Chapter 5
Pete
When the door slides open, I almost double over in laughter. I always knew the Whatnot Crew was lame, but I didn’t realize they’d be this incompetent. The girl they have with them can’t be more than five five, with brown curls and a shapely figure. Meanwhile, they’re a criminal gang. They couldn’t handle her? Really?
But my eyes don’t lie. Tommy, JC and Greenboy are writhing on the ground right now, moaning their agony. There’s blood spattered everywhere and to my amusement, Tommy and Greenboy look like they got kicked in the nuts. Serves them right. If a woman does this to you, you probably deserved it. Especially since it was clearly three on one in the elevator, and yet she got the best of them.
“You didn’t tie her up?” I ask my men rhetorically. “Shit, how stupid can you be?”
“Boss,” gasps JC. “We did tie her up. She must have slipped the bonds.”
Sure enough, on the floor of the elevator is a raggedy old handkerchief, twisted and gnarled.
“You tied her up with a handkerchief. Shit, my dog could have escaped from that,” I say in disgust. Clearly, the Billionaires Club can’t be doing business with the Whatnot Crew anymore. They’re just too dumb and incompetent, with not one iota of common sense. It’s crazy, I tell you. We’re not expecting people with college degrees, but we are expecting guys who know the basics about doing our dirty work. Shit. I’m going to have to terminate their contract.
“Come on,” I say shortly. “Get up. Get out of here. I don’t need to see your ugly mugs.”
By now, Tommy, JC and Greenboy have managed to struggle to their feet and are about to limp out of the elevator. But I stop them, throwing one arm across the entrance.
“Did you hear me?” I repeat roughly. “Get out of here. Your work for the Billionaires Club is over. I’ll contact you about payment for this last job even though it was completely botched.”
JC’s face goes pale.
“I swear, it wasn’t us,” he whines. “It was them. The Silver Star was better protected than we anticipated, and then Greenboy shot that fat manager, and they said we’d get Murder One if the manager died! He was bleeding so much, so we had to take him to the hospital! Oh god, it wasn’t me, Mr. Carmichael, I swear!”
I can’t believe he’s babbling, and to be honest, shit like this really gets me because I hate when people don’t take responsibility for their actions. It’s something that’s bothered me ever since I was a kid. Despite being a billionaire now, I wasn’t born to the manor. Hardly. I was raised in the hood, struggling to earn street cred, and one of the first lessons drilled into my psyche when I was twelve or so was that you have to own up to what’s happened. The buck stops with you. No one likes a whiner, especially the guys who make their living on the street.
But evidently these men (if you can call them that) never got the memo because all three of them look like they’re going to cry now. Great. What I hate even worse than whining is crying, and all three of these guys look like they’re about to turn into blubbering fools. So I do what I do best. I press a hidden button on the wall, and the elevator door slides shut even as they continue to protest.
“It wasn’t me!” squeaks Greenboy.
“It was them!” adds JC.
“It was their idea!” throws in Tommy as a Hail Mary. “I swear!”
But the elevator’s already in motion, whooshing them back up the surface and out of my life. Hopefully permanently. Throw a little money their way, and they’ll be gone, grateful for getting off easy considering that they completely botched this job.
Because we hired the Whatnot Crew to shake up the Silver Bullet, not the Silver Star. What idiots. The Silver Bullet is a check cashing joint that owes the Billionaires Club some cash. Not a lot, just some. So we wanted to put the fear of god into its owner, and sent Whatnot to shake things up a little and scare them a bit.
But these nincompoops completely fucked it up because they held up a diner instead of the check cashing place. Those incompetents stormed into the wrong place in the middle of the day, waving their guns and screaming bloody murder. The folks in the diner must have been scared witless. Someone must have called 9-1-1 immediately.
But it just gets worse. The Whatnot Crew actually fired on someone at the diner, blowing their bloody kneecap off. Shit. A knee injury is bad because frankly, there’s no way to recover from it. Not really. If your knee cap is badly damaged, it’ll be like that for life. Even if they give you a new metal one, you’ll be in physical therapy for years, and the artificial prosthesis is nowhere near as good. So Murder One wasn’t the only rap on the table. There was probably aggravated assault, battery, and all sorts of charges for violent crimes. Plus, haven’t these guys heard of video cameras? Even the lowliest corner bodega has at least three in the interior and exterior. These guys were probably caught on film red-handed as they bumbled their way through the hold-up.
Just my luck. Saddled with the most incompetent group of criminals in all of Las Vegas. I suppose it’s my fault. I’m the Sergeant-At-Arms this year, the one tasked this year with maintaining order and security for the Club, and for us, that means getting things like the Silver Bullet taken care of. I just never thought the Whatnots would screw up so bad as to attack the Silver Star, instead of the Silver Bullet. Fuck. What a mistake.
But like I mentioned, I’m a man who owns up to his errors. I’ll have to appear before the governing body because of the magnitude of this fuck-up. It’s not going to be fun, but so long as I’m honest and above-board, I’m sure it’ll turn out okay. After all, what can they do? Slaughter every single member of the Whatnots? Disband the Whatnots and scatter its members among other crews? It’ll be easier just to pay them their money and ignore all future requests for “collaboration.” Fuck that. Never again.
But for now, I have a beautiful, creamy girl on my hands. I knew they’d kidnapped someone as part of this run gone wrong, but they hadn’t mentioned that it was a woman who was drop dead gorgeous. Because looking at her now, my mouth starts watering. She’s of middling height, with curly brunette locks, and a curvy body that can bring a man to his knees. Soft, generous tits are paired with a narrow waist flaring out to wide hips, and a giant booty in back. Everything that I adore in one sweet, luscious package. The only problem is that she’s glaring at me now like I’m one of the bad guys. What the hell? I’d never be so incompetent.
And true to word, she puts her hands on her hips, her brown eyes accusatory.
“So,” the girl says in a melodic lilt. “What’s going on? Where am I? Is this some kind of dungeon where you keep girls in cages?”
I grin, flashing even white teeth.
“Even better than that, sweetheart,” is my nonchalant reply. “This is a place where our girls work for a living, and given your experience?” I say, throwing a glance at her stained waitress outfit. “I have just the job for you.”
She blushes hotly, even while meeting my eyes straight on.
“You can’t make me stay here,” she says tightly. “That’s against the law.”
I throw my head back and laugh.
“There are no laws here. Well, at least not the way that you’re thinking. You see, sweetheart, you’re at the Billionaires Club, and the laws that govern the club are our own. So get ready to work because I’ve got a job for you.”
She opens her mouth to speak again, but I hold one hand up.
“Nuh uh. Not now. You’re filthy, and I don’t want people to see you looking like this. We billionaires like our girls fresh, ripe, and beautiful, so you’ve got to get cleaned up first. Mary,” I call out. Immediately, a middle aged woman in a white smock materializes by my elbow. “Can you please take Ms. … um, what was your name again?”
“Gemma,” the beautiful brunette says tightly. “My name is Gemma Kane.”
“Right. Mary, can you take Ms. Kane to the spa please? Give her the works, and then bring her by my office.”
Mary nods and gestures to a hallway behind us.
“Ms. Kane? After you, please.”
The curvy girl looks like she’s about to refuse, but I still her with one hand.
“You have a nasty cut on your forehead,” I say. “At least get that taken care of. After all, we’re at the Billionaires Club, and we have access to the best medical services. So do it for your health,” I state with one eyebrow raised. “We’ll talk later, I promise.”
Again, Gemma looks like she’s going to protest, but then she spins on her heel and marches off down the hallway. I watch with unabated interest as that curvy ass swings right and left. Man, I’d love getting to know her better. I’d love to grab that ass as she moans, and to touch the crevice between her thighs. She’d be wet, I know it. Gemma’s one of those girls who looks like she can get wet in thirty seconds, if the man’s right.
And suddenly, I know exactly where this is headed. After all, this is the Billionaires Club. It’s a retreat for men of great wealth where none of the usual rules apply. The best food? Check. The best entertainment? Check. The best women? Check check. Gemma Kane is definitely going to be put to work … and I’m going to sample every pleasure she has to offer.