names?” he tossed back. “Anyway, they don’t give a shit how much they win or lose.”

“Nobody likes losing,” she said, trying to keep the sharp edge from her voice. She despised losing because it kept her chained to that man, tied even longer to a debt that wasn’t hers. Nobody could shrug off losing. But then, what did she know? She didn’t have tons to gamble with, so she hated losing even more.

“True, but we all just play for fun. Nothing more, nothing less. Couple guys, smoking cigars, talking shit, and laying down some bets. My second favorite past time,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

She flashed him a naughty grin, but inside a sliver of envy wedged itself in her heart. She wanted to love the game, and part of her still did. But that part was crushed like an old cardboard box by the weight of all that she owed. Charlie had subverted both her skill and her love of poker into something dirty, making her his ringer to take down poker babies. Someday, she’d like to play again for fun. Hell, maybe she could even tolerate losing if she didn’t face the consequences of knives, guns and threats to her livelihood.

“I know what your first favorite past time is,” she said, trailing her finger along his thigh.

“We could combine the two. You’d be nice to play strip poker with,” he added.

“I’d beat you,” she said instantly. She knew she would. Confidence coursed through her.

“I’d have to say in that game with you, I’m winning either way.”

“You’re an interesting man, Clay Nichols,” she said, smiling at him. But smiling inside too. She was enjoying herself so much, and so much more than she had in ages. There was something about him that simply worked extraordinarily well with her. They had chemistry in the bedroom in spades, but they could talk too, and that was almost a magical thing. Rare too. You didn’t often come across someone who captivated your mind and your body.

“Am I?”

“You are, and I want to know more about you. So you have a little brother. Where does he live?”

“Ah, the topic you were saving for dinner. Brent is in Vegas too.”

“Wait. Let me guess.” She flung her hand over her forehead, mimicking a fortune teller. “He’s a magician. He has an act with tigers and disappearing roses.”

He shook his head. “Nope. But you’re close in that he’s on stage. He’s a comedian.”

She shook her head, bemused with his family story. “Your family does all the things you never really think anyone does.”

“And we have Thanksgiving together every year too. Mom makes a turkey, dad carves it, and Brent bakes a pumpkin pie.”

“Oh stop. That’s far too normal to be believed. Aren’t you supposed to have issues? Like everyone these days? Hate your dad or mom? Or something,” she said because her ex, Dillon, certainly was like that. Most of the men she’d known were prickly toward their families and, come to think of it, that might be yet another reason why they were exes. Shouldn’t a man have a little respect for his mom and dad? There was no badge of honor given for hating your parents simply because that’s what most modern men and women did.

“What can I say?” He held out his hands in mock surrender. “I aim to defy modern stereotypes. I might have grown up around gamblers, tits and ass, but there was no drama. No dysfunction.”

“Though it gave you an appreciation for tits and ass, I presume?”

“Huge appreciation for them,” he said, then paused. “Why? Were you thinking I had some horrible childhood and that’s why I like to talk dirty to you?”

She pressed her finger against her lips, and peered at the ceiling as if in deep thought. “Actually, I kind of figured you were the same as me and that you just liked it that way.”

“Damn straight. I’m not playing out some childhood trauma in the way I like to have sex,” he said in that smooth, confident voice she loved.

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“You’d look sexy smoking a cigar. But then you’d look sexy in just about anything. Which is sort of my point. I like what I like and I like it all with you.”

A shiver raced through her blood at his words. She brushed her lips against his jaw. “I feel the same about you,” she whispered, and he took her in his arms quickly. A warm, strong embrace. He didn’t say anything, just breathed her in, and she did the same. The moment felt suspended almost, existing in its own blissful bubble of possibility. Her mind toyed with all the potential of the two of them, of the ways this moment could turn into many more. She liked being with him so much, maybe too much.

“What’s your story?” He asked after she slipped slowly from his hold.

“Do I like what I like? Or do I appreciate tits and ass, you mean?”

“That’s a valid question. But I suppose I was thinking more along the lines of whether you bake pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving.”

“I’m more of a pecan pie kind of gal. And yes, I have one of those – shockers – normal families too. Though not nearly as exciting as yours. Mom’s in real estate, dad’s an orthodontist, and they live in Sherman Oaks, California, where I grew up. My best friend is my sister. Well, my other best friend is my hair stylist, Gayle, but then who else does a woman tell all her secrets to but her hairdresser,” she said playfully.

“I hate secrets,” Clay said in a harsh tone, with narrowed eyes. His words jolted her. Like she’d been shocked by the unexpected ire in his statement. Julia’s gaze drifted down; his fists were clenched.

“What do you mean?”

“Secrets eat away at people,” he said, practically spitting out the words on the red counter.

She’d touched some kind of nerve.