Ace of Hearts

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Pepper

I walk to my dressing room, wiping sweat with the small hand towel Izzy, our blue-haired, combat boot-wearing stage manager, hands me. She gives me a half-hearted pat on the shoulder, as if to say, Yeah, this sucks.

She’s the silent, brooding type, but lately I think I’m catching sympathetic vibes from her. Like she knows this ship’s going down.

Hugh made me go through every bit of choreography, even though we’ve done this sixty-four times in the last three months. Yes, I said choreography.

It’s humiliating and sad. I may have started as the emo alternative singer, but the producers long since shoved me into the role of pop star. Which means I have backup dancers. And I have to dance with them.

He doesn’t make me sing. That’s because I can’t. I mean, literally, if I tried to sing now, the laryngitis would leave me mute by the time the concert rolls around. And I still have to at least talk to my fans.

Because if I can’t do that, we can’t pull off the cringe-worthy lip sync act I’ve been forced to do the past three nights.

My gut twists with the shame of it.

If word gets out, it will be a career-ender.

We should’ve cancelled the rest of this tour three weeks ago when I got sick and collapsed coming off stage. But we can’t.

Not with Tony Brando breathing down our necks.

The show must go on.

I open my dressing room door and find a champagne bucket with a bottle of Moet on ice. The card beside it says, Compliments of Tony Brando.

I ball my fingers into fists. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe I’ve hit my limit, but the gesture sends a shock of white hot anger through me. It’s one thing to force me to denigrate myself by playing in your damn casino. It’s another to gloat. Or pretend I’m an honored guest, when really I’m your f*****g slave.

I pick up the bottle by the neck and march out, still in my sweat-soaked crop top and skin tight boy shorts. I hop off the front of the stage.

“Where you going, Pepper?” Farley, my eighteen-year-old guitarist calls out. His identical twin, Scott, comes to stand behind him. Hiring the home-schooled Wonder Twins a few years ago was one of Hugh’s better ideas. It was a gimmicky plan, done solely for the purpose of milking press articles, but they’re actually great. Easy to work with, madly talented, and generally nice guys.

“Everything okay?” Izzy calls out.

“I’m going to have a discussion with management.” I stomp back through the empty theater and out the door.

“Excuse me? Can you tell me where to find Tony Brando?” I ask a security guy at the door.

His eyes pop out of his head, probably surprised to see me unescorted, and he fumbles with the earpiece in his ear. “Uh, yeah. I’ll take you to him, Ms. Heart. Right this way.”

He leads me through the casino.

And yeah. I should’ve stopped to change. Because I’m definitely not blending in. Everyone and her sister gawks at me as I pass by. The security guy does his best to block the sight of me with his body, which is sweet, really. We end up down a hallway of offices, where he knocks on a door, then pushes it open when a grunt comes from inside.

He inclines his head and holds a deprecating hand out. “Here you are, Ms. Heart. Mr. Brando for you.”

Tony’s enormous frame unfolds from behind his desk, his eyes traveling over me with the same satisfied perusal he gave me outside, only this time, there’s a hint of surprise. Curiosity.

The door shuts behind the security guard. Brando says nothing, just quirks a brow.

My stomach is shoved up so high, it’s tucked under my ribs, keeping my lungs from expanding. I pant, suddenly intensely aware of the way my sweat-soaked shirt molds to my breasts, the prick of my n*****s against the built in b*a. The fact that my dance shorts are barely more than a pair of panties.

And judging by the way Brando loosens his tie, I’d say he finds my outfit as provocative as it’s meant to be—from the safety of the stage. Not up close and personal in a mafia enforcer’s swanky office.

I grip the champagne bottle tighter and hold it up. “Really? Champagne?” I snap. I shouldn’t be so careless with my vocal chords, but fortunately, my words come out clear, only the barest of rasping around the edges.

He tilts his head to the side, like he’s trying to decode my words.

I walk forward and set the champagne bottle down with a loud thud. “You and I both know you own me, Mr. Brando.” I meet his dark-lashed eyes boldly. “Pepper Heart, Inc. owes you, and you’re going to get your share every way you can. So you can skip the wine and dine. If you’re exacting p*****t from me”—I squeeze my breasts roughly—“just lube up and do it. Otherwise, leave me the hell alone.”

Shock flickers over his face, and then his brows slam down. He stalks around the desk toward me like a giant lion, graceful and terrifying. It takes everything in me to hold my position, keep my chin tilted up, the defiance in my gaze.

He crowds me against the desk until my a*s perches on the edge and one of his thighs stands between mine. He’s so close, I feel his heat everywhere, yet somehow he manages not to touch me. My breath stalls up in my throat.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is so deep and rumbly, eyes gleam dark and angry. I catch a whiff of his scent—not cigars and leather, like I might have expected. No, it’s coffee grounds and earthy spice. “I don’t have to pay for s*x. And I certainly never force it.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Anyone who tells you different is a liar.”

My n*****s burn, they’re so hard. I swear I feel the heat of his thigh right between my legs. If I just rock down, I might relieve the ache there.

As if he reads my exact thoughts, his gaze drops between us, down to the points of my erect nips, to the splay of my legs around his. “But if it turns you on to feel owned”—he lifts the back of his knuckle to my left n****e, brushes it ever-so-lightly, like he’s testing to see if I’ll move away—“I might play along.” His voice is deeper, softer.

The idea is ludicrous, but God help me, I rock my pelvis forward, grind my needy little clit against his pant leg.

He draws in a shuddering breath, a muscle ticking along his scarred jaw. If he’d shown more arrogance, if he’d mocked me, I would’ve kneed him in the balls—I’m lined up perfectly to do so. But seeing my affect on him calms me. Emboldens me. I grind some more.

He leans a hand beside my a*s and inhales, like he’s breathing in my scent. When he pinches my n****e between two knuckles, my p***y clenches.

But fortunately, my brain returns. This is a man who has threatened Hugh with bodily harm. He represents a deadly threat to me and my family. Just because he’s over two hundred pounds of sexy man-beef, just because he seems to know more about what turns me on than I do, is no reason to offer myself up for his taking.

I shove myself off the desk, against his hard, muscled body, pushing his torso away with my hands.

Thankfully, he backs right off.

After the way he bristled at my accusation earlier, I’m not surprised. Apparently Tony Brando operates under some code of ethics that involves treating women with respect.

Well good for him.

Doesn’t mean I want to tangle with his sexy Italian manhood.