Ace of Hearts (Vegas Underground 3)

Once we’re seated, Pepper pulls out the notebook I brought her. What time will we be back? she writes in neat, boxy letters.

“We’re booked back on the 4 p.m. flight, which will have us back to the hotel by 5:30.”

She nibbles her lip, then writes. Does Hugh know?

I scowl at the mention of her manager. “I don’t babysit Hugh.” The testa di cazzo could’ve called me last night to discuss the problem I had with the show, but he chose not to. Today he’s gonna find out what happens when you fuck over the Tacones.

She nods and pulls out her phone, thumbing over the screen to text Hugh.

I shoot off a few texts of my own and answer a call from one of the security guys at the casino. I’m still talking when we get to the airport, but I hang up as soon as we enter. Pepper is my charge, which means I have to act as her bodyguard when we’re in public places. I stay alert, watching for threats from every direction.

We get checked in—I bought us first class tickets, of course—and queue up to go through security. The TSA guy looks at her license and ticket, and a broad grin spreads across his face. Her last name isn’t Heart, it’s Hartman, but apparently he figures it out.

“Heeyy, Pepper.”

I hold my hand out for the documents. “She can’t talk; she’s saving her voice for the show tonight.”

“Oh, yeah,” the guy says. “The Bellissimo, right? I’ll have to get tickets.” He reluctantly hands our I.D.s and plane tickets back.

“You do that.”

Pepper gives him a smile he definitely doesn’t deserve, but I resist the urge to take her elbow and tug her along the way her manager does.

“Do you want anything from Starbucks, songbird?” I ask when we pass the coffee shop. “Hot tea with honey for your throat?”

She shrugs, then nods.

I get in line. “What kind?”

She cranes her neck to look at their tea offerings, then mouths the word mint.

I try to tear my eyes away from her mouth. Any more lipreading and I’m going to sprout a chub. I can’t help picturing those lips stretched around my cock, sliding up and down while I fist her platinum hair. I clear my throat. “Anything else?”

She points to a chocolate croissant.

I order a triple espresso for me and the tea and croissant for Pepper. The satisfaction I get from her allowing me to take care of her is laughable. Buying a girl tea doesn’t make me a big man. At least she won’t see it that way. All she’s gonna see is that I’m strong-arming her into doing what I need her to do to perform her end of the deal.

Still, when she takes them, it satisfies the part of me that’s always on—that underlying need to to protect those in my dominion.

Pepper walks through the airport like an observer, not a rock star. She takes in everything around her. Not like me—not sizing up threats and dangers—more like an artist studying her subject, or a writer people-watching for inspiration.

We sit down at our gate and someone yells, “Pepper!”

Pepper’s head whips around as a millennial with a phone snaps a picture of her. “See, I told you it was her,” he says to the girl with him.

Pepper could’ve ignored him, or even flipped him off like she loves to do to me, but instead she smiles and waves.

Encouraged, the kids come over, and the people around us all sit up and pay attention, crowding closer.

“Can I get a selfie with you, Pepper?”

“Can I?” Now they’re all asking.

“Ms. Heart is resting her vocal cords today so she’s not speaking,” I project over the hubbub.

Pepper smiles and gets up, posing with each clamoring fan, making faces, getting goofy. It’s cute but also disturbs me on some level I don’t quite get. Something about the contrast between the smiles and melancholy of the actual girl.

I get up with her, making my full size felt. When it goes on for more than a minute, I lean down and speak into her ear, “Squeeze my arm when you want me to get rid of them.”

She flashes me a glance filled with surprised gratitude and after a few more photos, squeezes my arm.

“Okay, thank you. Let’s give Ms. Heart a break… thank you, that’s enough. Okay.” I shoo the rest of them away and lead her to the area near the podium reserved for handicapped and families with small children.

“You like your fans,” I observe as we wait to board. I’m kind of amazed at how patient she was with all that bullshit.

She pulls out her notebook and writes, I love them. They buy my albums and come to my concerts. I’m grateful for them every day.

Well, shit. I really don’t want to find out she’s an incredible human being in addition to being rich, beautiful and talented.