Those Boys Are Trouble - Willow Winters
I crack my knuckles and stretch my arms above my head while looking out over the football stadium from my suite. I fucking love that this is my office. But then again, when you do what I do, your “office” can be anywhere. I snatch my scotch from the bar and tell Johnny to grab our lunch. Taking a seat on the sectional, I pull out my phone to look at my schedule. My first drop-off should be here soon.
I’m so fucking nervous. I click my phone on and see I have fifteen minutes to find the bookie’s suite. I clutch my purse tighter, holding the Coach Hobo closer to my side. I’ve got twelve thousand in cash under a scarf, and the idea I’m going to be mugged and then killed by the bookie is making my blood rush with adrenaline and anxiety. I can’t believe Rick would put me in this position. Shit. I’m such a bitch. I swallow the lump in my throat and square my shoulders to keep the tears pricking the back of my eyes from surfacing. Now is not the time to think about Rick. And it’s not like he asked me to do this. His problems keep coming after me, and I want to cover my bases.
The knock at the door seems hesitant, and that makes a deep, rough chuckle rumble in my hard chest. Whoever’s behind the door is scared, and I live for that fear. They’re right to be scared. I didn’t get where I am today by being kind and understanding. Fuck that. I’m a ruthless prick, and I know it. Doubt fills my chest for a fraction of a second, but I shut that shit down ASAP. I’m a tough fucker, and I’m not going to let some pussy emotions make me weak. Some days I wish I didn’t have to be such a cruel asshole. I don’t like fucking guys up, breaking their legs and hands or whatever body part they pick – if I let them choose. But they know what they’re signing up for when they do business with me. Damn shame they don’t have a doctorate degree in Statistics from Stanford, like me. A devilish grin pulls at my lips. If you’re gonna be making bets with me, you better be ready to pay up.
I wipe the cold sweat from my hands and onto my dress, ball up my small fist even tighter and knock on the door a little harder. I wonder if the people walking by know why I’m here. I swallow thickly, feeling like a dirty criminal. My eyes dart to an older woman with kind eyes and grey-speckled hair pushing a caterer’s cart past me. I’m sure she knows. I’m sure everyone who looks at me knows I’m up to no good.
My eyes glance from left to right as I wait impatiently. Sarah’s waiting outside, and I have to pick up my son from soccer practice soon. I lick my lower lip as the nerves start to creep up again. I’ll just pretend this isn’t real. Just hand them the money and walk away. Back to real life. Back to my assistant, and move on with my normal, nonthreatening, everyday life.
I take my time getting to the door. No matter how much money they owe me, or how much they’ve won, they need to know I do everything whenever the fuck I please. If they have to wait, they have to wait. But I sure as shit don’t wait for them. I open the door and my cold, hard heart pumps with hot blood and desire.
A petite woman in fuck-me pink heels and a grey dress that clings to her curves and ends just above her knees is staring back at me with wide, frightened hazel eyes. Her breasts rise and fall, peeking out of the modest neckline. Her black cardigan is covering up too much of her chest, and I narrowly resist the urge to push it off her shoulders. My eyes travel along her body in obvious appreciation before stopping at her purse. She’s clinging to it like it’s her lifeline. A tic in my jaw starts to twitch. What’s a woman like her doing making bets with a guy like me? Johnny handles most of that shit now. We aren’t supposed to take bets from women. I don’t like it. I’m definitely going to have to ask him about her.
The door opens, and I nervously peek up through my