ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boys (11 page)

It's a picture of a man, face covered in blood. Shot to the heart. It's from the online new source
Vegas Weekly
.

“I'm gonna fucking get you for this,” I tell him.

“I'd like to see you try, Bullet. I'd like to see you try.”

* * *

I'm trying not to hyperventilate as I watch Grotto and his posse leave the club. It's hard, though. Every inch of my skin is trembling. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me to run.

I meet Claire’s and Tess’s eyes, searching, hoping they have hidden telepathic talents. And that I do, too.

I need out of here. Now.

They seem to register my panic, because they stand, grabbing their clutches and my hands. Leading me away as Ace tries to stop us.

I don't pause. I can't.

“Just keep walking, okay?” I tell my friends. They must see the panic written all over my face because they don't ask questions. They just do as I say. These girls are the best friends I could ever ask for.

I need to tell them everything as soon as we get somewhere safer.

When Grotto said the name
Bullet
the first time, I thought I misheard him.

But then he said it again.

Bullet. The same person my sister Janie was texting the day of her crash. The name of the person who picked her up. Who was driving the car.

Ace, the man who put my sister in a coma.

Ace, the man I slept with, the man I wanted to save me. The man I considered changing all my rules for.

Ace, the man who walked away from the scene of the crime.

Ace, the man I need to walk away from now.

I
tell
the bouncers to shut the club down for the night. I don't trust Frank Grotto not to make a scene, and I fucking need the people at Spades Royalle to be as safe as possible. They are my number one concern.

Frank walks away, his eyes on me. He just had a fucking PI murdered as a message for me to back the fuck off.

He says he has shit on me, on my family, and fuck, yeah, it scares me. Scares the shit out of me.

I know I'm not supposed to say that. Not supposed to show my fear—but I don't want to go back to where I came from, and it seems Grotto is fucking hell-bent on trying to make me.

“It's bullshit,” Jack says, scanning the club as it empties out. “He can't fucking walk in here like that. Threaten you. You're fucking Ace Royalle.”

That's what he thinks.

Jack, Landon, and McQueen think I'm some orphan with a trust-fund. Sure, there have been rumors about where I come from, but nothing concrete. Nothing that’s caused these guys with me now to ask the questions I'm not prepared to answer.

The truth is, I am Adrian Genova the Fourth. Son of mafia boss Adrian Genova the Third. Last living heir to the dynasty.

But after my father was murdered, I made a break for it. And yeah, some people might call me a pussy for not holding onto the family name—but family names are fucking pieces of shit when they only represent something demented. Something twisted.

I'm looking for power now, but I don't want anyone to die while I climb my way up. And what Frank Grotto did tonight has left something vile in the air. Something I don't want to touch. He’s forced me into something I want no part of.

And I fucking hate him for that.

No one forces me to do anything.

“Dude, you look like you're gonna kill someone,” McQueen says. When I don't answer, he speaks up again. “Fuck, do you need
us
to kill someone? Because bro, we got your back.”

Landon keeps his mouth shut; I know he gambles at my tables, but this is something else. He saw the picture on Grotto's phone—this gamble could become life or death.

Still, he steps up, and when he does I know he’s solid. “We have connections all over this town, Ace. We can get Grotto off your back. Do you know what he's after?”

My jaw is tight, my chest burns. I want to kill that man. I haven't had this kind of intensity run through me since I heard about my Pops’ head getting blown off.

I ran because I didn't want what he built.

But this time, if I run I'm running from my own empire.

I'm not going down that easy.

“I know exactly what he wants and we need to shut that motherfucker down,” I tell them. “We need to talk, all four of us, but not here.”

“Your penthouse?” Jack asks. “It's already four in the morning.”

“Right,” I say, running my hand over my jaw. “Tomorrow, then. Noon. Don't tell anyone where you're going.”

“Okay boss-man,” Landon says.

The words
boss-man
cause my head to swivel around looking for her. The club has cleared out. The girls who dangled themselves in front of us all night have been escorted away.

“Where did Emmy go?” I ask.

“A bouncer must have told her to leave.” Jack strains his head as if trying to find her. “None of her friends are here, either. This place is empty.”

“Fuck,” I say, punching the wall next to me. I've lost my cool in front of my bros. but also in front the security who stands around making sure the place is empty. Ace Royalle doesn't fucking lose his cool. Especially not over a woman.

But Emmy Rose is not just some woman.

She’s
my
woman.

And she knows it. She felt it when I poured my come all over her tonight. It's not something you can forget.

Not something she could forget if she tried.

* * *

My eyes burn with tears. I don't even see where I am going.

I can't fucking believe it. I honestly can't. I never, ever let my guard down. Not since I was teenager and ran with a rough crowd.

Once my parents died I gave that shit up. I made a life for myself, I scrimped and I saved. I found every shred of decency that I could muster within me, and I swore I'd never let a man who was shady get close to me again.

But Ace isn't just shady. He’s a fucking monster.

And what does it say about me that I fucking loved having his hands all over me? His mouth devouring me? His heart next to mine—making me feel more alive with each beat.

I want to run and hide from Ace. And, in the same breath, I want to fucking push him against a wall.

But I also don't trust myself to get close to him. If I pinned him against a wall, I know exactly what my body would require of me.

My head knows I can't do that.

“What the fuck is going on?” Claire asks.

I stop in my stilettos, turn around.

Claire and Tess are here. They're with me.

Fuck. I look around and realize I've led us out of Stacked, out of Spades Royalle, and we’re standing on the sidewalk on the strip.

“Sorry.” I blink back tears and embarrassment. I blink back the shame of not reining myself in. I blink back the realization that: holy effing cow, Ace Royalle should be in handcuffs right now.

“I need to talk with the detective on my sister's case.”

“What?” Tess shakes her head, then takes me by the shoulders and shakes me, too. “Honey, I don't know what crack you're smokin' right now, but you are ablaze with something I don't understand. What happened in there?”

“Yeah, sweetie,” Clair agrees. “One second you were sitting in Ace's lap and the next you high-tailed it out of there like you'd witnessed a murder.”

“It's bad. Like, so bad.” I press my fingertips to my eyes, trying to squeeze out what I should do.

“We've gotta get here out of here,” Claire says, tugging me by my elbow toward the taxi line. Tess follows, and a minute later we crawl in the back of the yellow car.

“Where ya headed?” the driver asks.

“4213 Carlos Street,” Claire directs him. She's given him the address to my place.

“Can you swing by Jack in the Box first?” Tess asks.

Claire gives her an
Are you kidding me?
look, but Tess just shrugs.

“What? I love me some spicy chicken sandwiches. And we've been out all night.”

She flashes her phone screen at us. It’s four a.m.

FML.

“I should head to the hospital.”

“In that? Honey, you have sex written all over you.”

“No, I don't,” I say defensively, before turning to stare out the window. My eyes are numb to the bright lights as we drive down the Strip, where they sell sex and thrills for a price that suddenly seems too high.

Right now, the cost for everything seems too high.

I can't believe I had sex with Ace after I found out my sister was getting yanked off life support. Where the hell are my priorities?

After going through the Jack in the Box drive-thru, we pull up at my apartment. My friends follow me up the stairs to the second floor unit, Tess carrying her bag of greasy goodness.

“You guys don't have to come with. You can go home.”

“Like hell. We aren't going anywhere until you fill us in on whatever the heck is going on with you.”

I jam my key in the door and then swing it open, revealing a modest apartment that feels only half lived in.

I'm still paying for my place in Steel Rock, Washington, and all my crap is there. I had no idea when I got here two months ago that my stay would be as long as it has been. A couple suitcases were all I brought when I boarded the plane to see if my sister was still alive.

“Your apartment is so depressing,” Claire said, kicking off her heels. “Every time I come here I think,
This girl needs a house plant
.”

The apartment was furnished by the landlord, so nothing here feels very loved or homey. A pair of plastic chairs circle a small wooden table; a thrift store coffee table is set before an old couch. The small bedroom is the best room in the house, because at least the bedding is new.

What can say? Even if I'm on a budget, I gotta have a cute Target duvet.

I flip on the lights and walk to the kitchen sink, pouring us each a glass of water from the tap. I fish for ibuprofen from my purse and shake out a substantial dose. We've all been drinking a bunch in a smoky club. We need all the help we can get.

“Do you have any coconut water?” Tess asks, opening her fast food bag. “It helps restore electrolytes.”

“Says the girl chowing down on a processed chicken sandwich,” Claire says.

“Hey, this is all white meat.”

“Just stop, okay?” I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to absorb the night I've just had, and debating how much I should actually divulge.

“Emmy, just out with it,” Claire says, snatching a fry from Tess. “Holding it in isn't doing you any favors. You look like you've been run over by a bus.”

“A sex bus,” Tess says, smirking.

I look down, realizing that this dress does scream
fuck me
. Opening the bathroom door, I take in my appearance in the full-length mirror.

My hair is uncharacteristically tousled; my breasts still plunge from the neck line. My lips are permanently swollen from Ace's kisses, not to mention the space between my thighs is still sticky and sweet.

“I think I should shower.”

Tess sets down her food and stands like she's been given an order. She digs a clean towel out of the closet. Meanwhile, Claire turns on the faucet in the tub and runs her hand through the water to check the temperature.

“Step out of your shoes,” Tess says, taking my hands, helping me keep my balance as I take off the ridiculous heels Ace bought me in exchange for a few fucks.

Claire reaches behind me and pulls a few bobby pins from my hair. I unzip my dress, letting it fall to the floor.

Getting in the tub, I hear my friends scoop up my clothes and gently shut the door.

The warm water runs over my body. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to clasp hold of something.

I let my hands fall.

My skin is covered with a man I don't want to remember.

I
've called
Denise five times in the last five hours. She promised she tried to get in touch with Emmy using the number left on her employment records, but Emmy hasn't answered.

I haven't slept. I'm fucking pacing my penthouse, so spun up over the fact Grotto is busting my balls and Emmy isn't answering.

I've never been like this with a woman. Granted, I've never met a woman I actually wanted for something more than a quick fuck. I've worked damn hard to keep my head clear by never falling for a girl.

But this wasn't intentional. It’s been nearly forty-eight hours, and all I can think of is her.

McQueen texts that he and the guys are on their way up to my penthouse. I head for the kitchen and notice the caterer has brought in lunch. It’s sitting on the kitchen counter but none of it is appetizing. There’s only one thing I want to eat.

So I grab a beer from the fridge, and take a long swig. I hardly slept. My mind is reeling about what dirt Grotto could have on me.

If he's truly dug up shit on me, it could get bad. The investors I need for this property deal aren't gonna want anything to do with me if they learn I pulled the wool over their eyes in regards to where my initial capital came from. I didn't drum up investors in Spades Royalle by mentioning my father was a mob-boss.

The elevator opens, and in walk McQueen, Landon, and Jack. These guys all have enough shit going on in their own lives, but here they are, on a Saturday afternoon, sticking out their necks for me.

I swear I'm a fucking pansy because my eyes sting at the fucking sight of them—showing up here like this for me.

It makes me miss having a family. Makes me miss Sunday dinners when Ma was alive, back when I was a little kid, before my Pops started bringing me around his business deals. Back when I'd eat fucking spaghetti and veal parmigiana around a big wooden table and listen to the adults argue over carafes of wine while I teased my sisters mercilessly.

I take a deep breath, knowing those memories get me nowhere. And right now I need to bury the past like I never have before.

But not entirely, because I need to tell my friends the motherfucking truth.

“So what's the deal, Ace,” Jack asks, grabbing a beer and helping himself to a pulled pork sandwich from the tray of food I haven’t touched.

“It's complicated.” I take another drink of beer. All morning I tossed and turned about how to explain this to them without them walking out of here—out on me.

“Try me,” Landon says. “It can't be worse than my situation at the moment. My father is threatening to cut me off if I don't rally and marry some British lady, and start working.”

“Would he really do that?” McQueen asks. The idea of Landon sitting in an office taking business calls is laughable. That man only knows how to take poker chips and women. Both across a table.

“Apparently,” Landon says, shrugging. “Like I said, Ace, can't be worse than that.”

“It's worse,” I say, still not explaining myself.

“Fuck, Ace, out with it,” Jack says, not as patient. “Why does Grotto want you gone?”

“He says he has shit on my family.”

Landon frowns. “I thought you were an orphan. A child straight out of a Charles Dickens novel, only—you know—with a shit-ton of money.”

“Who the fuck are you, Landon?” McQueen laughs. “You read fucking Dickens?”

“There’s a lot about me you don't know,” Landon says. “Depth that you wouldn't understand.”

“Yeah, and there’s a lot about me that neither of you know.” I straighten my shoulders, knowing my closest friends might turn and leave the moment they hear the truth. “My name isn't Ace Royalle. It’s Adrian Genova the fourth.”

The three of them cock their heads as they try to process this information.

“Like the mafia Genova?” Jack asks.

“That’s the one. But after my sisters and Ma were killed I swore I’d never be initiated into the family circle. Obviously, that didn’t go over real well. My dear old Pops was the King.”

“You fucking kidding me right now?” McQueen asks.

“I came to Vegas after my Pops was murdered. I took the family money, split town. People think I died when he did. But I didn't. Obviously. That piece of shit Grotto says he has dirt on me. And if it’s what I think it is, I’m over.”

“This is some joke right?” Jack asks. “I've had your back for five fucking years. You slept on my couch for six months when you moved to this town, trying to get your shit together. And all that time you were the fucking son of the most infamous mafia boss in New York?”

“It's not like that,” I explain. “That family is dead to me. I left that place and I’ve never looked back. I hated the violent shit my Pops was a part of. I wanted to leave that behind me and start over.”

I run my hands through my hair, knowing I am in too deep—but also knowing I need these guys on my side or I’ll have nothing to fall back on when the shit really hits the fan.

“Look, Grotto fucking killed a man yesterday as a threat to me.”

“Why, though?” Landon asks. “Why does Grotto want to screw you over?”

“Because we both want the same piece of fucking property.”

At this, McQueen shoves away, hands in the air. “Fuck this. You're dragging us into a life-or-death situation over a fucking building?”

“It's not a building. It's
the
building. I want it to stake my claim on this town.”

“You already have a fucking hotel named after you, Ace,” Jack says, aggression dripping from his voice. “What more do you need to prove?”

“Everything. I need to prove to myself that I can dominate with clean money, prove that my fucking piece of shit father went about it the wrong way. He gained his power by threats and killing anyone who got in his motherfucking way. That isn't me. I want an empire, but I want to build it the right way.”

“That's golden, Ace,” McQueen says, laughing sarcastically. “You used your own capital to get this hotel—you telling me that cash was clean? Bullshit. We’re standing on dirty money right now.”

I throw my beer bottle against the wall and swipe at the food on the counter; it crashes to the floor.

“You think I don't know that?” I yell. “You think I don't carry that with me everywhere I go? Why do you think I want this property so bad? I want to build something good. Something decent. Something I can be motherfucking proud of.”

Landon comes up to me, pushes me against the wall. “Fucking cool it, Ace.”

When I raise my hands in surrender, he steps back, lets go of me. I've never seen him so pissed off.

Jack shakes his head. “I know what it fucking means to want to prove something. I know what it means to want something you can be proud of. But don't fucking play around with this guy Grotto.”

“Then what do you want me to do? “I ask. “Back off? Let him get the property on his own? Let him win?”

“Is that what this is about? Not wanting him to win?” Landon asks.

“It's about not wanting to lose everything to him. Once my investors find out about whatever dirt Grotto has, I'll be toast in this town. No one will want to touch me.”

The room is quiet for a moment, everyone tense. I’m still scared my best friends are gonna walk out on me.

But then Jack shrugs, and says, “Then back off the investors.” He raises an eyebrow at Landon and McQueen and they all nod in agreement. “Let us invest in you. In this property.”

“Hell yeah,” Landon agrees. “I don’t want that guy to win. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Fuck,” McQueen says. “We can build this motherfucking town on our own. That's what we came here to do, isn't it?”

Landon, Jack, and McQueen raise their beers, all of us grinning. I join in, clinking our bottles in unison.

I don't know what's wrong with me. Ever since I met Emmy Rose, my emotions are screwing me over. These guys having my back like this makes me wanna cry like a fucking baby.

“You guys can’t do that. There are too many risks involved. Grotto wants to tear me down, and I don’t want him coming after you.”

“Hell, no—we’re your family now,” McQueen says. “Fuck Grotto.”

I clench my jaw, not knowing how to respond to this support. The last person who treated me so well was my mother.

“You have to let us help you,” Jack says. “What’s the point of having all this money if I can’t help a friend?”

“Besides,” Landon adds. “My father will piss himself when he learns I want to do something in the business sector.”

“You guys are fucking nuts,” I say. “And I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“You’re the fucker who got us the gigs we have here at Spades,” Jack says. “You’re the reason my career, and McQueen’s career, have taken off. And our boy Landon would be playing at the fucking Tropicana if you hadn’t saved his ass from that scene. We’re good, bro.”

“Okay,” I tell them. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

The next morning I wake up on the couch. Errr, the next day. It's like two in the afternoon. I genuinely can't think of the last time I slept in so late, but considering we didn't get home until five this morning, I guess we didn't sleep an obscene about of time.

Claire and Tess are sprawled out in my bed. They fell asleep there last night while I was in the shower and I didn't have the heart to wake them.

Now I pull open the blinds, squinting in the afternoon sun. Walking a few steps into the kitchen, I begin making a pot of coffee.

As it brews, I turn on my phone and see I've missed several calls and texts.

Text 1:
This is Denise, Ace Royalle's personal assistant. We met yesterday at the buffet. Please call back ASAP.

Text 2:
Hello, Denise again. Please return message.

Then there are three voice mails saying the same sort of thing.

The final voicemail, however, is a bit more worrisome:
This is Denise, calling on behalf of Ace Royalle. Shall I have someone come to your listed address to check on you?

I
so
do not want anyone connected with Ace showing up here.

Claire and Tess inch out of my bedroom, both wearing tee-shirts of mine.

“Must. Have. Coffee,” Claire mutters as she does a zombie walk toward the pot. Pouring herself a cup, she literally guzzles it.

“Did you just burn your throat?” Tess asks warily.

“It was totally worth it.” Claire smiles a bit manically, as if the caffeine has already shot through her blood stream.

“You are so weird,” I say, grabbing the creamer from the fridge and adding it to my own steaming mug.

“I'm not the weird one,” Claire says. “You, sweetie, are the one who screwed the most eligible bachelor in Vegas, then ran out all tears and confusion and cried yourself to sleep. Without explaining anything.”

“True.” I sigh, feeling defeated. “Look, I just don't want you to judge me. And, now that I know the truth about Ace, what I actually need to do is go speak with my detective.”

“The detective on your sister’s case?” Tess asks, scrunching up her nose. “What does he have to do with Ace?”

“I think Ace was driving the car the night of the accident.”

“No shit!” Claire gasps, nearly spitting out her coffee.

“I know. It is fifty shades of crazy.” I explain the conversation with the detective from the day before, and then fill them in on what Grotto said last night.

“Wow. I guess it makes sense now why you freaked out,” Claire says.

“Yeah, and here I was thinking you got all weird because Ace was bad in bed,” Tess adds.

“Well, they technically didn't screw in a bed—they were in a hallway at the club or something, right, Emmy?”

Oh. My friends weren't privy to my previous evening’s post-poker game sex-capades.

“We actually hooked up after the poker game—”

“I knew it!” Tess shrieks.

Claire shoots Tess dagger-eyes. “No screeching this early in the morning.”

“It's not the morning anymore,” I say. “Also, there's nothing to get hyper about. Ace is a creep, remember? What kind of man leaves a woman alone after a car crash? He's a monster.”

“You may be jumping to conclusions,” Tess says. “I mean you don't have actual proof.”

“Are you seriously defending him right now?” I ask. “Because tell me, Tess, how many people have you ever met who go by the name Bullet?”

“None, I guess. I just. I don't know … he seemed so nice. So generous.”

“You just like the fact that I hooked up with a guy who is loaded and comes with a fancy entourage.”

“Let's not get catty, ladies,” Claire says, pouring herself another cup of joe. “Look, Emmy, no judgment, but did you actually like Ace, or was it just sex?”

I feel the burn on my cheeks with that question. The reason it hurt so bad to hear him called Bullet last night was because I actually did like him. But more than that … because
like
sounds flat and feel superficial.

Ace and I had a connection that was real. I just wish I could have explored that more … really gotten to know him before the carpet got pulled out from under me.

“I … he … it was….” I can't finish my sentence, because I don't want to feel the way I feel. So completely torn.

It doesn't matter what I felt before I learned the truth. Now I can't go back. If I do, what does that make me? A monster too?