Chapter Seven – Marcella

I stare up at the lunchbox sitting on the counter. It's only got a bologna sandwich and a few baby carrots inside it, but at least it's something. We can't afford to buy food that's not on sale at the bargain grocery store with the wilted produce and the expired meat. And I know Manny. He'll start making some tips and think he can afford to go to the food court. He can't. It's my day off, so I've got the time, but I don't have the extra gas. Last night on my way home from work, the gas gauge hovered just underneath a quarter tank, and I've still got two shifts before payday.

With a curse underneath my breath and a long-suffering sigh of annoyance, I grab the lunchbox and lock up behind me. More cursing follows all the way to the Armónico as I have to keep stopping in traffic, which I know is a fuel waster. Damn Manny and his habit of having his head up his ass. He's always thinking about the next big game and trying to come up with the buy in. I shiver as I imagine what it must be like to sell your very soul to the devil of addiction. I've never wasted one red cent wagering, and I don't even want to think about it anymore. He's in deep. Too deep.

I don't bother driving around in the self-parking since I've got more time than money. I snag the first empty spot and hoof it to the casino entrance hoping against hope that Ramone will be inside a vehicle in the valet ramp and not standing out front.

No such luck.

"Morning, Marcella. Manny forgot his lunch again?" For some reason, Ramone's happy-go-lucky countenance pisses me off today. It's like he wants to rain his special brand of sunlight down on me and open up the shroud of dark clouds I'm wearing around my body like a cloak of darkness. I want to reach up and slap the foolish grin off his face. I know just the sight of me makes him this way, but I don't reciprocate. I can't. The last thing I need is to be tied down to Vegas. As soon as I can afford to spread my broken wings, I'm going to fly.

"Morning, Ramone." I don't say anything else because I don't want to stand there and make conversation. Nixon Caldwell's henchman scares me, and he didn't look too happy the last time Manny and I got into it. Not that I blame him. I know getting pissy in a high-class establishment like the Armónico is a good way to get Manny fired.

"Bye, Mar…"

His last words fade into the dinging of slot machines. The cleaning solution of the marble buffing machine assails my senses. Probably toxic as shit but it's cheap, and it works because my tennis shoes are making squeaking noises as I try to reach the carpet. Once I'm close to the pit, I search for Manny. He narrows his eyes when he spots me, so I hold up the lunchbox and point to it. He nods, and I sit down again to wait for him. This time, I choose a spot farther away from the pit and the eagle eyes of Troy Cass.

After a few minutes scrolling through my Facebook feed, I look up in time to see Manny walking toward me.

"You forgot this," I say in my most annoyed tone, holding up the lunchbox. "And I had to waste precious fuel bringing it here."

He snatches it out of my hands. "Thanks. I would have gone hungry."

I snort and roll my eyes. "As if. You would have grabbed a burger, and you know it. Your stomach's like a bottomless pit."

"Hey, I'm glad you're here but not because I forgot my lunch."

I eye him because he looks all serious all of a sudden, and I wonder if he's going to ask me for money. I can't give what I don't have. All I have in my purse is my emergency dollar. The only reason we both have phones is because Maria took pity on us and gave us the basic plan for Christmas. After she crossed herself a dozen times, she said she'd go out of her mind with worry if she lost contact.

"What?" My wary tone reaches my ears, and I wince. It's probably not right that I always imagine the worst when it comes to my brother. Old habits die hard.

"It's about Nixon Caldwell."

I throw my phone in my purse and stand up, looking around, expecting the man of my illicit fantasies to jump out from behind the nearest slot machine and yell boo. What the hell could he want with Manny?

"Nixon Caldwell? What the hell?"

"Yeah, I could barely believe it myself. Since you worked late at the Heartbreak, you weren't up yet when I left for work today. I thought I'd tell you tonight, but now's a good a time as any. He called me up to this office yesterday. You should have seen it, Marsh. It looked like something out of a magazine. Our entire trailer could have fit on top of his desk."

My eyes widen as I imagine the luxurious private office of a dude that rich. And that particular. I can tell by the way he dresses and never has a hair out of place that the guy has exacting standards. I imagine he has high expectations, even of his furniture.

"I can believe it, but what's that got to do with us?"

"He heard about you from Mrs. Olivero over at the community college. Something about the internship you did last year. He's got a disabled brother that needs a para, so he asked if I'd offer you the job. Apparently, he worried that you'd freak if he called you. Wanted me to pave the way, so to speak."

No shit. I'd freak if I heard from Nixon Caldwell, but not for that reason.

"Work for Nixon Caldwell? Here?" My mouth puts up red flags and road blocks, but my panties flood with moisture at the possibility. This can't be happening to me. Nothing good ever happens to me.

"You didn't even ask me about the best part." Manny's eyes dance and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"It gets better?" I ask, mouth hanging open.

"It's five times your current salary. We could really use that money, Marshmallow. To pay the rent and all that."

Dollar signs dance across my eyelids. It's a no-brainer. Except for one thing. Hell, I can't even mention that to Manny, or he'll start in with his overprotective brother routine, even though he's the one who usually needs protection. Can I even be in the same room with Nixon Caldwell for more than ten minutes without him knowing that I want to throw him down and ride his rock hard body?

"Wow, that's something. Did he say anything about the hours and all that?"

His words sink in, yet they don't make sense. For some reason, I can't even imagine myself working in a high-class joint like this. God, I don't have anything to wear that's fit to be seen in polite company. Manny's eyes soften as he goes on to fill me in on the particulars, and I breathe a sigh of relief. As much as I want to turn down the job on the back of my inappropriate desire alone, I won't have to. Nixon's only in his office at night and the brother attends therapy all afternoon. I'd only be needed in the morning, long before Nixon arrives at work.

Part-time work for a full-time wage seems too good to be true. My dad always told me that if it seems too good to be true, it is. But I can't see any reason not to give it a trial run. I can always keep my afternoon gig at the Heartbreak until I know for sure.

"I think you should take the job."

"I—"

Before I can finish my sentence, Troy Cass appears out of nowhere like some soundless, faceless hulk of man. He scares the living shit out of me. I know from the article that he's Nixon's right-hand man and best friend from childhood. He seems to know and hear every fucking little thing. I look up and see all the cameras overhead and remember how tight security can be in places like this. Is Nixon watching me? I stare into the lens of the one closest, imagining he has more than just his eyes on my body.

"Miss Castillo?" Troy says, breaking my trance.

"Yes?"

"Nixon Caldwell would like to work out the details of your employment. Right now."

"Details?" I ask, shaking my head. Does he think he can buy or have whatever he wants at the snap of his fingers? As attractive as he is, he probably does. But he can't have me. I may be poor, but that doesn't mean I'm easy.

"About the job as para to Lincoln." He turns to Manny and points a finger. "You told her about the job, didn't you?"

"I sure did," Manny says, turning to head back to work. "You should go with Mr. Cass, Marcella. He's a good guy."

In spite of Manny's glowing recommendation, the walk to the private elevator feels like a walk to the gallows. The only thing missing is the beat of the drum and the masked executioner holding his sharpened axe. Troy puts his hand in the small of my back to lead me in the right direction, and I repress a small shudder. He has such strength in just the palm of his hand that I know he could snap my body in half before I could even scream.

The ding happens before I'm ready. I glance down at my tattered jeans and tank top. My nipples have hardened underneath the threadbare fabric due to the temperature difference between the inferno outside and the chilled interior. I cross my arms over my full breasts. The last thing I need is for Nixon to get the wrong impression. Had I known I'd be seeing the subject of my racy fantasies, I would have dressed better. Not that I have anything fancy enough for him, but better than this.

Troy stays behind and motions me out of the elevator first. It's like he's protecting me already. Is Nixon Caldwell that dangerous that I need protecting from him? Or do I need protection from myself and my roiling emotions? My heart pounds and my palms sweat. I want to wipe them on my jeans but leave my arms dangling at my sides.

I see him before he sees me. He's so huge and imposing in his leather chair facing the floor to ceiling windows. I stop in the doorway, and Troy almost runs into my back. Then, there's that hand in the small of my back again. He must think I'm a complete idiot. Troy gives a little shove, and I'm inside, watching him. Waiting. Stilted yet electric moments pass before he gives a slow twirl.

His eyes. They're so dark with unnamed emotion, they pierce my skin, and I swear they've captured something deep inside me.

"Miss Castillo. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I'm sure your time is valuable, as are you. Rest assured I won't waste it."

"No." The word pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. My time's not valuable, and neither am I. Well, maybe I used to be to my parents but not to a man like this.

His eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. He looks even more breathtaking with the tinge of annoyance coloring his chiseled features. Why does he care?

"Don't ever say anything like that again." It's a command, and if it's possible, more moisture floods my panties and my knees wobble like they might give out. I stifle a little tremor and stumble forward, barely making it to the chair before I sink into the smooth black leather, needing it to support my petite frame.

It's so damn shiny in here, I need my cheap Wal-Mart sunglasses to avert my eyes from the glare of chrome, marble, and kid leather. I only stop for a moment to consider how fast my body jumped to do his bidding. It was if I was a marionette and he my puppeteer. All he has to do is lift my strings, and I'm dancing for him.

"You wanted to see me about your brother?" I ask, wanting anything to break the hypnotic hold he has over me, but it doesn't. My voice is so husky and raspy it sounds like sex on a plate. He's going to see right through me.

"Yes. About that. My brother has cerebral palsy and requires a para with occupational therapy skills from eight in the morning through lunchtime. You start Monday. Don't be late."

I nod, and before he can say anything else, I rise on my wobbly legs and flee for the elevator.