Chapter Sixteen – Nixon

I still can't believe what happened in my own bedroom. The best fucking sex of my life. If I thought that claiming Marcella would work to get my laser-sharp focus back and drive her out of my system, I was wrong. Dead ass wrong. That little taste has only ignited my thirst for more. I can't get enough, and I might never be able to. Work feels like torture when just a few days ago it felt like enough.

I asked to pick her up at her house like a gentleman since it's what she deserves, but she insisted on meeting me at the Armónico for our first official date. I know it's because she doesn't want me to see the hovel she lives in. What she doesn't know is that I've already seen photos of it in the surveillance file. It can't possibly look any worse in person than it does in the picture Troy found.

I stand close to the front door where my car and driver are on standby. She sent a text that she'd be at the valet in five minutes. One of the first things I did after we consummated our relationship is to insist she never park in the damn self-parking again. I want her safe. My employees can look after her, so I put my head valet and everyone else on high alert. When they see Marcella, anything she needs, it's hers before she even has to ask for it. If every damn employee in this place isn't anticipating her, they're fucking fired.

The sound of the dinging slot machines usually calms my nerves since it's the delightful sound of cash in my pocket. But with my nerves on edge, today they're just pissing me off. I scan the casino and snarl at the tourists even though they're the butter for my bread. Their fanny packs, polyester, and flip flops annoy the hell out of me, and I toy with the idea of instituting a casino dress code. Just as I'm about to pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off an annoyed text to Troy, I spot her breezing through the revolving door.

The breath leaves my body because of the way hers looks in the sundress she's wearing. It's the perfect shade of pink. The straps crisscross over her full breasts, lifting and showcasing them for my hungry gaze. It ties behind her elegant neck. If we weren't both standing in the middle of a busy casino, I'd untie it and let it fall. I inhale a ragged breath and try to calm my racing pulse. As much as I want to, I need to behave. Later, I'll ravish her. I don't even give a shit if I have to rip it off her body. I'll just have the store send her a new one. In every damn color it comes in.

She sees me standing next to the new "Star Wars" slot, and her smile touches me in recesses of my body I didn't even know I had. That upturn of lips could power the entire city of Las Vegas better than the Hoover Dam. Her mile-long legs carry her toward me with a sexy strut accentuated by the platform heels encasing her perfect feet. They're silver and set off her tanned skin to perfection. A growl rips from my throat as I notice some douche wearing white knee socks with open toed sandals checking her out with a lascivious stare.

No. Fucking. Way.

As soon as she's within three feet of me, I snake an arm out to pull her close. I buss a kiss to the top of her head as I institute the death stare to polyester man. Let him go find his obese wife and fuck her with his eyes. Even looking at my woman isn't all right with me. I wish it was medieval times so I could have both his eyes poked out with a sword.

I'm so pussy-whipped my own eyes could roll into the back of my head.

"Are you hungry?" I ask, saying anything to break the electric sexual tension, but all my words do is ping right off and land at my loafers. God, I hope I can make it through this date without crumbling.

"I feel like I could eat a horse," she says with a small laugh.

The only thing I want to see sliding between her lips is my cock. But I can wait.

I clasp her hand in mine as we walk through the casino to the steakhouse. Employees stare at us. I don't think I've ever held hands with a woman in public before, but it feels good. She feels good. Too good to be true, but I'll ride the pleasure train for as long as it lasts. Marcella's like a drug, and I'll do anything to get the next hit, even if it ends up killing me.

Erica, the hostess at The Range, breaks out in a gorgeous smile as she sees me. Even though I didn't have to, I made a reservation because I want to sit at the chef's table. My brother is the chef. Carter's a magnificent creator of all things beef, and I can kill two birds with one stone this way. He can meet Marcella, and I can pamper her with red carpet treatment.

My brother's wearing a black jacket emblazoned with his name. He resembles my mom more than my dad with his dark blonde hair swept back from his face. A haircut is in order, but I know he doesn't have time. "The Food Network" is courting him for a Vegas themed cooking show, and it's down to him and another chef that works over at the Mona Lisa. He's been a little on edge but then again, so have I.

"Hey, Carter," I say, waving to get his attention. Something he's frying in an oversized sauce pan smells to die for. I peek to find scallops, which I love, especially in his famous scallion sauce.

"Nixon," Carter says, walking toward us, and enveloping me in a brotherly hug. It feels good to see him. Even though Carter and Linc are my only brothers still in Vegas, I don't see either one of them as much as I'd like. The detriment to being a workaholic.

"Carter, I'd like you to meet Marcella Castillo. Marcella, this is my second to the last brother, Carter Caldwell."

"It's nice to meet you, Carter," she says, shaking his hand. Instead, my forward brother pulls her toward him until she lands against his chest. I've never wanted to clock him more. Not since back in grade school when he destroyed my sixth-grade science project, and I retaliated by flying his Superman underwear from the school's flag pole. "Wait…Nixon, Lincoln, Carter? Your mom must have had a thing for the presidents. Let me guess. Your other two brothers are named Washington and Roosevelt?"

I laugh, loving her sense of humor and quick wit. "You're close. It's Reagan and Ford."

She chuckles, and that beautiful smile has my stomach tied up in knots again. Carter stares at me as if he knows I'm so fucking long gone I could be a rum-runner in the prohibition era. Just call me moonshine.

"Have a seat," Carter says, making a sweeping gesture toward the booth in the corner. It's red leather with a mahogany wood table. Carter custom ordered it, and it books out over a year in advance. I wonder how much I had to pay to kick out the guest who had been scheduled to eat here tonight. Probably the damn Presidential Suite, front row tickets to the showroom, and a grand in free slot play. Troy doesn't offer up the information, and I don't ask. "Prepare to be dazzled."

I hate to say it, but my arrogant brother outdoes himself on the meal. The entire time, he regales Marcella with escapades from our youth. We laugh over the time Reagan swapped the nameplates on the restrooms at my dad's casino, and the time Ford put black food coloring in my mom's windshield wiper fluid. She came home screaming, convinced her treasured Mustang convertible was dying a slow death from car cancer. She'd been pregnant with Linc at the time, and we lost her soon after. I try not to let the memories get the better of me, choosing instead to focus on Marcella's face and the myriad of expressions that light her perfect features. Each one a new present to savor as it unwraps, exposing more of her layered personality.

After an incredible dessert of crème brûlée paired with a glass of Bordeaux, we decide to head to our second venue of the evening. I'd just hired a great Elvis impersonator for a few evenings in the Heaven cocktail lounge. It's equipped with a nice stage. Mostly, we contract with singer songwriter types, but the impersonator knocked it out of the park during his audition, and the Director of Entertainment thought it would be a nice change of pace for our guests.

On the walk to the lounge, I place my hand on the small of her back and notice the tremor that travels up her spine, setting gooseflesh to her arms. I love that I have the same effect on her that she has on me, and I can't wait to get her alone.

Marcella turns and kisses my neck, nuzzling her face into my shoulder. I love how familiar we already are. There isn't any awkwardness or dead air between us. Nothing but connectivity, and I wonder if this is the way it's supposed to be between a man and a woman.

I've never had a real relationship, but I've seen one. I've seen the very best, and I'm not going to settle for anything less than what my parents had.

Once we reach Heaven, the hostess ushers us to a prime table in the front row. Marcella claps her hands together and looks around the posh nightclub. There's a VIP bottle area behind a velvet rope where celebrities usually hang out. Since it's mid-week, there isn't anyone that important there, but this weekend, Chain Reaction is doing a meet and greet before their show in the main theater. They're one of my favorite bands. I turn to ask Marcella if she likes them, too, when the cocktail waitress interrupts.

"I'll have Macallan neat, and she'll have the 2015 Paul Hobbs Chardonnay." The cocktail waitress doesn't bat an eyelash at the request for ten-thousand-dollar scotch. I know they have a bottle on hand just for me when I stop in. Recently, my routine visits have only been because of business and not pleasure. A certain amount of ass kissing is required when your casino becomes known for live shows. If I want the big names to continue gracing my stage, I have to pucker up.

Just as our server delivers the drinks, the house lights dim, and I take that opportunity to snuggle Marcella in closer to me as I wrap an arm around her bare shoulders. I stroke her silky soft skin with my fingertips and she trembles. Since there's no host tonight, a deep male voice that's been pre-recorded blasts out from the speakers.

"Please help me welcome to the Heaven stage at the Armónico Hotel and Casino, Vegas's favorite Elvis Presley impersonator, Mr. Robert Goulet!"

Marcella stiffens beside me, and I look over just in time to see a look of horror spread across her face. I'm surprised because she'd seemed genuinely excited to catch this show when I'd mentioned it at the steakhouse. She even told me that Elvis was one of her mom's favorites and she knew all his songs by heart. She even listened to Elvis radio on Sirius XM because it made her feel closer to her mom.

Bob enters stage left in his sequined jumpsuit, complete with cape, and does some hand rolls along with the typical hip gyrations. As he approaches the mic stand, Marcella sinks down in her seat.

"Good evening. I'm Robert Goulet. But not that Robert Goulet," he says with a chuckle and a flourish of his bell bottom pants. "That Robert Goulet gave Liberace's eulogy and Wayne Newton was the best man at his third wedding. The best man at my wedding was Carrot Top. Now, that might make you want to put a bullet through your TV, wouldn't it?"

A round of laughter follows, but my woman looks like she is slowly sinking beneath the table. What the hell? I lean down and whisper, "What's wrong?"

She looks up at me with embarrassed eyes. "I know him. He's my former boss at the Heartbreak Hotel. He owns it."

I'm about to get her the hell out of Heaven before her face turns an even darker shade of red. I know a great female singer/songwriter at the casino next door where we can slow dance, and I can wrap my arms around her. I never want to see that look on Marcella's face again, but before I can pull her up, Bob's voice rings out.

"Hey, Marcella. I thought that was you." Before I can shield her with my body, the spotlight falls on her, and Bob falls down on one knee in the famous karate pose. "Did you know that my pet mouse, Elvis died last night?"

Marcella doesn't speak. She's officially a deer in the headlights.

It doesn't stop good ole Bob, cause he yells out, "Yeah, he was caught in a trap."

The drummer gives a ba-da-boom-boom, and the audience gives a lukewarm chuckle along with a pity round of applause.

What the hell had my entertainment director been thinking?

Just as Elvis stalks our way, I wrap Marcella in a protective embrace and head for the exit.

Nixon Caldwell has left the building.

And Bob Goulet is so fucking fired.