Chapter 17

Mandy

“Do you really have to do this now? She’s been awake for five fucking minutes!” I could hear Savior’s angry voice and I doubted he was talking to the doctors or nurses like that.

“Sir, your girlfriend was the victim of a crime, don’t you want us to find the perpetrators. If there are even perpetrators,” a taunting voice said that I assumed belonged to one of Vegas’ finest.

Insert eye roll if you want.

I appreciated Savior fighting for me, but it was unnecessary. I woke up some time in the middle of the night, not that the rest was all that peaceful with the nurses waking me up every hour to ask me ridiculous questions: What day is it? Who’s the president? Two questions guaranteed to piss me off. Somehow I came out of that fracas with no brain damage, just a few bruises, cuts and fractures that would keep me out of work for who knew how long. Maybe I’d find out if the doctor ever made his way to this side of the hospital.

“I’m awake,” I called out to stop the damn pissing contest outside my door.

The door opened and Savior popped his head in, blue eyes looking stark against his pale skin and dark hair. “How are you feeling?”

“Not as good as I would be if two gorillas weren’t yelling outside my door.” And if I hadn’t gotten my ass stomped by a bunch of pissed off bikers. “Come on in and bring your friend.”

His lips twitched but Savior refused the smile and stepped inside, not bothering to hold the door for the two men I pegged as detectives based on their suits. One wore an ill-fitting brown suit like a cop from the seventies and the other, well he looked like a mob lawyer.

“They want to ask you some questions,” he said reluctantly and sat in the chair where I found him when I woke up.

“Alone,” mob lawyer said with a frown.

“He wasn’t involved so I’d rather he stay.” I didn’t like cops and I didn’t trust them, but I knew they were only doing their jobs right now. Still, I needed backup and Savior was it. He grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze to let me know he was there.

The detectives stood at the foot of the bed wearing twin scowls meant to intimidate. “Can you tell us what happened, Ms. Sutton?”

I nodded and let out a sigh, wincing as the pain lit up my ribcage.

“Shit that hurts!” I yelled without thinking. I guessed my ribs didn’t get the memo that they weren’t broken because those fuckers hurt. “I was leaving work when three guys approached me in the parking lot of Knead, it’s the restaurant where I work. They had on jackets that said Roadkill MC, if that helps.” I paused because talking and breathing? Not so easy to do with bruised ribs, it turned out.

Seventies detective looked at me with a look of disbelief. “What business do you have with them?”

I barked out a laugh that was worth the fucking pain. “I have no business with them, but someone I knew when I lived here as a kid promised them I would do something I don’t do anymore.” I flashed a look at the detectives and then at Savior. There was no point trying to hide it anymore. It would come out anyway. “A woman I knew back when I was a kid, she helped me get a fake ID when my brother’s tour in Afghanistan was extended. I needed to pay bills, get food and stuff.”

“Where were your parents,” mob lawyer asked.

“Dead, for years at this point. Anyway, I saw this video online about counting cards and it seemed easy enough. I trained myself to do it and I only took enough to pay the bills and have some cushion, but Krissy wanted more.”

Mob lawyer interrupted me, giving me a chance to slow down and ease the pain. “Who’s Krissy?”

I hadn’t made it clear? “The so-called friend who got me the ID. She wanted a cut in exchange for the favor.”

His eyebrows rose in understanding as if I’d finally explained nuclear fission to him. So I continued.

“After a while it became too much, too risky. I got my acceptance letter for culinary school, hopped on a bus and never looked back.” I sighed deeply a few times, to breathe through the pain. “Until I returned six months ago to bury my brother and then three months later when I took the job at Knead.”

Both of them nodded as they jotted down notes. “And the beat down?”

“Encouragement to sign up for the blackjack tournament at the Wynn.” My head dropped back on the pillow and I focused on keeping my breathing even for a few long moments. That shit hurt and bad, but if I answered their questions now, I wouldn’t have to see them again.

“They just came up to you one day and asked you to count cards for them and then showed up a few weeks later to do this to you?” Mob lawyer pointed at me, or specifically, my injuries, suspicion lacing his words.

“No, they came by a few times to convince or intimidate me, whatever you want to call it.”

“And you didn’t think to call the police?”

“For what? So you can accuse me of some shit I had no part in? Right.”

“Except you did,” he countered.

“As a minor and you can’t prove it. But if you want to try, go ahead. Just don’t contact me, contact my lawyer.”

Seventies Detective cleared his throat and glared at the younger man. “That’s not necessary, Ms. Sutton. You’re the victim.”

“Really? Because I think someone failed to tell your partner.” I turned my head away. “I don’t know the guys’ names. What I know is that Krissy owes them money, a few hundred grand. Now I’m done talking.”

“We have more questions.”

I stared at Mob Lawyer until he shrugged, gave up and walked away.

“Most victims want our help, Ms. Sutton.”

I rolled my eyes at the line cops always dragged out when they wanted more information than they had. “Intimidating victims isn’t the best way to get us to open up, and somehow I knew that counting cards at sixteen would be all you heard.”

He seemed sympathetic, but I was pretty sure they taught that look at the police academy. “Are we planning to handle this ourselves,” he asked, brown eyes directed squarely at Savior, who’d been surprisingly quiet, if tense as hell beside me.

“Not if we don’t have to.” They stared at each other, some kind of macho mental pissing contest before Seventies Detective walked away.

This was my life now. Two men standing on either side of me, talking about me like I wasn’t there. Wounded in a hospital bed because of some chick I used to know and this was the perfect excuse for Landry to fire me.

Facing charges for the old card counting schemes didn’t worry me. I didn’t need a get-out-of-jail card—I needed a get-out-of-town card.