10.
Vixen…
There was a hidden room in the basement of the hotel. It was heavily guarded by a bunch of Nixon’s men who were armed with very illegal guns. They looked like those guys at weight-lifting competitions. Some had that fake bronze tan, too. I wanted to tell Nixon that these guys were obviously strong, but their cardio most likely left much to be desired. I was sure they’d just shoot you if you ran from them, but in the off chance they were disarmed and I had to run from them one day in the future, I kept that information to myself.
Anyway, it was a betting room. A very illegal betting room. A lot of money was blown by very rich, or very corrupt men that came through on their giant yachts. It was past peak season and they kept coming in droves. The services Nixon provided were evidently addictive.
As we approached, the guards practically bowed at Nixon. If his pants were down, I was sure they’d have kissed his ass. Following us was everyone from the meeting sans Hobbs. He never went down to the basement. Get this, he said gambling was against his moral code. That was akin to hearing a murderer condemn thieving, it was just so what in the fuck?
The second the doors opened the music flooded out. With his arm possessively wrapped around my hip, Nixon led me in. The room was like a club. There was a bar area, and then a series of tables scattered around the room. There was a stage of exotic dancers, hardly clothed. When I dryly commented once that they might as well have been naked, Nixon explained he didn’t allow poles, cages, or strippers; he said that it would “cheapen the ambience.”
The betting tables were in the centre of the room, and they were currently filled to the brim with suited men, their eyes downcast at their playing cards. Some of them had a mountain of gambling chips, their expressions smug.
I hoped to God Nixon wouldn’t join the next game. I didn’t feel like sitting in his lap for hours tonight. Since talking to Flynn, I felt out of sorts. His disappearing comment weighed heavy on my mind. The “what-if” clouded my thoughts. It was dangerous to feel hope, but there it was, already seeding itself.
I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder at him. I expected him to be staring around the room in awe, his eyes devouring the scene before him. Instead, my breath hitched when my eyes met his. Like I’d been burned, I looked away quickly.
It wasn’t bizarre that Nixon invited him down here. Every time they had a job, they’d have their meetings and then unwind in the basement with some drinks. Doll was already knocking back a drink and dancing her way over to one of the betting tables. She caught the attention of all the men there. She recognized one of them because she descended on him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her teeth grazing at his skin while she looked down at his playing cards. The guy was so clean-cut, he looked like a politician, and he probably was. Too many times to count I’d met or seen people I’d later catch on the television late at night. Oftentimes, Nixon would watch with me, a dry look on his face when whoever it was talked about the greater good. “Funny,” he’d said once. “That guy loves his hookers.” The guy in question had been some businessman that had made it on television for his charitable nature…and he was running for Mayor in whatever the fuck town he resided in. He’d donated some crazy amount to a kid’s hospital and then smiled at the cameras, telling the screen that “every child deserves the best…now vote for me.” Or something like that.
It was entertaining, but it was also sad. A lot of these people were married. A lot of them had kids. And their loved ones had no idea they were gambling it up in some hidden room located in the belly of a posh hotel.
I supposed it was nothing compared to the other shit they did.
As we walked, practically everyone greeted Nixon, but they didn’t overwhelm him. They gave us space as we strode through the room, stopping for quick chats here and there. Nixon made quick work of cutting every conversation short. He took me to one of the tables in the dining area and snapped his fingers at the nearest waitress. She practically tripped over her feet to accommodate him.
“Get the chef in the kitchen to serve us the usual,” he told her. “Tell him pronto. I want our orders at the front of the line.”
“Yes, Nixon,” she chirped, before hurrying to the backroom.
Pulling a chair out from under the table, Nixon kissed my head and murmured, “Sit down, baby, get comfortable.”
I sat down and he took a seat directly across me. His attention was trapped on me. It didn’t matter everyone stared. It didn’t matter the most beautiful women stopped mid-step just to gawk at him. He didn’t even notice them.
I could tell from his expression he was in a good mood. His lips were curved up, his eyes feasting on every inch of my face. It was kind of a fucked-up sight because the claw marks just above the collar of his shirt looked red and angry now…and he still wore them with pride.
“Why are you so happy?” I asked curiously.
“After the meeting, I took a call from my builder,” he answered, eyes bright. “My plans were approved. I’m getting our house built on the island, sweetheart. It’s happening.”
Nixon had been talking about owning the island now forever. He was slowly accomplishing this by buying out everything on it. The nature reserve was strictly off limits from what I heard, but everything else was on the table. He’d said there was the most perfect spot atop the highest mountain on Grander island. He’d bought out the surrounding homes, gave the owners more than they’d ever dreamed of, all because he had this vision in his head of the perfect house.
He said it was for us.
To me, it was just another prison.
To confirm that, I asked, “Do I get to leave this house of ours?”
His expression remained light when he said, “You’ll have everything you need there.”
“I can’t help but feel like I’ll be more isolated than I am here.”
“I’ll make sure that isn’t the case.”
“Seeing human beings daily helps me, Nixon.”
“I know that.”
“I can’t have a repeat of last year.” My voice trembled as memories of that month stuck in my room flooded in. I swallowed the lump in my throat, staring pleadingly at him. “I can just stay here, can’t I?”
He leaned over the table and gingerly took my hands into his. He continued watching me intently when he said, “I let you out.”
“You nearly broke me.”
“You ran from me, Vix.”
My eyes stung with tears. “I said I wouldn’t do it again, didn’t I? And have I once?”
“No, you haven’t.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, looking down at our entwined hands, appearing thoughtful now. “I long for the day I can trust you.”
“Trust me now.”
“You spent an hour in our room telling me to let you go.”
“Because I want to feel like I have a choice in this, Nixon.”
“I understand.”
Did he? I watched him, waiting for him to dismiss my words, but he stared fixedly back at me, determined not to waver.
The thing with Nixon was I could never tell what his looks meant. I couldn’t know if he was looking at me like I was something he owned, or if he was genuinely seeing me. Too many times his actions made me feel like it was the former, and that fucking stung.