Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
If you’re struggling with a moral line caused by my wedding ring, I can assure you that my wife doesn’t care who I fuck, only that any indiscretions are kept secret. What woman could marry a man like Dario and not keep him to herself? I felt an unfamiliar flare of anger and wondered if it was what jealousy felt like. I have a mistress of sorts. And a waitress I occasionally fuck.
That’s what he wanted. Another mistress. Or another “occasional” waitress. That was really the bulk of it. Sure, he was attracted to me. Sure, we had chemistry. Sure, he made me feel things that no other man had. But was that worth it? Or was that even more reason to run the other way?
I’d like to see you again. Dinner, the next night you have off.
I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything but couldn’t block out the hurricane force of that kiss.
* * *
I shook, poured, and slid the martini to the side. Using the bottle opener, I popped open two Bud Lights and set them on my tray. Balancing it on my shoulder, I caught Britni’s eye. “The skinny guy at four wants an ashtray.”
“Got it.”
She took my place behind the bar, and I moved through the floor, heading to the top table, and thinking about the remaining to-do items on my list. Don Julio to the bald guy at three. Hot tea to the woman at two. Cigars to the tuxedo at craps. I walked, smiled, delivered, and failed miserably at the biggest item on the list: Don’t Think About Dario Capece.
It was an especially difficult task in a room full of men like this. All were power-hungry. Sharks. Egos bigger than their dicks. Dicks more active than their luck. All of them striving to be Dario and none of them succeeding. It was a powerful thing to think, in a room like this. But it was true. I didn’t know why he was different, but he was. And all I could think about was his dinner invite. What would a dinner alone with him be like? Had I agreed to it with my silence?
I delivered the cigars, the tea, the tequila. I high-fived the CEO of the MGM when he won a hand. I downed shots with a group of Chinese investors and ate breadsticks and Alfredo sauce with the boys back in the control room. I watched the hours tick by and didn’t check my texts or look for his call. I laughed, pocketed tips, and bet Lance and Rick a hundred bucks that someone would vomit before the end of the night.
I lost the bet, went double or nothing on a quick game of War, and talked celebrity gossip with Britni on the way to our cars.
At the red light three blocks over, away from the eyes of anyone, I checked my phone. I skimmed through a coupon from Best Buy, a voicemail from Meredith, and an obnoxious group thread from my roommates that stretched 41 texts long. Then, at the bottom, sent five hours ago, there was a text from Dario.
—When is your next night off?
A simple question, but one that assumed an outcome.
I typed out a response slowly, questioning the action even as I hit send.
Sunday
Sunday. As good a day as any to meet with my devil.
I closed the text, took a deep breath, and locked the phone.
Eleven
DARIO
Gwen moved like a cat. A Siamese, one born into a life of luxury, one that turned with fluid grace and could waltz up beside you without making a sound. Dario watched her pick through the Vuitton duffel, her brow creasing as she lifted a shirt out of the depths and held it up.
“There’s a stain on this.” She turned, tossing it to the side. “Tell Max tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The assistant scurried to the blouse, tucking it under her arm, and returned to her spot by the window, hands clasped before her, face pinched. It was funny, in a sad sort of way, how afraid everyone was of Gwen. Dario often accused her of liking it, a claim she would laugh off, her eyes squinting, and he could see, even as she scoffed, that it secretly pleased her.
In some ways, the fear of her was ridiculous. She was kind, the sort of woman who remembered everyone’s name, birthday, and problems. She was generous with her money, time, and favors. And she was calm and rational, a good yin to his yang, a voice of reason in an industry that often needed one.
In other ways, the fear of her was entirely accurate. Not because of the woman that she was, but because of the man she came from. Robert Hawk. A billionaire with as many demons as dollars and the recklessness to turn those demons loose without provocation. Dario hadn’t so much married Gwen as rescued her.