All In (Caldwell Brothers Book 5) Read online

  “Hey,” I say in a low voice. “I need to talk to you.”

  Nixon glances up with a frown. “If this is about the stabbing the other day, I took care of it. Don’t worry.”

  “Shit.” I shake my head. How did that get past me? “What fucking stabbing?”

  Nixon sighs as he reads, his lips moving in silence with the words. “I don’t have a lot of time right now, Troy. I’ve got some issues with the gaming commission. I just can’t seem to catch a break with those guys.”

  This isn’t going well. I sit down in the chair opposite from Nixon’s desk with a heavy thud. I’d been hoping to find Nixon in a much more relaxed mood. But now, the only time Nixon relaxes is when Marcella’s on his arm, distracting him from his normally cold asshole ways.

  And Marcella’s at her night class.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say. “I’m worried about Giovanetti.”

  “Dante?”

  Jesus, he’s really distracted. If there’s another fucking Giovanetti with a thorn up our asses besides Dante, we’re in a world of hurt. “What other Giovanetti is there to worry about?”

  Nixon finally looks up as he runs his hand through his thick head of black hair. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But we have bigger things to worry about. You know I’m still on the hook for finding a replacement head chef at Steakhouse. Claude’s a talent, no doubt. But he lacks the necessary emotional stability to run a busy kitchen day to day, as well as managing the books.”

  “That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” I say. “Sorry for cutting you off.”

  Nixon waves his hand. “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t want you to worry about any of this shit.” I’m not sure how to get my point across since I’ve never been the most eloquent guy. “In fact, I’m confident that I can handle it on my own. If you make me Vice President of Security, I’ll make sure Dante won’t even breathe on the Armónico.”

  Nixon looks at me, and in that moment, his eyes go dead. Lifeless. I can’t read him, and that fact alone pisses me off. My body tightens into a rigid ball of nerves, but I struggle to keep my cool in the face of it. I’ve always been an expert at keeping my emotions under wraps to the point I’ve been accused of not having any. I can’t go off on Nixon at work like I could outside of it. In spite of the fact that we’re old friends, he’s my boss first and foremost. He deserves the respect that entails.

  “I’ve been doing the work of three men for months, Nix. And I know you know it – you’ve seen me busting my ass, doing everything to keep the Armónico protected. Your legacy. Your family’s legacy.”

  I guess I’m not above playing the dead father card.

  “I know.” Nixon nods his head even though he’s still glaring. At least we can agree on that one thing. “Your loyalty is duly noted and appreciated.”

  His lack of explanation troubles me deep in my soul. It’s a part of me that I never expose, and no one has ever touched. No one. Ever. My stomach starts to sink as Nixon looks at me with one eyebrow raised.

  “Man, you know I love you. You’re like my fifth brother.” Nixon takes a deep breath. “But…and no offense, I don’t think you’re the right fit for the job. It’s an executive position. You’re great as the Director of Security, out on the floor leading the guys who are boots on the ground, not stuck behind a desk like me.”

  My entire body grows cold. I fist my hand because I want to pound something. Like my best friend’s jaw. “And why do you think I couldn’t manage the business side of things? Is it because I don’t have a fancy degree like you?”

  Nixon flares his nostrils, probably a reaction to my snappy tone. I’m considered unflappable. It’s part of my emotionally unavailable charm. “Troy, look. You’re a good guy. You do good work – I don’t dispute that. But…” He lifts a shoulder.

  “But what?”

  Nixon stares right into my eyes, about to fire off the truth like a verbal rocket. And I may not like the planet it lands on. “You know. I don’t think you’re executive leadership material. At least, not right now.”

  “Why the hell not?” I can’t help it. Now, I can feel the anger snaking up the back of my neck to land on my cheeks. “What the fuck makes you think that?”

  Nixon doesn’t blink or break my gaze. “Because of what happened when you were a kid. And you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “Oh.” The word stumbles over my tongue, and my throat tightens with barely concealed rage. How dare he bring that shit back up. What kind of a kid goes through something like that and would be able to handle things any differently? I was born to an abusive father, and then sent to one abusive foster home after another. Me. He’s not giving me any credit for evolving as a man while still embroiled in the clutches of a cruel world.

  “Yeah.” Nixon shrugs and his nonchalance hurts more than the words. He slays me right where I stand and doesn’t even seem to realize he’s done it. “Look, it’s nothing personal, Troy. But my mind is made up, and it would take a lot to change it at this point.”

  I feel like melting into the plush carpet of Nixon’s office, but I manage to stay upright and still.

  “But there is something I’d like you to do.” His voice is lighter now, friendlier, and I can tell he’s trying damn hard to move past the conversation.

  “Oh yeah?” What is it? Stand out front and make sure no little kids make it on the casino floor? Clean up puke and jizz instead of housekeeping?

  “Yes.” Nixon puts his pen down and shoves away his notepad. “The new fitness studio that opened on The Promenade – Tribe of Amazons – is run by a woman named Joslyn Monroe. She just started teaching a women’s self-defense class. I had Marcella sign up for it as well as Taryn, Haylee, and Pepper.”

  I bristle, thinking I already know his request. “And you want me to escort them to and from the class? Like that’s going to go over with that independent crew. They give new meaning to the “I don’t fucking need a man” movement.”

  Nixon snorts. “Marcella may not need me, but she sure as hell wants me. Joslyn needs a male employee to pose as a physical threat, you know, for demonstrations. And you’d be the perfect man for the job. Due to your…size.”

  I nod, understanding taking over my irritation. “Okay.”

  I’m not thrilled about the news – I can think of about a billion things I’d like more than getting soft-punched by a bunch of Vegas trophy wives – but I’m determined to do whatever Nixon wants me to do. If I’m going to change his mind about this whole executive thing, I’ve got to start somewhere.

  “Good man.” He leans back in his chair and tents his fingers, considering me. “The first class started about an hour ago, so they probably won’t need you until tomorrow. I’ll call Joslyn later this afternoon and let her know to expect you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.” With that one word, he turns his attention back to his laptop, and I get to my feet, brushing my hands off on my thighs. Just as I’m almost to the door, Nixon calls my name, and I turn around.

  “Yeah?”

  “Look, Troy, I really am sorry. About the vice president job, I mean.” He sighs and softens just a tad. To an outsider, they wouldn’t see it. But I’ve known Nixon far too long, and his gentling to the subject injects a ray of hope into my battered heart. No man likes feeling inadequate. And for me, work is all I have. “It was a really tough call. But at the end of the day, I’m running a business. People I know…my own family, they end up under the microscope due to nepotism. You’re going to have to work twice as hard to overcome that.”

  “It’s fine.” In reality, it’s not fine. I feel like a total idiot for even asking. But there’s no way I’m going to sully my friendship with Nixon just because of one conversation that didn’t go my way. If he wants leadership, he’ll get it. If he says jump, I’ll say how high. A little hard work never hurt anyone.

  “I hope you know I mean it when I say you’re like a brother,” Nixon says. “My dad loved you like his own son.
And you’re a very valuable employee.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to spit out without sounding pissed. “I appreciate it.”

  “Have fun with the girls in that class,” he says with a little chuckle. “You’re good at what you do. Make sure they are too.”

  “I will.” For a moment, it almost feels like I should add ‘sir’ to the end of the conversation. When had it come to this between us?

  “I’ll call you if there’s any update. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to this.” He turns to the screen and narrows his eyes. “Do a sweep of the main floor, if you don’t mind.”

  “Right away.”

  At least he’s not asking me to go down to Strict Necessaire and cart Marcella’s underwear around the casino. I guess that’s what happens when you’re a powerful man’s right-hand man. Jack of all trades and master of none.

  As I leave Nixon’s office, depression begins to sink in. It’s tempting to wallow – to think about calling out of work for the rest of the day and go home with a twelve-pack of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. But I don’t want to let Nixon down, and I definitely don’t want to damage my chances of earning further responsibility. I’d make an exceptional VP of Security. I would.

  It’s only the middle of the afternoon, but looking at the main floor of the Armónico, you’d never know it. Golden chandeliers light the room underneath their brilliant glow, dressed up with big fake crystals. The loud, busy industrial carpet crunches under the soles of my loafers – brightly patterned with swirls of scarlet and gold and emerald green. The only windows are at the front of the casino, and girls in cute little outfits walk by with big smiles and trays of complimentary cocktails…that happen to be extra-strong. The giant potted palm trees at the corners of the room do a lot to hide the exits. Nixon told me once that he designed the Armónico to be both classy and loud because he wanted people to come in out of curiosity and stay for the ambiance.

  Jack, the head of security on the casino floor lounges by the entrance. When he sees me, he jerks his head to the side, and I walk over.

  “What’s up?”

  Jack rolls his eyes and points down at the iPad screen in his hands. “Look over at table six. There’s a fucking card counter there – and I know we’ve seen that guy. He needs to get thrown out on his ass.”

  I examine the screen closely. A man wearing a Hunter S. Thompson-style bucket hat and yellow sunglasses perches himself at the table, leaning over and grinning at the dealer.

  “Motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath.

  “We need to get him out of here, Troy. How does this shit keep happening?” He gives me a little shove towards the main part of the floor. Even though I’m technically his boss, I don’t care about the blatant insubordination. I want my staff to feel like themselves around me. It’s the only way we can keep the Armónico free of the riffraff that can bring down a casino.

  I don’t need to be told twice. I’m Troy Cass, I think as I puff out my chest and make powerful strides towards table six. And in spite of what Nixon says, I can be a strong leader.

  I tap Hunter on the shoulder. “Hey. I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Hunter turns to me with a smirk on his sallow face. “I don’t think so. I just got here.”

  I give him my best death stare, the one guaranteed to make most people piss themselves. “I’m not sure you understand just who I am. Either get up and leave, or I’ll throw you out myself.” I lean closer. “And trust me – you don’t want the latter.”

  Hunter smirks, and as the corners of his mouth tug upward, I feel an answering tug in my gut. Rage swirls there, threatening to tornado out of control. I don’t like to get physical in front of the other guests, but this yahoo tries my patience.

  “Yeah, right,” he says. “You wouldn’t do shit, man. Everyone knows you’re just the director. You ain’t got no fancy pants office up there with Caldwell. Why don’t you go over to the house phone and call down someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing?”

  “Shut up,” I growl. He picked a bad day to pull that card. I grab the back of the man’s neck and drag him away from table six, through the garishly lit casino, out into the opulent lobby.

  “Hey, get the fuck off of me!” Hunter snaps. “I’ll sue your ass for this. It’s assault.”

  I roll my eyes before putting my hands on his shoulders and slamming him into the wall. For the first time, fear flashes in Hunter’s face.

  “Okay, okay,” Hunter gasps. “I’m leaving.” I reluctantly release my grip, and he stumbles forward before pushing his way out of the double doors.

  With a slap of satisfaction, I wipe my hands together. Just another day of keeping Nixon’s casino clean and safe. As I’m about to turn back into the casino and check in with Jack, something heavy slams into me, sending me a couple steps back. What the fucking fuck?

  It’s a drunk dude, and after he bounces off of me, he knocks into a pregnant lady. She cries out and wobbles backward, her huge belly causing her to overbalance. As I watch, she slams right into the base of the Eric Clapton statue in the lobby of the Armónico.

  “Hey,” a drunk guy slurs. “Watch where you’re fuckin’ goin’!”

  For a second, time stands still. Old Layla singing Eric wobbles on his pedestal and I feel my heart leap into my throat as I instinctively know where it’s going to fall. I leap, covering the pregnant woman with my body, rolling us to get her out of the way.

  I almost make it too…almost. There’s a crushing blow to my head, then everything fades to black.

  When I come to, I’m lying on the floor, and Jack kneels over me with a frown of concern.

  “That’s one hell of a shiner you got, Cass.” He leans down and stares into my face, reaching out a finger to touch my cheek. “Goddamn.”

  I groan as I pull out my iPhone and open the front camera. Sure enough, my right eye is blacked and swollen. Maybe I need the women’s self-defense class. Protection from my own stupidity.

  “Fuck,” I mutter. “How’s the pregnant woman?”

  Jack grins. “She’s fine. You saved her from a hard blow, and Caldwell from a seven-figure law suit.”

  The knowledge doesn’t ease my mind. I should have been faster. Done more. Been more.

  Always a day late and a dollar short.

  Maybe Nixon is right. Maybe I’m not leadership material.

  Chapter Three

  Joslyn

  At the end of class, I feel sweaty, exhausted, and best of all, triumphant. All of the women did a great job – even the one who showed up in high heels and a full face of makeup – and I’m confident that in a few weeks, I’ll have them blazing with a strength they didn’t even know they had.

  “Joslyn, that was amazing,” Taryn says. She pulls her sweaty red hair into a bun and grins. “I feel great. I wasn’t sure what to expect…but, man. I love it.”

  “Now maybe you’ll be able to fight those nightmare baddies.” As I answer, I fill my water bottle from the cooler. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sore.” Taryn winces. “But I’ll be fine.”

  Marcella joins us and nods. “I feel good too. It’s crazy. I always hated working out. But this is different, you know? It’s like I’m actually doing something for a purpose.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And it will get easier. Although I’d recommend you both take some ibuprofen when you get home. Otherwise, you’re going to be very sore in the morning. And drink a ton of water. More than normal.”

  I wait until the last of the women have left, then I wipe down the studio floors and take a long, hot shower in the locker room. The massaging spray loosens my tight muscles, and I stay in the stall until the water begins to cool. When I’m done, I towel off and pull on a clean pair of jeans and a loose cotton off-the-shoulder blouse. I don’t bother drying my black curls – the dry Vegas heat will take care of that for me.

  When I leave Tribe of Amazons, I push my way through the crowded casino. Even though it’s early afternoon, th
e gambling is in full swing. I make my way through a group of little old ladies with blue rinses playing video Keno and into the bright Vegas sunshine. Sans sunglasses, the rays blind me, and I fumble in my purse until my hand closes around the leather Ray-Bans case. As soon as my aviators are perched on my nose, I feel better.

  I walk down the block and turn right, heading toward a little Greek diner. It’s out of place so close to the Strip, and I know it’s been here for decades. But my father and I have been eating here for decades – a family tradition – I can’t actually remember going anywhere fancier, unless the special occasion warranted it.

  Dad’s already there, seated in our favorite booth by the corner window. When he sees me, his tanned face splits into a broad grin. He stands up and pulls me into a tight hug.

  “You look great, pumpkin,” Dad says. “Very…flushed.”

  I grin, bear-hugging him back and delighting in the solid feel of his frame. “I’m too old to be called pumpkin.” My words contain only a mock sternness as I pull away and sit down in the cracked vinyl booth. “Dad, I’m almost twenty-nine.”

  “You’re never too old to be my little girl.” Dad takes a tentative sip of his water. “How are you doing, Jos?”

  My grin widens. “Well, I just had my first class. And it went great.” As I talk, I pull my phone out of my pocket and show Dad a few photos of Tribe of Amazons. “Isn’t the studio nice?”

  Dad nods as he fingers through the camera roll. “You made a great purchase. You know women here care so much about what they look like. Always working out.”

  I snicker. “I’m banking on it. My class was pretty full too. I’m hoping the word gets out. Nixon even says he’ll advertise by his casino.”

  “That’s great, sweetie.” Dad yawns and rubs his eyes with both hands balled into fists. Before I can ask him what’s the matter, a familiar waitress stops by the table.