Morrison (Caldwell Brothers)

If only I had a crystal ball to show me the future . . . Although, I guess I should be careful what I wish for. I once heard someone say, “If you speak it, you give life to it.”

I drop Marisa off at school with dread settling into the pit of my stomach. Quickly, I make my way to the casino to pick up my paycheck, aware I need to get to the bank and deposit the funds so the check I just wrote for her tuition doesn’t bounce.

I sign the paper at the office for receiving my check, and I’m just outside the door when my cheap–ass, prepaid cellphone rings. The number looks familiar, though not one I recognize as an emergency call, like Jamie or Marisa’s school. With the push of a button, the call connects.

“Hello,” I answer nonchalantly.

“Hailey.” His voice is gravelly and distinctive, and the fact that he is merely saying my name is a death sentence. “It’s Marshall. Gotta tell you, Monte knows about your tryst with Aces. This is not a good thing for you, or for Ris Priss. Gotta have a payment.”

Without a second thought, without hesitation, I bolt to the parking lot. Marshall called and threatened Marisa, and I know what this means. I have lived the life long enough to know I have to get to my daughter now. Tears run freely down my face, but I don’t give a fuck.

Someone grabs me. I think it’s Morrison Caldwell, but I don’t have time for him right now. I jerk free and continue out of the casino. I have to get to Marisa.

Right. The. Fuck. Now.

Chapter Nine

I watch as she basically runs out the door. It’s not my style to chase after ass, but then again, I have never had ass so fine in my life. This chick gives as good as she gets, too.

They say gambling is an addiction, but I assure you it’s not. I can walk away from the table anytime I want. That platinum pussy, however . . . Hailey, she’s addictive. She’s crack on steroids. She has me renting a room in this casino when I own a fucking place, just so I can make sure I’m tappin’ that ass again, tasting that pussy again, devouring her mouth again. I’m a platinum junkie.

Before I can convince myself it’s a bad idea, I am out the door and running to my car. I catch her taking a left out of my peripheral vision. I also see her wipe her eyes, and I immediately feel sick. I don’t know if I’m sick because she’s crying, thinking maybe it’s about me; if I’m sick because she’s upset, and I wanna know why; or if I’m sick because I wanna know who has her so fucking emotional that she is running after him.

As a result, I do what any man who has been plugged into platinum would do—I follow at a close distance.

“I must be out of my damn mind,” I say to myself as I count, finding I am three cars behind her.

Three is a good number.

My phone rings, and I hit the answer button on my steering wheel. “This is Morrison.”

“No shit.” Jagger laughs, the sound flowing through my stereo speakers.

“Sorry, man. I, um . . .” She swerves between two cars and moves into the right lane. I check my mirror, only to see I can’t get over. “Fuck!”

“Is that so?”

“Shit, man, sorry. I forgot you were there.”

“Damn, man, are you already drunk? It’s early.”

“No, I’m . . . uh . . . I’m . . .” I lay on my horn as I inch into the right lane, and some asshole in a jacked-up pickup nearly clips me. “Watch it, motherfucker!”

“You okay?”

I swerve behind the jacked-up Dodge and nearly get hit in the ass, but I’m in the right lane.

Horns blare behind me, and I want to flip the asshole off; instead, I lean out the window and look back at him. “Did you see me signal, asshole?”

“What in the fuck has gotten into you?” Jagger chuckles.

“Nothing, man. I’m just . . . busy right now.” I see her turn right, and the fucking light turns red. I look at the Dodge in front of me, ready to drive over his ass, and then I catch a glimpse of the silver balls swinging from the tow hitch. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Hey, brother, you in trouble?” Jagger asks.

“No trouble. No.” I punch the steering wheel out of frustration.

“What the hell is going on? Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay! I’m gonna lose—” I stop when I realize I am about to admit to my little brother that I am literally chasing ass.

“Lose what? A game, a bet?”

“Yeah. No.” I hit the wheel again. “It’s complicated.”