Page 87 of Gambler's Conceit

I gently pick Nacho up and get up, depositing him at the top of his cat tree. He rubs against it, meowing plaintively at me, but I leave him behind as I quickly get dressed. There’s an old-fashioned phone on the bedside table, and a pink paper with some numbers on it. It’s signedHavoc, but I don’t know what he expects me to do with it.

I look at the phone with its numbered buttons. I’ve seen people using them in the casino. Usually they only pick up when it rings. I try picking it up, and I hear a low buzzing sound on the other end.

I slowly push the numbers Havoc wrote down, but nothing happens. I try again, but that gets me a high-pitched whine and a robotic voice that says, “The number you have dialed cannot be reached.”

I hang up, curse Havoc mentally, and head out into the living room of the condo.

It’s silent and lonely, and a quick glance at the TV only reminds me of Caleb’s indifferent reaction to my utter loss of control.

I hate it.

I hate him.

I hate all of them.

I run my fingernails along my arms—not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to feel the slight discomfort of the scratches. Maybe there’s a knife in the kitchen I can use to carve away some of the pain. A razor blade. Something.

But I have a feeling Caleb would be pissed, and right now…

Right now, I really don’t want him to be pissed off at me. Not when he’s holding so much over my head, not when he seems to know so much—too much—and he could easily abuse that power.

Everyone does, in the end.

I’m dizzy with the need for sex and violence, for the familiar, and it has me shoving my shoes onto my feet and heading for the elevator. The guards exchange a look when they see me, but neither of them stops me from heading downstairs.

I stop in the lobby, torn between the allure of the slot machines and the blackjack table, but neither of those are going to make me feel any better. No, my inadequacy and poor luck—lucky number seven, my ass—are only going to make it worse.

I turn on my heel, heading for the hotel bar instead, and I plant my ass in a stool right in front of the bartender.

“Seven,” he says by way of greeting.

I hate this, too. He shouldn’t know me when I don’t know him, too aware of my existence while I don’t have any idea of who he is or what he does when he isn’t slinging drinks. “Yeah, hi,” I say, fighting back the fluttering feeling in my stomach that’s equal parts nausea and nerves. “I need… a double. Vodka. Neat.” I get the words out in staccato, barely able to remember the bits and pieces of what normal people would order in this kind of situation.

He regards me for entirely too long, then finally says, “I need your ID for that.”

I let out an irritated breath. “I’m in a fucking casino,” I tell him. “You have to be twenty-one to be in here. And I’m Caleb Spade’s boyfriend, which you obviously know. Do you really think he’s dating someone underage and risking his entire business by letting me inside?” I prompt.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he hedges.

I glance at his name tag. “Dave,” I say with more patience than I feel. “I just want a few shots of booze. Just something to relax with. You can keep an eye on me or whatever makes you feel better, but your orders are just to keep me on premises, right?”

My lip curls into something ugly at the thought of it, at the fact that I’m trapped like an animal in a cage, like someone’s pet.

Like hisslave.

Dave has the decency to look abashed. “Yeah, okay. A double.”

“A triple,” I amend.

He stares at me.

“I’m not going to drive anywhere. Jesus,” I say, growing impatient as the familiar itch beneath my skin blossoms into goosebumps. “I’ll eat something, too, if that’ll get you off my back, but I just had lunch.”

That’s a lie, of course, but he doesn’t have to know that.

He grunts in acknowledgment, and he turns to fix the drink.

I let out a breath. Finally. Fuck.