“Where are you from, Kassenia?” Dani asks, pulling a few draughts for the guys.
“I’ve been living in Berkeley,” I reply, “Getting my masters.”
“You one of them crunchy granola bitches?” asks the tiny brunette down the bar.
“Be nice,” scolds the redhead, “Nothing wrong with getting an education.”
“Like you’d know about that,” howls the curvy blonde.
“I’d like to someday,” the redheaded beauty pouts, “Maybe you can put in a good word for me at that school of yours, Kassenia?”
“Maybe,” I smile.
“I’m Sherry, by the way,” she goes on amiably, “The skinny bitch is Courtney, and the fat bitch is Wendy.”
“I prefer ‘full-figured’,” Wendy sniffs.
I look at the three women at the end of the bar, at Dani slinging beers and banter. Are these the kind of women that Declan is used to hanging around with? Is this what he’s looking for? And if so, what the hell am I thinking, trying to keep up? But then he looks over at me with those bottomless blues, and I know that he's brought me here for a reason. There’s something we understand about each other that goes deeper than skin and bones, deeper even than the loyalty of brotherhood.
“I could use another shot,” I tell him.
“This girl can drink!” Kip hollers, “She’s A-OK in my book, Dec.”
“And mine!” Ollie pipes in.
“We like her,” Teddy and Frank say in unison.
“Me too,” Sam says kindly, slinging a burly arm over my shoulder.
“She’s all right, I guess,” Chuck grumbles.
I smile at the assembled men as another round of shots comes our way. I may not feel entirely at home with Declan’s brothers yet, but I’m sure as hell going to try and win them over. Just as I’m bringing my shot glass back up to my lips, I see John Baxter looking at me out of the corner of his eye. He gives me the smallest nod, a sign of respect from a reserved man like him. And more than anything else, that one little gesture tells me one thing for sure:
I’m in good hands.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One thing becomes clear very quickly, once Declan’s returned from his week away. My leisurely days here in Vegas are over. I’m here to develop my startup, after all, not just laze around the pool and shop on Declan’s dime. But I’m prepared to meet his challenging demands, ready to prove that my idea for CrowdedNest is a worthy investment. Ready to prove that I’m worth this man’s time and confidence.
My days fly by in a flurry of frenzied activity. The routine always begins the same way: I wake up early to snag some time in our building’s gym, down a quick breakfast, and spend the afternoon with Declan, working on my business model. More often than not, we’re out and about in Vegas, meeting his business connections for lunch meetings. The first time I see Declan in a finely tailored suit for one of these meet-ups, I nearly faint. He looks just as divine in Italian wool as he does in American leather.
I have to remind myself not to gawk at Declan as he introduces me to other wealthy businessmen. His entire manner shifts, when speaking to these powerful men. Gone is the daredevil grin, the scruffy jaw, the easy gait. He can slip in and out of venture capitalist mode in the blink of an eye. The constant transformation is dizzying. It also makes me wonder...which version of Declan is the honest version? The second I feel like I’m getting a read on him, he always shifts again.
While our mornings and afternoons are ruled by rigorous routine, that all changes as soon as the sun begins to set.
“We work hard so we can play harder,” Declan tells me time and again. And he’s not kidding with the “harder” part.
I never know heading out for the night with Declan where we’re going to end up. Plenty of evenings, we head over to the Forty-Five Club to knock back whiskey with Declan’s brothers. I get to know the members of Dante’s Nine, as well as the other regulars who populate their inner circle.
It turns out that the club was founded by John Baxter, back in the eighties. Since its inception, there have only ever been nine members allowed at any given time. When someone leaves, a spot opens up. Membership is selective, exclusive. John Baxter, Chuck, and Kip are the only original members left. Ollie, Teddy, Frank, Sam, and Declan are all replacements for other men who left the club. I can never seem to get a straight answer out of anyone about why, exactly, someone would leave Dante’s Nine. But I get the feeling I might not want to know.
The women of the Forty-Five Club are welcoming enough, once they start to realize that I’m not just a spoiled rich girl from Connecticut. I may have grown up privileged, but the shit I’ve lived through, my family’s death, helps me empathize with their rougher upbringings.
But as many nights as we spend with the Dante’s Nine crew, there are plenty of evenings that Declan and I spend on our own. As much as I’m coming to like the Dante's Nine family, I have to say that these nights alone with Declan are my favorite.
The first time he takes me out for a night at the casinos, I’m wound as tight as a coiled spring. As I slip into a brand new, emerald green dress, I can’t quiet the little voice inside me that says, Remember what gambling did to your family. I know, intellectually, that blackjack is not the same as the shit my father was into, but the nerves are hard to shake.
“Where’s my math genius?” I hear Declan’s voice call from the great room, as I apply the finishing touches to my makeup.
“Just a sec,” I call back, giving myself a long once-over in the mirror. My slinky, low-backed dress and sky-high black stilettos have me feeling like a Bond girl. I’ve applied a smoky eye and nude lip to complete the look, and gathered my hair into a high, sleek up-do.
I step out into the great room just as Declan is pouring out a couple glasses of fine rye whiskey for us to share. He’s wearing a warm charcoal sport coat and perfectly fitted slacks. His unruly curls have been wrangled into place, and his razor sharp jaw sports just the right amount of stubble. His balanced, powerful form is a study in effortless strength, unpretentious grace. I nearly topple over on my heels as he looks up at me with those endless blue eyes.
“Wow,” he says, turning to take a good look at me, “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?” I ask, walking toward him. My heels click deliciously against the floor as I move. I can’t help but love that sexy sound.