“Great, thank you so much!” I exclaim.
“Actions speak louder than words, babe,” he says while his hand grabs my shoulder and pushes me down to the floor. “Get on your knees and show me just how thankful you really are.”
Chapter Four
Naomi
Fiasco made good on his promise. At eight o’clock, he welcomed me aboard the Pirate’s Booty in my short, black, sleeveless dress with the taste of him still on my lips even after three swigs of mouthwash.
It’s not exactly a bad flavor. And under any other circumstance, I probably wouldn’t have even minded getting him off with my mouth. It’s just the shame of why I did it that’s still haunting me, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin, doing things I wouldn’t normally do if not for the anvil Harry is holding over my head. I had to get on my knees for him, not for myself, which makes me hate my biological father even more than I thought possible.
Still, I’m here, on the gambling boat, ready to take the next step in my plan of ripping off the Dirty Aces, and Malcolm Hyde specifically, any way possible to earn back twenty-thousand dollars. Or is it now twenty-one thousand thanks to Harry’s ridiculously unfair but unavoidable interest rate?
The bartender, a squinty-eyed girl named Ronnie, spends about ten minutes training me on taking drink orders, filling them, and where to put the money once the customer pays since they deal solely in cash. That means it’ll be easier than I thought to skim a little right off the top without anyone the wiser.
There aren’t many gamblers on the boat tonight, but the ones I do serve are generous tippers. I’ve made a hundred bucks before the sun fully sets, which is way more than I usually make in an entire night at the diner.
I’ve just finished making the rounds and am taking a breather at the bar when a new man comes waltzing into the game room from a side entrance, looking like my very own personal Jesus with his wavy brown hair that brushes his shoulders. In jeans and a leather vest identical to Fiasco’s, it becomes immediately clear that the guy is also a member of the Dirty Aces. After a notable hush falls over the room, everyone pausing in the middle of their card game or dice to turn and look at him, I start to think that this man isn’t just any member of the MC but very likely their president.
After someone presses the imaginary play button and everybody goes back to what they were doing before his majesty entered, I whisper to Anika, the only other waitress who works weeknights, “Who is that?”
“Don’t even think about it,” she responds while chomping extra hard on her chewing gum. “Malcolm’s a unicorn.”
“A what?” I ask.
“A unicorn. Sure, he’s pretty to look at and the most powerful man in town, but there’s no chance in hell that you’ll ever get to ride him. Seriously, the best thing you can do is pretend he’s imaginary and go on with your life.”
Wow. I knew Anika wasn’t too thrilled about me dipping into her and the bartender’s tips or whatever, but still, that’s no reason to go full-on bitch so fast.
“Oh. Don’t take it personally,” she says with a wave of her hand, having apparently read my shocked face correctly. “Malcolm doesn’t know we, his employees, exist, no matter how hard you flirt with him or try to get in his jeans. Believe me, I’ve tried and so has everyone else.”
“Everyone else?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. On the weekends, we have another bartender and three other waitresses. Then there’s the three girls who work at the pool hall. So, that’s what, ten women counting me? Yeah, at least ten current employees of the Dirty Aces who have all tried and been shot down by Malcolm.”
“He’s turned down everyone?”
“Everyone,” she says, blowing a small pink bubble and popping it. “There’s a pool going if you want to throw in twenty bucks; but honestly, it’ll just be a waste of money. It’s up to eight hundred dollars, so thirty-two women have tried and failed to get their hands on Malcolm’s dick.”
“Wow,” I mutter, unsure if that’s just sad for the pathetic women or impressive that a man that hot has that kind of restraint. “Is he gay?” I whisper.
“No way to know for sure, of course, but I don’t think so,” Anika replies with a grin. “I’ve seen him checking me out before.”
“Good for you, I guess. Thanks for the heads-up,” I tell her.
“No problem,” she says before she struts off to make the rounds on her customers.
After she’s gone, I watch the ridiculously sexy man, who I can apparently never have, take a seat on one of the stools at the bar and plop down a stack of papers, placing his phone on top of them. He looks angry as he shoves his fingers roughly through the front of his thick locks to push them out of his face, huffing as if they intentionally hung in front of his eyes to piss him off. His thick, tattooed biceps flex with the movement, drawing my eye to them. I wouldn’t mind running my own fingers through the waves either, having never dated a guy with long hair, or have those strong arms hold me down and take whatever they wanted from me…
Oh jeez! I have no clue where those naughty thoughts came from. I’m here to take care of business, not drool over some random man my father happens to hate. I cannot and will not get distracted from my goal of paying off my debt. The clock is ticking, and I need to get my ass moving.
Still, despite repeatedly telling myself to forget about Malcolm Hyde, I somehow find myself heading in his direction half an hour later, unable to resist getting a little closer to the sexy man in charge.
And as stupid as it may be, I can’t help but hope Anika was wrong about him not wanting me.
Malcolm
It’s going to take a gallon of whiskey to help me get through the club’s end of the month accounting bullshit and the headache it’s causing.
I fucking hate math.
It’s my least favorite thing in the world. But after Lowell, one of our own damn guys, stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from the MC, I have no choice but to suck it up and take over the accounting. I’d rather be sitting back, smoking a joint while playing poker or blackjack with all the other guys on our gambling boat, but that’s not going to happen tonight.
Having someone like me, a grumpy bastard who came from nothing and doesn’t like to spend an unnecessary penny, do the books can be problematic for the club, because I want to cut out all sorts of shit that the guys love, like pay-per-view at the bar.
“Hey, it’s Malcolm, right? Can I get you a beer?” a woman asks me sweetly while my head is bent over one of our beer vendors invoices. Ronnie, our bartender, and most of the waitresses know better than to bother me while I’m fucking working.
“No, but you can get me a fifth of whiskey,” I say with a sigh since she’s already interrupted.
“How much is a fifth?” she asks.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter when I finally lift my eyes to see which of our waitresses is seriously asking me that question. Well, that explains the problem. The skinny little blonde that I’ve never seen before looks too young to be holding a tray and serving alcohol. The last thing we need is a goddamn ABC violation. “Who the hell are you?” I ask her.