The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

Oui, mon cheri. Always showing the maturity level of a wet tissue.

“Can’t fucking wait,” Sam drawled, getting up from his seat.

Just then, my father came into the kitchen, holding his ledgers under his armpit, looking between us.

“Everything okay?”

“Perfect.” Sam grinned at me. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”

Staying true to my word, I showed up at Badlands the following weekend.

As always, I invited Belle to join me. I didn’t tell my friends about Sam yet, but this time it had nothing to do with my fear of being judged by them. Things were still complicated between him and me, to say the least, and my brothers weren’t privy to what was going on.

I knew Sailor and Persy were going to confide in my brothers no matter what, and I didn’t want to complicate things for all of us for something that might not materialize.

Belle looked to be in good spirits and ready to tackle the night in a skintight red leather mini-dress and matching lipstick. As soon as we got into the club—this time I did show my ID to the bouncers—she headed to the dance floor.

I was still shocked by the fact they let me in.

The balance of power had shifted, and true, I didn’t have most of it, but I didn’t have any less power than Sam did in our relationship either.

He said I didn’t come here out of obedience, and I wanted to show him it wasn’t true. At the same time, texting him I was here was too blatant, too transparent, and I knew that if Sam was here on the premises chances were he wasn’t going to come to the dance floor.

I wanted to press where it hurt. To show Sam I wasn’t his little plaything. And so after seeing Belle was content on the dance floor, I marched toward the narrow hallway through which Sam had led me all those months ago, on Halloween, when I desperately got on my knees for him, taking the scraps he threw my way while masquerading as a stranger.

Two burly bouncers stood at the edge of the hallway, arms crossed, blocking my way.

“Let me in.” I tilted my chin up.

They looked at me in amusement but didn’t move. As if the mere idea was ridiculous.

Women weren’t allowed in the card rooms. Cillian once told me the official reason for that was because gambling and whores went together, and Sam didn’t want respectable ladies getting harassed if his gamblers got the wrong idea.

“Hey. I’m talking to you.” I waved my hand in front of their faces.

“No women allowed,” one of them spat on the floor.

“I’m not just any woman.”

His eyes raked over my body, head to toe, halting when he reached my breasts. “Seems to me like you are.”

I took out my phone, gliding my finger on the screen until I got to Sam’s contact information, showing them his phone number. “How about I call Brennan and clear it with him? I’m sure he’ll have something to say about you not letting his girlfriend in.”

“Brennan doesn’t have a girlfriend,” one said.

“He doesn’t?” I snorted, my confidence wavering a little. “Didn’t know he spent a lot of time talking to his bouncers about his love life. My name is Aisling Fitzpatrick. Check with him if you want.”

The one who seemed hell-bent on not letting me in fished his phone out of his front pocket reluctantly, punching in Sam’s number while glaring at me. My heart was in my throat. This was the make or break moment. Sam would know I was here. The bouncer said my name. Asked if I could come in. There was a pause on the other line. The air was still despite the hustle and bustle of people, drinks, music, and the lights around us. After a second, he hung up and bowed his head, stepping sideways. His colleague widened his eyes.

“I’ll be damned. I thought pigs would fly sooner.”

“Keep the dream alive.” I patted his shoulder, shouldering past them.

I entered the hallway and picked the busiest, loudest, rowdiest card room. This time, I observed my surroundings more carefully than I did the night I came to fetch Cillian and Hunter. I had to look behind my shoulder for the bouncers and was too filled with white-hot rage to pay attention to anything back then.

Round, deep oak tables with green centers sat across the room with men in expensive suits huddled around them, smoking fine cigars and drinking brandy. They all looked like variations of the men in my family—privileged, corrupt, and desperate for cheap entertainment. There were also waitresses wearing tiny, black baby dolls, leaning down and tending to the clientele.

Scanning the room, I looked for the blackjack table. I knew how to play Texas hold ’em and seven-card stud, but my real specialty had always been blackjack. It was the first card game Cillian had taught me, and he made it a point to practice with me during Christmas Eves, after everyone had retired back to their rooms.