Trapped in his End Game (Series)

I’m spiraling.

Everything was going so well.

My father was a gambling addict. The man who taught me how to play cards, who brought me toys from work, is a degenerate.

Vincent hasn’t called or texted or anything in the days since our date, and I’m desperate to hear back from him because I need to beg him for more work. I’m fucked. When a week passes, I’m all out of alcohol and there’s nothing left inside me to distract me. I’m on the verge of calling him. My finger hovers over his name, but my nerve fails me every time.

At this rate, I’ll have to drop out of school.

Hell, who am I kidding? School’s not an option at this point. Mom’s car is repossessed, and she was about to be evicted until I paid her mortgage.

I lay on the wooden floor, too exhausted in my mind to do anything else. Every time I think about the debts, the gambling, I want to throw myself off Brooklyn Bridge, or drop down to let the cars run over my body repeatedly.

Life shouldn’t be this hard.

A buzz vibrates the wooden floor and all my lethargy disappears. My hand strikes the phone and it skitters across the room. Fuck. I get up and grab it.

There’s a card game tonight in the Upper East Side. Another fancy hotel. Joy. My stomach roars as I continue to lie there. I haven’t eaten all day and all I had yesterday was a can of soup. I spent almost everything trying to pay off my mother’s credit card debt.

My nostrils flare as I look at myself in the mirror to apply makeup. Heat flushes my face when I think about it. I know it’s not her fault, but I resent it. More than anything, I wish I could check out of all of it. I wish her problems weren’t mine. I wish, I wish, I wish.

A flash of that anger extends to Vincent, too. I didn’t expect him to fuck me and toss me aside like a used condom. What the hell did you expect? He is who he is. I know better than to show him how angry I am, though. The bruises on my ass are only just healing.Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

Still, I can’t help but feel a squirm in my guts when I enter the hotel suite and see him leaning against the wall. My hands feel hot and a tingling sensation spreads over my body, especially the places where I remember him touching the most. Nicky and the whole crew is inside, and I grit my teeth because I’ll have to be pretend to be the cute, nice girl they’re all used to.

I stalk across the room to the tables as if I can’t see him. I march straight to my seat behind the felt table and hardly glance up when I see Vincent standing in front of my table. Ignoring him, I say hello to the players joining my table.

A swell of guilt expands in my chest as I look at their faces. Was my father like one of them? Who were these people, anyway? I can’t stand the thought of helping men piss away their savings because it destroyed my family.

The chips bounce on the table towards me, but I could care less. I know I’m doing a good job, but my heart is not in it. Then I notice one of the players staring at everyone else’s cards, muttering under his breath while his drink sits untouched on his left.

Another card-counter.

Unbelievable.

Did he not get the memo from the guy with the broken hand?

Heat flushes my face. Fucking moron, risking his neck to cheat in card games operated by the mafia. I see a wedding ring on his finger and I inhale sharply. Maybe he’s made a habit out of it? Maybe he’ll leave his family in debt, and ruin their lives for the next thirteen or so years while their mother spends every hard working dime they earn on frivolous crap.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Pure rage explodes out of my chest in a shaking, high voice. He stares back at me with a telltale, deer in headlights look. “Are you some kind of moron? Get out of here.”

He doesn’t argue, he bolts from his chair like a rat, but Vincent strides across the room and meets him with a fist to his stomach. The man drops to his knees and Nicky gives him a good kick in his ribs before both men, swearing profusely, drag him out of sight. This time, they take him outside where we can’t hear his screams.

My head pounds when they come back in, talking with their heads bent together. I feel so weak by the end of the night that I can barely croak out a goodbye when the players leave. I slump over the table, my head in my hands. The anger drains out of me, along with all my energy.

Did I have to explode like that?

A hand slides over my back and his lips kiss the shell of my ear. “You’re a bit of a hothead, aren’t you?”

My head’s even more lightheaded when he grasps my chin and turns it towards himself. He kisses me without waiting for an answer, and I sigh into his mouth as my headache lifts. He breaks away, closing his eyes with a happy smile.

“I haven’t forgotten you. I’ve been really busy this whole week, so that’s why I haven’t called.”

“Yeah, well. A text would have been nice.”

He frowns as he sits back, looking at me. “Are you all right?”

“I haven’t eaten all day, but Vince-”

Vincent’s head rises above the table. “Hey, Nicky!” he bellows across the room. “Get me one of those room service menus.”

Exasperated, I grab his arm. “Vince, you don’t have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Nicky drops the menu in front of us and Vincent picks it up, thumbing through it. “What would you like?”

“Whatever. I’m too tired to eat.” I slump in my chair.

He gives me a sharp look. “You need to eat, Adriana.”

His tone is remarkably like my grandmother’s when she was still alive. I don’t remember much about her, only that she was obsessive about feeding anyone who visited her house.

Are you sure you don’t want anything? Yes, Nonna. There’s some leftover lasagna. No, I’m not hungry, thanks. Have some of this tapioca pudding, go on! No, I’m fine, thanks. Adriana, you need to eat!

My chest shakes with a small chuckle and Vince looks at me with a pinched, worried expression. It’s cute to see him worry over me. He opens his phone and actually orders room service, which floors me. Why is he doing all of this for me?

As he hangs up the phone, his round eyes stare at the table, his profile stern. He’s less upbeat than usual, less sure, but his hand finds mine under the table and he squeezes hard.

“I’ve been thinking about you.” His hand squeezes mine as he flashes me a secretive smile.

“Me too.”

“Really? Because you don’t look very happy to be here.”

The way he sees right through my carefully put-together disguise makes the whole thing crumble and my other hand grabs his. I’m lost, and he’s the only solid thing in my life.

“I’ve been going through some things. Vince, I need to ask you for more work. I really need more work.”

His eyebrows lift and his expression is stony. “Why?”

“Something happened and I might not be able to pay for my tuition in the fall.”

Dark eyes seek me out, pinning me to my chair as he leans over. He doesn’t look nice anymore. He looks like he could snap my neck.

“What happened?”

I don’t know what he’s thinking. Maybe he thinks I blew away all my money, but even that would be preferable to the truth. The source of my troubles is my dead loser dad and living loser mom. The shame of living with that truth builds up behind my eyes and Vincent’s unrelenting stare doesn’t make it better.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me now,” he says in a soft voice. “You need more money?”

I blink away tears. “Yes.”

He takes my hand and pulls me so that I’m sitting across his lap. It surprises me, and I make a little yelp as his arms wrap around my shoulder. The other smoothes over my thigh. I’m dizzy with his warmth all around me. I nestle right under his chin and I can smell his cologne through his shirt. It has notes of sandalwood and cedar, and something deeper that I can’t identity, something that might just be his natural smell. It’s a little overwhelming to be in his lap like this.

“I could lend you money,” he says as he strokes my leg. “With interest of course. Then I would own your sweet ass until you paid me back.”

The offer is tempting-not his money, being his.

My hands slide up his chest and I grab his tie as he lowers his head to my face, threading his hand through my hair. I kiss him with the desire building up inside me. I’m hungry in every way, but he’s in control. He holds me back.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow. I’m free during the day.”

That’s it. No compromise. No asking me whether I was free-just telling me to show up with a growl in his voice, like I’ll be sorry if I refuse him. I know that I would be.