FIC: How Was I Supposed To Know, Chapter 1 / ? (Crowley/OFC)
FIC: How Was I Supposed To Know, Chapter 1 / ? (Crowley/OFC)
AUTHOR: anneelliot201
GENRE: Romance/Drama
PAIRING: Crowley/OFC
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 9, small references to Season 10
SUMMARY: Hazel is an ordinary woman--a blackjack dealer at a casino in the middle of the New Mexican desert--but her world gets turned upside down when a man in a black suit decides to take an interest in her. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN WHILE WATCHING SEASON 9 AND THEREFORE DOES NOT COMPLY WITH CURRENT CANON. I TOOK THINGS IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't written anything in a year and I've NEVER written Supernatural, so be kind. :-) This fix will probably be between 13-16 chapters and about 50-60,000 words. I have nine chapters drafted and need to do my re-writes and finish the rest. Promise I won't leave you hanging if you start this ride with me.
CHAPTER 1
The skirt was a couple inches too short and the bow tie too tight. Actually, the bow tie wasn’t so bad at the beginning of her shift, but by the time midnight rolled around, she found herself unconsciously tugging at the collar of her white dress shirt. The uniform wasn’t the worst part of the job, though. That honor belonged to the creepy men who said and did inappropriate things after lubricating their inhibitions with the cheap alcohol served at the bar along the far wall.
Hazel didn’t think she was all that much to look at with her wide hips, thick thighs, and flat hair, but it wasn’t like a casino just west of Albuquerque situated on a stretch of flat desert attracted the most gorgeous dealers or the pickiest clientele. Mostly, it was the lower class residents that lived in the southwestern part of the city and truckers who wanted a break from the endless roads crossing the country. Every now and then you’d see a tourist who stopped in on the way to Las Vegas or L.A. They would stay the night in one of the hotel rooms above the casino floor.
The casino wasn’t really a resort, even though that’s what the sign by the exit ramp on I-40 proclaimed. Not that it was a seedy dump either. The carpet was new, the bar clean, and the rooms comfortable, if a bit over-priced. The land everything sat on belonged to a local tribe and enjoyed a complete lack of taxation, allowing it to grow even if the majority of the income was swindled from low-income folks who dreamed of winning a jackpot. Without a degree in the current depressed economy, Hazel counted herself lucky to have a job that paid well above the minimum wage. If only the uniforms for dealers included skirts with hems that reached her knees.
There were three men sitting at her blackjack table--two truckers in their fifties who stopped by when they found themselves driving through Albuquerque on their way to the coast and an older man that probably lived in town. After working at the casino for two years, she recognized most of the people who came in regularly, especially if they favored blackjack. The place wasn’t too large, so there were only about six blackjack tables across the floor and Hazel worked as many shifts as they would give her.
“Give me a little luck, sweetheart,” one of the truckers said.
Hazel clenched her teeth and laid his two cards down on the green felt tabletop in front of him. He wasn’t the best tipper, but he definitely wasn’t the worst either. And tips were a definite perk of the job. Women who snapped at presumptuous men who doled out pet names didn’t get tipped and they didn’t stay on the payroll very long.
Over the past two years she had managed to find ways to mentally check out. She dealt the cards and did the math and collected or handed out chips, but her mind was elsewhere. Was it what she had envisioned for herself at the ripe age of twenty-nine? Not really. But it was reality.
Two more hands and the house had won both. She wondered why these guys bothered wasting their hard-earned cash when they rarely won more than they lost. There was some amount of skill to blackjack, but luck played a bigger part than most casino patrons were willing to admit. There was only one man who had an uncanny ability to win more often than not. And he hadn’t been around in over a month.
Just as soon as he crossed her mind, she felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. Involuntarily, her eyes darted up over the heads of the men seated at her table and locked gazes with a man who had just walked through the front door. Hazel swallowed hard and looked down at the table.
“Come on, sweetcheeks,” the trucker said, urging her to deal the cards.
“Sorry,” Hazel mumbled, flicking two cards to each of the men at the table and then dealing two for herself, one up and the other facing down. His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Who the hell was he? Why was she so hyperaware of him? Half of her hoped he would come over and bestow some of his attention on her and half of her dreaded even the thought. She couldn’t think straight when he sat at her table.
Forcing her attention back to the three gamblers at her table and the entire reason she was paying her rent on time since she'd moved out on her own, Hazel dealt a card to the old man who had indicated a hit with his hand and then watched as they all flipped over their hands. House wins again. They all knew it; she didn't even need to say it. The two truckers mumbled to each other about how low their wallets were and slipped off their stools to head back to their trucks. This place was good enough to gamble in, but the rooms were too expensive if their wallets were lighter than when they had arrived.
"Hello, love." The slightly gruff, yet utterly charming voice of HIM made her breath catch in her throat. Hazel looked up from the cards she'd gathered from the previous hand and saw him sitting directly across from her, one spot away from the old man who was still at the table.
Trying to keep her cool, Hazel replied, "Hello, Mr. Crowley. How are you this evening?"
He flashed her a grin. "Fantastic. And how is my favorite blackjack dealer?"
Mr. Crowley was always polite, always charming, and on some occasions Hazel could have sworn he was downright flirtatious. Not that she made anything of it. He was an attractive man who, judging by the amount of cash she'd seen him throw around, was obviously successful. He was just being kind to the somewhat shy wallflower who would act as his dealer when he happened to get the urge to gamble. For a while there he'd come in once or twice a week, play a few hands, make small talk or flirt a little with her, and then retire to the bar where he'd meet with people. It was like he used the casino as an office.
"I'm okay," she replied, stacking the cards from the last hand in the used pile. "Typical Tuesday night here in paradise."
"Wednesday morning," he corrected. "It's ten after one." Mr. Crowley flashed his watch at her. It probably cost more than what she'd make in a month or three.
"Would you like chips?" she asked.
"Please, love." He pushed five one hundred dollar bills across the table. Hazel let her gaze linger on the back of his hand and his fingers, thinking of how strong and capable they looked. He was slow to pull back, like he knew she was staring. Just the thought that he had any idea of her fascination with him made her blush.
"Of course," she mumbled, pushing the cash through the slot on the table and counting out five hundred in chips that she dropped in front of him.
"Thank you, darling," he said, flashing another cheeky grin.
Hazel tried to focus on her job, but he made it hard. His presence was overwhelming, almost stifling. It was like he was too big for the room and that left little space for her or anyone else. He also made her feel like she needed to be on her toes or he'd take advantage and make a fool of her. Not that he'd cheat or steal, but that he was smart and like to use that intelligence to get what he wanted. Plus, it was like he knew what cards were coming up. It unnerved her. Maybe he counted cards and that was the secret to his success.
She dealt the first hand and he lost. The next found the old man as the only person with a winning hand. He took the chips she provided and left. Mr Crowley with his predatory eyes watched as she dealt another hand. He'd bet big and when the cards were revealed, he lost again.
"Be kind to me, love," he said with a pout that most definitely looked fake.
"I just deal them in the order they come, Mr. Crowley." She pulled the first card and then the second. Before she could pull her hand away to deal her two cards, his arm shot out. She felt the firm pressure of his fingertips on her wrist. "Why don't you give them a little blow for good luck?"
"This isn't craps,” she said.
"For me," he insisted, those dark eyes imploring her.
"I shouldn't." She glanced over at the cage where the cash was kept. Right above it was an office filled with screens airing live security footage of the floor. The place was slow tonight and she didn't want to get caught doing something that was frowned on like flirting with a customer. Then again, the thought of her trying to flirt with the shark in front of her was more than ridiculous. And he’d gotten away with touching her. Maybe security was slacking tonight.
"Just a little sweetness from your lips to turn my luck around," he said, his eyes pinning her down.
Parting her lips, Hazel drew in a breath of air before leaning across the table. Mr. Crowley released her wrist and she kept her eyes locked on his as she pursed her lips and blew a stream of air over the backs of his cards. The way his eyes shifted to her lips made her clench her legs to acknowledge the ache between them.
It took her more than a moment to compose herself enough to pull back and place a shaky hand on the deck. In a haze, she pulled two cards for herself, one face up and the other face down.
"I'll stay," he said without even taking a peek at his two cards. She almost opened her mouth to tell him he hadn't seen his cards, but he beat her to it by flipping them over to reveal an ace and a king. "Would you look at that." His voice was smug and confident.
Hazel opened her mouth but nothing came out. Flipping the hidden card in front of her over, she found that the house had a seventeen. He had twenty-one. Unbelievable. Silently, she counted out his winnings and slid them over to join his bank. He took a hundred dollar chip, leaned across the table, and smoothly tucked it at the top of her ear. His fingers pinched a piece of her blonde hair, sliding down it as he drew away.
"My thanks to my little lucky charm," he said before swiping the chips off the felt table and making his way over to the bar. Two men in suits were sitting at one end. He joined them and ordered what looked like a whiskey. Hazel's body was still buzzing with electricity over his touch. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself while pulling in a long, deep breath.
**************************************
Money was everything in a casino. Sometimes she felt that the security there was just as good, if not better, than a bank. And even if you were a trusted employee who hadn’t had a mark against her in two long years, they still sent the floor manager over to escort you and your small bank to the cage when going on break or after your shift. Charles was the no-nonsense manager that prided himself on his ridiculous mustache and cheap suits. Hazel didn’t hate him, but that didn’t mean she liked him either.
After she counted out the cash in her box and the chips she’d taken from the table, she clocked out for a short lunch. Most people were probably brushing their teeth and preparing for bed, but her shift meant lunchtime fell around ten o’clock at night. She couldn’t complain, though. It was the busiest and most lucrative shift, and it wasn’t like she had much of a life beyond work and trying like hell to become the next best American writer. The writing wasn’t going very well lately. She’d get home from work and just sit in front of the glowing screen of her computer until she was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.
It was slow, even for a Monday. A couple women were chain smoking at the slot machines along the wall near the bar. A small group was clustered around one of the poker tables and a couple was sitting at the blackjack table with Hazel’s lunchtime relief dealer.
She adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder and dropped her gaze to the floor when she saw an obviously drunk customer walking toward her.
“What’s shakin’, honey?”
She looked up and saw the drunk man had noticed her and was running his eyes from her chest down to her legs. “Not much. Have a good night, sir,” she mumbled, rushing past him.
“Woah, woah, woah, where you goin’ baby?”
Talking to the ones who had a little too much cheap booze at the bar was always a mistake. Instead, she pushed past him and hoped he’d forget he’d seen her. She realized he hadn’t when she felt his fingers wrap around her upper arm. Hazel stopped and turned to ask him to let her go when she saw a flash of black. Suddenly the man who’d been harassing her was on one knee with his arm twisted behind his back. The pressure of where his fingertips has bitten into her arm lingered.
Looking up, she saw Mr. Crowley standing over the drunk man, holding him in place. “Apologize to the lady,” his said gruffly.
“So--sor--sorry.”
With that, Mr. Crowley released the man and stepped around him. “There’s just really no sense of decorum nowadays.” He was in his usual suit--black on black with a dark grey tie. Everything looked expensive and perfectly tailored to fit his body.
It took a couple tries for Hazel to finally manage a muttered thank you. She hadn’t seen him since he’d broken the rules and grabbed her wrist while playing blackjack a couple weeks ago.
“Leaving, love?” Mr. Crowley asked, running his eyes down her body.
Hazel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable being the sole focus of this man’s attention. “Just going to lunch.”
“The restaurant?” he asked, referring to the small buffet to the right of the rows of slot machines.
“I, uh, usually just sit in my car and read.”
Crowley smiled. “Have a drink with me.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Your lunch break, your time. You don’t want my company?”
She glanced at the door behind her. He really was cocky. Confident didn’t quite cover it. Although, he’d pegged her easily; she did want his company. She just wasn’t comfortable with it. He was just too *much* for her. “I--I can’t drink on the job.”
“A Shirley Temple, then,” he said, stepping forward and sliding his arm between hers and her body so he could lead her over to the bar like a gentleman. What man did that any more? No one she’d ever met. That was something she’d seen in movies, mostly the film noir films she loved to stay up late to watch.
“I--um, okay.” She caved easily because he really was charming. And he’d saved her from having to deal with an drunken idiot. And he was handsome and presumably rich and suave and... And the way he looked at her made her feel like she needed to change her panties. He probably had no clue he had that deep of an effect on her libido.
Mr. Crowley led her to a bar stool and steadied her hand with his as she lifted herself up to sit on it. Once she was settled, she pulled away from him to yank the hem of her skirt down. It had ridden halfway up her thighs and he was looking.
“Don’t be embarrassed, love. You look quite fetching,” he murmured in her ear before taking the stool right beside her.
Flushing, Hazel turned away from him to face the back of the bar. The premium liquor bottles were displayed on the glass shelves, lit from behind to entice patrons to order a cocktail or a shot. “Oh, please,” she whispered beneath a nervous laugh.
“Really. I never lie.” He motioned to the bartender and said, “A Shirley Temple for the lady and a double Craig, neat.”
“Uh, we don’t have... Craig?”
Mr. Crowley made a noise of disgust at the bartender’s lack of knowledge and lack of premium whiskey. “Glenlivet then? Anything over twenty years.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied and hurried off to pour their drinks. Mr. Crowley’s eyes shifted back to Hazel.
“And why does a lovely creature such as yourself spend her lunch in a car?”
Hazel looked over at him and nervously pressed her hands flat against the bar top. “I just like to get away and spend some time by myself. I like the quiet. And I like to read.”
“And what do you read?”
“Anything, really.” She shrugged and glanced over to check on the status of their drinks.
“Plato? Shakespeare? Stephen King?”
“All of them.”
“Shall I test you then? Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure...”
Hazel looked over and gave him a small smile. She knew the quote he’d begun. It was one of the more famous ones of Lord Byron’s. “There is no sterner moralist than pleasure,” she added, completing the line.
Mr. Crowley chuckled and gave her a devilish wink. She swallowed before pulling in a deep breath. His charms were considerable and she didn’t need to become any more enamored of him than she already was. Even sitting there was stirring up fantasies. Fantasies that involved this handsome, wealthy, confident man plucking her out of this second-rate casino and making love to her, taking her under his wing and allowing her to write in leisure in his beautiful home without a worry of bills. And of sharing his bed every single night.
It was crazy. She’d barely spoken to him. He made her nervous and he seemed too full of himself. And she didn’t need a man to take care of her; she was a strong woman who could make it on her own. But still... he made her wonder what it would be like to have him snap his fingers and make everything in her world better. Because she had no doubt he could.
“Shirley Temple and Glenlivit, sir,” the bartender said, placing the drinks in front of them.
Mr. Crowley nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to watch her take the first sip.
“How does it taste, love?”
“Good,” she replied honestly. Hazel took a second sip. “Delicious, actually. Like cherries. How is your drink?”
“Rich, smokey...” He sniffed the liquor. “With a little honey.”
God, the way he described his drink made her cross her legs and squeeze her thighs together. The way he smiled at her when she did it made her wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It made her nervous.
“Hazel, darling, you try very hard to blend into the furniture. Why is that?”
Her name on his lips made her suck in a quick gasp. She glanced over at him and then back down at her drink. “I like to be innocuous. Too much attention bothers me.”
“And yet you seem to draw attention,” he mused, turning his glass on the bar top. “Granted, the attire doesn’t help matters.”
Hazel uncrossed her legs and pulled at the hem of the skirt again. “It’s required by the casino. They provide the skirts, white dress shirts, and these damn bow ties.”
“They didn’t know you’d look so desirable in them. Or, perhaps they did...” he replied, shifting his dark eyes from her face to her chest and then back up again.
It was too much, too over-the-top. Surely he was just poking fun at her. She was nothing special--just baby-fine blonde hair, a pasty complexion, boobs that always seemed to get in the way, wide hips, and thighs that barely fit in her size sixteen jeans. This man could have a supermodel with the amount of confidence and sex appeal he oozed. She was not so important as to merit all this attention. This had to be a joke.
“I don’t appreciate being made fun of, Mr. Crowley.”
“Excuse me?” he said, his normal deep tone suffering as his voice pitched a little higher.
“Spending my lunch break being poked fun of by a customer is not my idea of a good time. You can stop the charade.”
“Charade, darling? Are my seduction skills so poor?”
“Oh, no,” she snapped. “They’re quite good. But I’m not looking forward to being laughed at when I fall for your charms.” Hazel reached for her drink, but he’d quickly slid it away from her. She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowed in embarrassment and anger.
His face was solemn. “I believe you have mistaken me for someone else. I’m afraid I am being absolutely sincere. You see, I’ve had an unfortunate week. Nothing has gone right with my plans and my... employees are just... incompetent. So, I find myself sitting at my desk and thinking of what would make me feel better. And this innocent little blonde blackjack dealer pops into my head.”
“What?” It was her voice, but the question jumped out without much thought. She was too surprised to suppress it.
“You see, I was hoping you’d make me feel better.”
“Excuse me?” she replied, furrowing her brows.
“No?” he asked.
“Like, sleep with you? You came here to ask me to sleep with you?”
“Well, if you want to put it so crudely, love.” He was smiling again.
“Uh, no. No, thanks.” Her emotions were conflicted. On one hand she was disgusted that a man she didn’t even know had assumed she was so easy that he could ask her to fuck and she’d give in. On the other hand, she was still reeling from the knowledge that he wanted her. She’d never sleep with someone like him. Would she?
“I assure you that you’ll leave satisfied, though perhaps not as satisfied as I will be.”
“Do I look like the type who would...?”
“No,” he replied, cutting her off. “Which is part of the reason I want you.”
“A challenge,” Hazel said, reaching over and snatching her drink back from him.
“A prize.”
“I’m a person, not a prize.”
“Can’t you be both, love?”
“No. And my answer is no.” She took a sip through the straw, but it didn’t calm her nerves. A combination of embarrassment and anger and desire were causing her hands to shake.
“I have the penthouse suite upstairs,” he offered, as if it would change her mind.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view by yourself, then. Or you could woo some other woman here with your cocky lines and assumptions.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I know you want me; I can smell it on you.”
Hazel squeezed her thighs together. “Don’t be so disgusting.”
“At least give me a kiss, then,” he whispered, leaning closer. The corners of his mouth were curled up in a grin.
“No,” she said, slipping off the stool and taking two steps back.
For a fraction of a moment he looked shocked that she hadn’t caved. Then his face settled into a pleasant mask of a polite gentleman. “Your loss, love. No need to run away. Let’s finish our drinks.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Hazel, darling, don’t be so dramatic. I respect your decision. Tell me about your favorite book. I’m partial to Dante’s Divine Comedy.”
After a few moment’s hesitation, she sat back down and took another sip. “I don’t like poetry,” she finally replied.
Mr. Crowley chuckled under his breath. “You were quoting Byron not too long ago. You’re such a difficult date, love.”
“Everyone knows Byron and we’re not on a date.”
“Obviously,” he said dryly. “Would you accompany me on one?”
“N--” Hazel clamped her mouth shut before she told him no. Because it wasn’t true. If he asked her on a date, she’d consider. Even after his presumptions, she still wanted him. It was confusing. “I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.” Crowley raised his drink in a silent toast.
The Shirley Temple was watered down and not nearly as enjoyable as it was when it first arrived. She took another sip anyway and scanned the room, trying to think of something to say. “Are those men waiting for you?” she asked, nodding at three men in suits on the far end of the bar.
Mr. Crowley glanced over his shoulder and then settled his gaze back on her. Every time he looked at her she got hot and bothered, especially now that he’s propositioned her. “Yes,” he replied simply.
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“They can wait,” he said. “You don’t like poetry, but what do you like?”
Why was he making those men wait? And why weren’t they upset about it? Who the hell was this guy? “I... I like science fiction novels the most.”
“Asimov? Dick?” he asked. The fact that he was talking about her first love--books--almost made her reconsider the offer of a night of passion in the penthouse suite upstairs.
“Gene Wolfe is my favorite,” she blurted out. “He’s... darker than most. I... like that.”
That smile again, like the Cheshire Cat. “I should have known.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Wolfe is a genius.”
Another chuckle from him. His eyes glinted with mischief and intelligence. “That we are capable only of being what we are remains our unforgivable sin,” Mr. Crowley said softly. Why did she tell him no in the first place?
The line was from Wolfe’s The Claw of the Conciliator. The way it rolled off his tongue and hung in the air took Hazel’s breath away. After a long moment of staring at his face, admiring the rugged five o’clock shadow from where he hadn’t shaved, she pulled in a breath. “If you would have led with that, then I’d probably be upstairs with you.”
The boldness of her statement shocked her. She didn’t say things like that.
Mr. Crowley flashed her his teeth when he smiled. He was looking downright predatory now. “I’m still here, waiting, darling. Would you like a key?”
Hazel shook her head, trying to clear it of his influence and tell him no at the same time. “No, no. You have business associates waiting and I have to get back to work.”
“After your shift?”
A flush crept across her cheeks and she slipped off the stool. “Not that kind of girl. Sorry.”
“Mmm, pity,” he said, pushing out his lower lip in a pout.
AUTHOR: anneelliot201
GENRE: Romance/Drama
PAIRING: Crowley/OFC
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 9, small references to Season 10
SUMMARY: Hazel is an ordinary woman--a blackjack dealer at a casino in the middle of the New Mexican desert--but her world gets turned upside down when a man in a black suit decides to take an interest in her. PLEASE NOTE THIS FIC WAS WRITTEN WHILE WATCHING SEASON 9 AND THEREFORE DOES NOT COMPLY WITH CURRENT CANON. I TOOK THINGS IN A DIFFERENT DIRECTION FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I haven't written anything in a year and I've NEVER written Supernatural, so be kind. :-) This fix will probably be between 13-16 chapters and about 50-60,000 words. I have nine chapters drafted and need to do my re-writes and finish the rest. Promise I won't leave you hanging if you start this ride with me.
CHAPTER 1
The skirt was a couple inches too short and the bow tie too tight. Actually, the bow tie wasn’t so bad at the beginning of her shift, but by the time midnight rolled around, she found herself unconsciously tugging at the collar of her white dress shirt. The uniform wasn’t the worst part of the job, though. That honor belonged to the creepy men who said and did inappropriate things after lubricating their inhibitions with the cheap alcohol served at the bar along the far wall.
Hazel didn’t think she was all that much to look at with her wide hips, thick thighs, and flat hair, but it wasn’t like a casino just west of Albuquerque situated on a stretch of flat desert attracted the most gorgeous dealers or the pickiest clientele. Mostly, it was the lower class residents that lived in the southwestern part of the city and truckers who wanted a break from the endless roads crossing the country. Every now and then you’d see a tourist who stopped in on the way to Las Vegas or L.A. They would stay the night in one of the hotel rooms above the casino floor.
The casino wasn’t really a resort, even though that’s what the sign by the exit ramp on I-40 proclaimed. Not that it was a seedy dump either. The carpet was new, the bar clean, and the rooms comfortable, if a bit over-priced. The land everything sat on belonged to a local tribe and enjoyed a complete lack of taxation, allowing it to grow even if the majority of the income was swindled from low-income folks who dreamed of winning a jackpot. Without a degree in the current depressed economy, Hazel counted herself lucky to have a job that paid well above the minimum wage. If only the uniforms for dealers included skirts with hems that reached her knees.
There were three men sitting at her blackjack table--two truckers in their fifties who stopped by when they found themselves driving through Albuquerque on their way to the coast and an older man that probably lived in town. After working at the casino for two years, she recognized most of the people who came in regularly, especially if they favored blackjack. The place wasn’t too large, so there were only about six blackjack tables across the floor and Hazel worked as many shifts as they would give her.
“Give me a little luck, sweetheart,” one of the truckers said.
Hazel clenched her teeth and laid his two cards down on the green felt tabletop in front of him. He wasn’t the best tipper, but he definitely wasn’t the worst either. And tips were a definite perk of the job. Women who snapped at presumptuous men who doled out pet names didn’t get tipped and they didn’t stay on the payroll very long.
Over the past two years she had managed to find ways to mentally check out. She dealt the cards and did the math and collected or handed out chips, but her mind was elsewhere. Was it what she had envisioned for herself at the ripe age of twenty-nine? Not really. But it was reality.
Two more hands and the house had won both. She wondered why these guys bothered wasting their hard-earned cash when they rarely won more than they lost. There was some amount of skill to blackjack, but luck played a bigger part than most casino patrons were willing to admit. There was only one man who had an uncanny ability to win more often than not. And he hadn’t been around in over a month.
Just as soon as he crossed her mind, she felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. Involuntarily, her eyes darted up over the heads of the men seated at her table and locked gazes with a man who had just walked through the front door. Hazel swallowed hard and looked down at the table.
“Come on, sweetcheeks,” the trucker said, urging her to deal the cards.
“Sorry,” Hazel mumbled, flicking two cards to each of the men at the table and then dealing two for herself, one up and the other facing down. His eyes were on her; she could feel them. Who the hell was he? Why was she so hyperaware of him? Half of her hoped he would come over and bestow some of his attention on her and half of her dreaded even the thought. She couldn’t think straight when he sat at her table.
Forcing her attention back to the three gamblers at her table and the entire reason she was paying her rent on time since she'd moved out on her own, Hazel dealt a card to the old man who had indicated a hit with his hand and then watched as they all flipped over their hands. House wins again. They all knew it; she didn't even need to say it. The two truckers mumbled to each other about how low their wallets were and slipped off their stools to head back to their trucks. This place was good enough to gamble in, but the rooms were too expensive if their wallets were lighter than when they had arrived.
"Hello, love." The slightly gruff, yet utterly charming voice of HIM made her breath catch in her throat. Hazel looked up from the cards she'd gathered from the previous hand and saw him sitting directly across from her, one spot away from the old man who was still at the table.
Trying to keep her cool, Hazel replied, "Hello, Mr. Crowley. How are you this evening?"
He flashed her a grin. "Fantastic. And how is my favorite blackjack dealer?"
Mr. Crowley was always polite, always charming, and on some occasions Hazel could have sworn he was downright flirtatious. Not that she made anything of it. He was an attractive man who, judging by the amount of cash she'd seen him throw around, was obviously successful. He was just being kind to the somewhat shy wallflower who would act as his dealer when he happened to get the urge to gamble. For a while there he'd come in once or twice a week, play a few hands, make small talk or flirt a little with her, and then retire to the bar where he'd meet with people. It was like he used the casino as an office.
"I'm okay," she replied, stacking the cards from the last hand in the used pile. "Typical Tuesday night here in paradise."
"Wednesday morning," he corrected. "It's ten after one." Mr. Crowley flashed his watch at her. It probably cost more than what she'd make in a month or three.
"Would you like chips?" she asked.
"Please, love." He pushed five one hundred dollar bills across the table. Hazel let her gaze linger on the back of his hand and his fingers, thinking of how strong and capable they looked. He was slow to pull back, like he knew she was staring. Just the thought that he had any idea of her fascination with him made her blush.
"Of course," she mumbled, pushing the cash through the slot on the table and counting out five hundred in chips that she dropped in front of him.
"Thank you, darling," he said, flashing another cheeky grin.
Hazel tried to focus on her job, but he made it hard. His presence was overwhelming, almost stifling. It was like he was too big for the room and that left little space for her or anyone else. He also made her feel like she needed to be on her toes or he'd take advantage and make a fool of her. Not that he'd cheat or steal, but that he was smart and like to use that intelligence to get what he wanted. Plus, it was like he knew what cards were coming up. It unnerved her. Maybe he counted cards and that was the secret to his success.
She dealt the first hand and he lost. The next found the old man as the only person with a winning hand. He took the chips she provided and left. Mr Crowley with his predatory eyes watched as she dealt another hand. He'd bet big and when the cards were revealed, he lost again.
"Be kind to me, love," he said with a pout that most definitely looked fake.
"I just deal them in the order they come, Mr. Crowley." She pulled the first card and then the second. Before she could pull her hand away to deal her two cards, his arm shot out. She felt the firm pressure of his fingertips on her wrist. "Why don't you give them a little blow for good luck?"
"This isn't craps,” she said.
"For me," he insisted, those dark eyes imploring her.
"I shouldn't." She glanced over at the cage where the cash was kept. Right above it was an office filled with screens airing live security footage of the floor. The place was slow tonight and she didn't want to get caught doing something that was frowned on like flirting with a customer. Then again, the thought of her trying to flirt with the shark in front of her was more than ridiculous. And he’d gotten away with touching her. Maybe security was slacking tonight.
"Just a little sweetness from your lips to turn my luck around," he said, his eyes pinning her down.
Parting her lips, Hazel drew in a breath of air before leaning across the table. Mr. Crowley released her wrist and she kept her eyes locked on his as she pursed her lips and blew a stream of air over the backs of his cards. The way his eyes shifted to her lips made her clench her legs to acknowledge the ache between them.
It took her more than a moment to compose herself enough to pull back and place a shaky hand on the deck. In a haze, she pulled two cards for herself, one face up and the other face down.
"I'll stay," he said without even taking a peek at his two cards. She almost opened her mouth to tell him he hadn't seen his cards, but he beat her to it by flipping them over to reveal an ace and a king. "Would you look at that." His voice was smug and confident.
Hazel opened her mouth but nothing came out. Flipping the hidden card in front of her over, she found that the house had a seventeen. He had twenty-one. Unbelievable. Silently, she counted out his winnings and slid them over to join his bank. He took a hundred dollar chip, leaned across the table, and smoothly tucked it at the top of her ear. His fingers pinched a piece of her blonde hair, sliding down it as he drew away.
"My thanks to my little lucky charm," he said before swiping the chips off the felt table and making his way over to the bar. Two men in suits were sitting at one end. He joined them and ordered what looked like a whiskey. Hazel's body was still buzzing with electricity over his touch. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself while pulling in a long, deep breath.
**************************************
Money was everything in a casino. Sometimes she felt that the security there was just as good, if not better, than a bank. And even if you were a trusted employee who hadn’t had a mark against her in two long years, they still sent the floor manager over to escort you and your small bank to the cage when going on break or after your shift. Charles was the no-nonsense manager that prided himself on his ridiculous mustache and cheap suits. Hazel didn’t hate him, but that didn’t mean she liked him either.
After she counted out the cash in her box and the chips she’d taken from the table, she clocked out for a short lunch. Most people were probably brushing their teeth and preparing for bed, but her shift meant lunchtime fell around ten o’clock at night. She couldn’t complain, though. It was the busiest and most lucrative shift, and it wasn’t like she had much of a life beyond work and trying like hell to become the next best American writer. The writing wasn’t going very well lately. She’d get home from work and just sit in front of the glowing screen of her computer until she was so tired she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.
It was slow, even for a Monday. A couple women were chain smoking at the slot machines along the wall near the bar. A small group was clustered around one of the poker tables and a couple was sitting at the blackjack table with Hazel’s lunchtime relief dealer.
She adjusted her messenger bag on her shoulder and dropped her gaze to the floor when she saw an obviously drunk customer walking toward her.
“What’s shakin’, honey?”
She looked up and saw the drunk man had noticed her and was running his eyes from her chest down to her legs. “Not much. Have a good night, sir,” she mumbled, rushing past him.
“Woah, woah, woah, where you goin’ baby?”
Talking to the ones who had a little too much cheap booze at the bar was always a mistake. Instead, she pushed past him and hoped he’d forget he’d seen her. She realized he hadn’t when she felt his fingers wrap around her upper arm. Hazel stopped and turned to ask him to let her go when she saw a flash of black. Suddenly the man who’d been harassing her was on one knee with his arm twisted behind his back. The pressure of where his fingertips has bitten into her arm lingered.
Looking up, she saw Mr. Crowley standing over the drunk man, holding him in place. “Apologize to the lady,” his said gruffly.
“So--sor--sorry.”
With that, Mr. Crowley released the man and stepped around him. “There’s just really no sense of decorum nowadays.” He was in his usual suit--black on black with a dark grey tie. Everything looked expensive and perfectly tailored to fit his body.
It took a couple tries for Hazel to finally manage a muttered thank you. She hadn’t seen him since he’d broken the rules and grabbed her wrist while playing blackjack a couple weeks ago.
“Leaving, love?” Mr. Crowley asked, running his eyes down her body.
Hazel shifted her weight from one foot to the other, suddenly uncomfortable being the sole focus of this man’s attention. “Just going to lunch.”
“The restaurant?” he asked, referring to the small buffet to the right of the rows of slot machines.
“I, uh, usually just sit in my car and read.”
Crowley smiled. “Have a drink with me.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“Your lunch break, your time. You don’t want my company?”
She glanced at the door behind her. He really was cocky. Confident didn’t quite cover it. Although, he’d pegged her easily; she did want his company. She just wasn’t comfortable with it. He was just too *much* for her. “I--I can’t drink on the job.”
“A Shirley Temple, then,” he said, stepping forward and sliding his arm between hers and her body so he could lead her over to the bar like a gentleman. What man did that any more? No one she’d ever met. That was something she’d seen in movies, mostly the film noir films she loved to stay up late to watch.
“I--um, okay.” She caved easily because he really was charming. And he’d saved her from having to deal with an drunken idiot. And he was handsome and presumably rich and suave and... And the way he looked at her made her feel like she needed to change her panties. He probably had no clue he had that deep of an effect on her libido.
Mr. Crowley led her to a bar stool and steadied her hand with his as she lifted herself up to sit on it. Once she was settled, she pulled away from him to yank the hem of her skirt down. It had ridden halfway up her thighs and he was looking.
“Don’t be embarrassed, love. You look quite fetching,” he murmured in her ear before taking the stool right beside her.
Flushing, Hazel turned away from him to face the back of the bar. The premium liquor bottles were displayed on the glass shelves, lit from behind to entice patrons to order a cocktail or a shot. “Oh, please,” she whispered beneath a nervous laugh.
“Really. I never lie.” He motioned to the bartender and said, “A Shirley Temple for the lady and a double Craig, neat.”
“Uh, we don’t have... Craig?”
Mr. Crowley made a noise of disgust at the bartender’s lack of knowledge and lack of premium whiskey. “Glenlivet then? Anything over twenty years.”
“Yes, sir,” the bartender replied and hurried off to pour their drinks. Mr. Crowley’s eyes shifted back to Hazel.
“And why does a lovely creature such as yourself spend her lunch in a car?”
Hazel looked over at him and nervously pressed her hands flat against the bar top. “I just like to get away and spend some time by myself. I like the quiet. And I like to read.”
“And what do you read?”
“Anything, really.” She shrugged and glanced over to check on the status of their drinks.
“Plato? Shakespeare? Stephen King?”
“All of them.”
“Shall I test you then? Though sages may pour out their wisdom’s treasure...”
Hazel looked over and gave him a small smile. She knew the quote he’d begun. It was one of the more famous ones of Lord Byron’s. “There is no sterner moralist than pleasure,” she added, completing the line.
Mr. Crowley chuckled and gave her a devilish wink. She swallowed before pulling in a deep breath. His charms were considerable and she didn’t need to become any more enamored of him than she already was. Even sitting there was stirring up fantasies. Fantasies that involved this handsome, wealthy, confident man plucking her out of this second-rate casino and making love to her, taking her under his wing and allowing her to write in leisure in his beautiful home without a worry of bills. And of sharing his bed every single night.
It was crazy. She’d barely spoken to him. He made her nervous and he seemed too full of himself. And she didn’t need a man to take care of her; she was a strong woman who could make it on her own. But still... he made her wonder what it would be like to have him snap his fingers and make everything in her world better. Because she had no doubt he could.
“Shirley Temple and Glenlivit, sir,” the bartender said, placing the drinks in front of them.
Mr. Crowley nodded in acknowledgement and then turned to watch her take the first sip.
“How does it taste, love?”
“Good,” she replied honestly. Hazel took a second sip. “Delicious, actually. Like cherries. How is your drink?”
“Rich, smokey...” He sniffed the liquor. “With a little honey.”
God, the way he described his drink made her cross her legs and squeeze her thighs together. The way he smiled at her when she did it made her wonder if he knew exactly what he was doing to her. It made her nervous.
“Hazel, darling, you try very hard to blend into the furniture. Why is that?”
Her name on his lips made her suck in a quick gasp. She glanced over at him and then back down at her drink. “I like to be innocuous. Too much attention bothers me.”
“And yet you seem to draw attention,” he mused, turning his glass on the bar top. “Granted, the attire doesn’t help matters.”
Hazel uncrossed her legs and pulled at the hem of the skirt again. “It’s required by the casino. They provide the skirts, white dress shirts, and these damn bow ties.”
“They didn’t know you’d look so desirable in them. Or, perhaps they did...” he replied, shifting his dark eyes from her face to her chest and then back up again.
It was too much, too over-the-top. Surely he was just poking fun at her. She was nothing special--just baby-fine blonde hair, a pasty complexion, boobs that always seemed to get in the way, wide hips, and thighs that barely fit in her size sixteen jeans. This man could have a supermodel with the amount of confidence and sex appeal he oozed. She was not so important as to merit all this attention. This had to be a joke.
“I don’t appreciate being made fun of, Mr. Crowley.”
“Excuse me?” he said, his normal deep tone suffering as his voice pitched a little higher.
“Spending my lunch break being poked fun of by a customer is not my idea of a good time. You can stop the charade.”
“Charade, darling? Are my seduction skills so poor?”
“Oh, no,” she snapped. “They’re quite good. But I’m not looking forward to being laughed at when I fall for your charms.” Hazel reached for her drink, but he’d quickly slid it away from her. She looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes narrowed in embarrassment and anger.
His face was solemn. “I believe you have mistaken me for someone else. I’m afraid I am being absolutely sincere. You see, I’ve had an unfortunate week. Nothing has gone right with my plans and my... employees are just... incompetent. So, I find myself sitting at my desk and thinking of what would make me feel better. And this innocent little blonde blackjack dealer pops into my head.”
“What?” It was her voice, but the question jumped out without much thought. She was too surprised to suppress it.
“You see, I was hoping you’d make me feel better.”
“Excuse me?” she replied, furrowing her brows.
“No?” he asked.
“Like, sleep with you? You came here to ask me to sleep with you?”
“Well, if you want to put it so crudely, love.” He was smiling again.
“Uh, no. No, thanks.” Her emotions were conflicted. On one hand she was disgusted that a man she didn’t even know had assumed she was so easy that he could ask her to fuck and she’d give in. On the other hand, she was still reeling from the knowledge that he wanted her. She’d never sleep with someone like him. Would she?
“I assure you that you’ll leave satisfied, though perhaps not as satisfied as I will be.”
“Do I look like the type who would...?”
“No,” he replied, cutting her off. “Which is part of the reason I want you.”
“A challenge,” Hazel said, reaching over and snatching her drink back from him.
“A prize.”
“I’m a person, not a prize.”
“Can’t you be both, love?”
“No. And my answer is no.” She took a sip through the straw, but it didn’t calm her nerves. A combination of embarrassment and anger and desire were causing her hands to shake.
“I have the penthouse suite upstairs,” he offered, as if it would change her mind.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the view by yourself, then. Or you could woo some other woman here with your cocky lines and assumptions.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I know you want me; I can smell it on you.”
Hazel squeezed her thighs together. “Don’t be so disgusting.”
“At least give me a kiss, then,” he whispered, leaning closer. The corners of his mouth were curled up in a grin.
“No,” she said, slipping off the stool and taking two steps back.
For a fraction of a moment he looked shocked that she hadn’t caved. Then his face settled into a pleasant mask of a polite gentleman. “Your loss, love. No need to run away. Let’s finish our drinks.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Hazel, darling, don’t be so dramatic. I respect your decision. Tell me about your favorite book. I’m partial to Dante’s Divine Comedy.”
After a few moment’s hesitation, she sat back down and took another sip. “I don’t like poetry,” she finally replied.
Mr. Crowley chuckled under his breath. “You were quoting Byron not too long ago. You’re such a difficult date, love.”
“Everyone knows Byron and we’re not on a date.”
“Obviously,” he said dryly. “Would you accompany me on one?”
“N--” Hazel clamped her mouth shut before she told him no. Because it wasn’t true. If he asked her on a date, she’d consider. Even after his presumptions, she still wanted him. It was confusing. “I don’t know.”
“Fair enough.” Crowley raised his drink in a silent toast.
The Shirley Temple was watered down and not nearly as enjoyable as it was when it first arrived. She took another sip anyway and scanned the room, trying to think of something to say. “Are those men waiting for you?” she asked, nodding at three men in suits on the far end of the bar.
Mr. Crowley glanced over his shoulder and then settled his gaze back on her. Every time he looked at her she got hot and bothered, especially now that he’s propositioned her. “Yes,” he replied simply.
“Don’t let me keep you.”
“They can wait,” he said. “You don’t like poetry, but what do you like?”
Why was he making those men wait? And why weren’t they upset about it? Who the hell was this guy? “I... I like science fiction novels the most.”
“Asimov? Dick?” he asked. The fact that he was talking about her first love--books--almost made her reconsider the offer of a night of passion in the penthouse suite upstairs.
“Gene Wolfe is my favorite,” she blurted out. “He’s... darker than most. I... like that.”
That smile again, like the Cheshire Cat. “I should have known.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Wolfe is a genius.”
Another chuckle from him. His eyes glinted with mischief and intelligence. “That we are capable only of being what we are remains our unforgivable sin,” Mr. Crowley said softly. Why did she tell him no in the first place?
The line was from Wolfe’s The Claw of the Conciliator. The way it rolled off his tongue and hung in the air took Hazel’s breath away. After a long moment of staring at his face, admiring the rugged five o’clock shadow from where he hadn’t shaved, she pulled in a breath. “If you would have led with that, then I’d probably be upstairs with you.”
The boldness of her statement shocked her. She didn’t say things like that.
Mr. Crowley flashed her his teeth when he smiled. He was looking downright predatory now. “I’m still here, waiting, darling. Would you like a key?”
Hazel shook her head, trying to clear it of his influence and tell him no at the same time. “No, no. You have business associates waiting and I have to get back to work.”
“After your shift?”
A flush crept across her cheeks and she slipped off the stool. “Not that kind of girl. Sorry.”
“Mmm, pity,” he said, pushing out his lower lip in a pout.