Page 6 of The Right Garza
See, we were making a lot of money, but not as much as wecouldhave. Forking over seventy percent of everything we made became harder and harder each time. In the beginning, it didn’t bother me. To go from being broke as hell to suddenly making thousands of dollars, I was too desperate to care. And I suppose that’s what Slim counted on.
But after three years, as the giddiness and desperation started to dissipate, my ears became unplugged to the whispers and grumbles of my teammates—we were being taken advantage of.
It became a problem. I tried to negotiate with Slim but he wouldn’t budge. That was the price for being on his team, nothing more, nothing less.
One night, after an exceptionally big win, we had a big fight about it. It ended with Ellie and me splitting away from him.
We didn’t need him, we told ourselves. We knew the ropes, knew the game, knew his contacts. We could do it all on our own and keep all our earnings.
We were wrong.
We had the skills, but there was one thing we forgot to consider—we weren’t a part of the “secret club.” Slim was. We’d been given the blind eye only because we were with Slim. The minute he made it known we were no longer with him, eyes were on us.
We kept getting busted and banned. Ninety percent of the time we were roughed up and forced to pay back twice what we cheated. Not the standard at all casinos, but some of them were straight up gangsters, so even though we knew we were being intimidated and shaken down, we ponied up.
Before long, cash started to dwindle. We no longer had a pool of resources to cover our fake lifestyle, it was all on Ellie and me. No cash coming in, but a shit ton going out. Housing, supporting our families, renting all kinds of expensive shit to keep up the front, being intimidated and ripped off by thug casino owners….
Twice, our rented house was broken into and all our stuff was stolen. If we’d been smart, we would’ve taken what little we had left and gone home. But we weren’t. We ran ourselves dry.
Got our butts kicked, tossed, canceled, and banned.
Now here we are. Fallen from grace.
I glance around the tiny one-bedroom apartment. Popcorn ceiling, water-stained walls, and naked light bulbs. It’s a shithole for a guest apartment that still costs far too much, but people rent it anyway because it’s close to the strip.
We’ve been here about a month now.
We spent the first two weeks resting, wallowing, and eating junk food, considering how our lives have been nothing but nonstop craziness for the past couple of years. Slim had recruited Ellie in Miami. She’d never been anywhere else before that and although she’d been with us for a while, this is her first time in Vegas. We spent last week planning; gamble small, only on the weekends, stay under the radar, and save, save, save.
It’s our first night on the strip and already Ellie has decided to go rogue. Vegas does that to people. The bright lights and the glitz and the wonderland glimmer makes them stupid.
I push away from the door and toss my purse to the ugly green couch across the room. Heaving out another sigh, I start for the bedroom, mumbling under my breath, “I hope to God you know what you’re doing, Ellie.”
CHAPTER THREE
“And trust me, I’m the nice one.”
Lexi
I wake up tothe smell of bacon and rumbling male voices.
Rolling over in bed, I growl low in my throat. This chick is starting to get on my last nerve. Rule number one of living together: no men at the apartment. Ever. Homegirlknowsthis is a hard line for me. Sheknowsthis will piss me off.
For the last few months, she’s been testing me, irritating the hell out of me.
I toss off the duvet and swing my legs off the bed, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my palms. Having slept in nothing but a pair of lace boy shorts, I grab my kimono from where it’s hanging off the broken closet door and shrug it on, tying the strings.
Slinging the bedroom door open, I stomp down the short hall, ready to tell whatever loser she brought home to get the hell out. But I stumble to an abrupt halt when I find not one butthreemen inside the tiny apartment.
One of them is dressed impeccably in a fitted black suit, seated on the worn, ugly green couch with one leg propped up on the other as he flips through a Vegas magazine. Early thirties, maybe. Blindingly good-looking, with that whole inky black hair, razor-sharp jawline and olive skin thing going.
The other two, in the kitchen, are semi-casual in suit jackets and slacks. One is at the stove making eggs and bacon, the other sipping coffee from my Betty Boop mug.
The most alarming of all, however, is that Ellie is nowhere to be seen. Fear settles in the pit of my stomach like a jagged rock.We’re in trouble.
“Ah, she’s up,” The Suit says. His voice is disconcertingly sexy, like flaming sambuca. He slaps the magazine shut and tosses it on the rickety coffee table, then gestures to the small, two-seater eating table that separates the kitchen from the living room. “Sit. Have some breakfast.”
When I don’t move, he smiles, but it’s as lethal as a pulled hand grenade. “Sit. Now.”
