Turning around, I watch his back as he tugs the door open. I don’t see the person on the other side, but I know it’s a man, his voice is a deep timbre as it floats through the room. Unfortunately, I can’t understand what he’s saying, he’s murmuring the entire time.
“Fuck,” Mountain clips. “I’ll be right there.”
He closes the door, turning around, and his eyes drag over my body. “Go ahead down in the bar, I got some shit I need to take care of. Don’t go anywhere but the bar and this room,” he announces.
I open my mouth to ask him a question, but he’s already pulled the door open and stomped away, leaving me completely alone and staring after his retreating form. Clearing my throat, I stay exactly where I am, my feet practically frozen to the floor for much longer than I should.
Eventually, when it’s clear that Mountain is not coming back any time soon, I decide to venture to the bar. I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to find. My feet move slowly, so freaking slow that I wonder if I’m ever going to actually make it to the bar area.
When I finally do, I hear the thump of the bass music, the low murmur of voices, and the sound of pool balls crashing into one another. Looking around, I’m not surprised to see people drinking, some drug use, and the woman who was sucking someone’s dick earlier, is now on all fours as he fucks her from behind.
I stand in the shadows for longer than I should, watching, taking them all in. Maybe it’s creepy, no, it definitely is creepy. It doesn’t matter though, Mountain has left me in a strange place full of well… strangers.
Chapter Thirteen
LEIGHTON
Slowly, one step at a time, I inch my way into the bar. Nobody pays me even a slightest bit of attention, that is until I reach the actual bar top. A guy behind the counter makes his way toward me with a kind smile.
“You want something to drink, babe?” he asks.
He’s wearing the same vest as everyone else, except his says the word prospect across the chest instead of a name, like Mountain’s. I am half tempted to ask him what his name patch, or lack thereof, means, but I decide against it. I’m not sure how much I actually care.
My eyes flick over the man behind the counter and to the bottles of liquor that are all lined up behind him. I wonder if they have anything other than beer and cheap hard liquor.
As spoiled as it sounds, I could really use some Clase Azul tequila. It’s my favorite and not just because it comes in a pretty white and blue ceramic bottle, it just tastes freaking delicious.
“Do you have any tequila that isn’t going to leave me with a gnarly hangover in the morning because it’s cheap?”
He blinks, his lips parting slightly. At the same time, a man next to me guffaws. “I like her,” he announces.
Turning to the side, I look at him. He’s grinning at me, his eyes dancing much the same way that Mountain’s do. He’s really looking at me though, not trying to figure me out necessarily, but instead, just taking me in. He’s big like Mountain, his beard thick and black, his gaze intense.
“I’m Leighton,” I say softly.
He dips his chin, his eyes never leaving mine. “Get Leighton here, some Patron. That’s as top-shelf as we get, babe. It’s going to have to do.”
Pressing my lips together, I nod my head a couple of times. “Okay,” I breathe.
He gives me a wink, then leans in toward me. I should be apprehensive about him being so close, but I’m not. I feel oddly comfortable with him right here. The bartender leaves a shot glass in front of him, not me, and slowly he slides it in front of me.
“What’s your name?” I chance.
He lifts his beer at the same time I lift my glass. When we clink, he gives me a wink. “Dragon, I’m the president around here.” He grins, then lifts his bottle to his lips and takes a pull.
Putting the glass to my lips, I take the entire shot in one gulp, coughing as it burns down my throat. Shaking my head, I suppress the shiver, my gaze never leaving his, even when my eyes water from the booze.
“Well then,” I cough.
“Yes, well then,” he says, never wiping the smile off of his lips.
I think about asking him why he’s sending Mountain away the way that he is, for an entire fucking month, but I don’t. Clearing my throat, I shift my eyes away from his for a moment before I move them back. He’s still watching me, obviously waiting for me to say something.
“You’re waiting for me to speak,” I finally say.
He lifts his chin with a jerk. “I’m trying to figure you out. Been around a lot of women in my day, usually I can figure one out in a heartbeat. Been around spoiled princesses, women who want to get away from their lives, survivors, thrill-seekers, you name it. There’s something different about you.”
“Been around women who were used as a plaything by their own fathers?” I ask, somehow feeling like I can say whatever shit I want, maybe it’s the tequila, maybe his gaze is just that unnerving.
“Yeah, I have,” he says, his lips turning downward. “Not sure you qualify completely. See, Mountain hasn’t had time to dig up much about you, but my computer genius has, and I know more than anyone else here about you, Leighton.”
“Oh yeah?” I whisper, my heart racing against my ribs, the sensation feeling so damn close to a heart attack, I wonder how I’m still even breathing at this point. “What do you think you know about me?”
I’m honestly not sure what there is to know. I thought that I was mostly a secret, no birth certificate, no mother, no private or public schooling—a virtual ghost.
He nods his head slowly, then I watch as he licks his lips. His full dark beard makes it really hard to read his expression. I think about Mountain and how even though I can’t always tell what he’s thinking, his beard is clipped close to his face, so at least I can tell if he’s smiling or frowning.
Dragon hums, leaning back in his seat slightly. “I know you struggled on your own for five years before your daddy scooped you back up. You lived like a pauper when you’re from more money than anyone I’ve even met before. I know that all of that money is yours, all you have to do is claim it. It’s always been in offshore accounts, in your name.”
“What?” I breathe.
He nods his head. “Yeah, it’s all yours. Every dirty, filthy, red cent.”
Something ugly settles in the pit of my belly at the way he says dirty, filthy, red cent. I close my eyes with a hitch to my breath. Whether I want to admit it or not, I know exactly what that means.
How my father earned that money, the fact is, he didn’t earn it at all. Those girls, the ones he allowed his friends to abuse, they earned it—on their backs.
“I don’t want it,” I whisper.
“You could buy more of that fancy tequila than you could drink in a lifetime and still have money left over. That’s a lot of green to say you don’t want. Girl like you, life you were used to when you lived with him. You could live the rest of your days out in peace, quiet, and alone.”
“I could. But what about all those girls who died for that? What about them? I don’t want it, and I mean that.”