Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas

Since moving back in, he’d taken it upon himself to bring some energy back into the room. He painted the walls a cheery yellow, hung curtains decorated with sunflowers and put family photos everywhere, including a picture of his dad with his favorite comedian, Jerry Lewis, at Bally’s. The only time his dad had asked someone he’d just met to call him Benny.

But more important, Braxton cooked here almost every night, often with his mom, the two of them filling the room with delicious smells, a few recipe bombs and a lot of laughter.

He headed to Grams’s special cabinet and grabbed a martini shaker while listening to Dmitri.

“Everyone I’ve talked to in the Russian community,” he continued, “said you, Braxton, not Yuri, were the reason behind Topaz’s success.”

Braxton wasn’t sure how to respond to that, because the compliment was a double-edged sword. Yeah, he’d been a good manager, in fact a damned good one, but he’d gotten dirty along with the business.

“Does this have something to do with what you wanted to discuss?” He nestled the phone against his shoulder and filled the shaker with ice.

His grandmother, wearing a shiny cocoa-colored caftan and gold shoes, glided across the linoleum floor in her wheelchair, her puf of white hair glowing like a sunlit cloud under the lights. Seeing he was on the phone, she halted and pressed her finger to her ruby-red lips, indicating she’d be quiet.

He winked at her, wondering how many other eighty-five-year-old women purchased half a dozen tubes of crimson lipstick after reading that “women of a certain age” should only ever wear more discreet shades. Grams, the makeup activist.

“Yes, it does,” Dmitri answered. “I’m opening a club in Vegas later this year and wondered—”

“I’m not interested.” It turned his stomach to even think of going back to such a job. In the six months since he’d stopped managing Topaz, he’d been inside a strip club only once, and that was for a buddy’s bachelor party.

“I like you, Braxton,” Dmitri said quietly, “but this is the second time you’ve gotten angry before I’ve had a chance to explain. It reminds me of a story my mother used to tell me about a frog who kept jumping to conclusions. He puffed himself up so much each time with his self-justified reasons, eventually he burst.”

Braxton held the phone away from his ear, giving himself a moment to cool down. He didn’t need some frog story to remind him he had a problem containing his temper when it came to Yuri.

He glanced at his grandmother, her jade-green eyes shiny with concern. Over these past six months, they’d shared many long talks over martinis about his guilt over hurting his family. Then one night she suggested his guilt might fade when he stopped being angry at himself.

He put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Dmitri. Please, go ahead.”

“People have informed me that you have extensive knowledge in the field of security. What areas, may I ask?”

So polite, so sophisticated. Even had a better English vocabulary than most Americans whose paths Brax crossed. Dmitri might have Russian roots, but he was nothing like Yuri. Time to give him some credit, discuss this project as he would any legitimate business deal.

“Got my first job in hotel security at eighteen through my dad, who headed up security at Bally’s—” he grabbed a jar of olives from the fridge “—followed by several years of business security consulting and personal protection gigs...then you know about Topaz.” He set the jar on the small kitchen table, next to a bottle of vermouth.

“Personal protection... You mean, as a bodyguard?”

“Yes.” He retrieved two martini glasses and held them up for Grams to see. She smiled.

“Ah, not only a man with brains, but brawn, too.” He paused. “I might want to use you as a bodyguard soon. But back to my business venture—I will need a qualified head of security, which would also include living expenses, a car and substantial stock options.”

Brax paused in front of the fridge, remembering how years ago Yuri had promised all those things, too....

“Uh, one moment, Dmitri.”

He opened the freezer door and placed the glasses inside, willing the blast of chilled air to knock some sense into him. He couldn’t forget that life was good at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations. He had office space for his security consulting business and the best co-workers nepotism could buy, but damn, it would be a lie to say he didn’t miss having plush digs, a slick car and a stake in a potentially profitable business.

He shut the freezer door and looked at a photograph on the fridge of his family at a sea resort years ago. He could still remember the soft splash of waves, the sun heating his skin.

His parents had one rule: no going into the water unless accompanied by adults. Which was like waving a red flag to ten-year-old Braxton. One early evening he sneaked down to the shore and waded in, only everything was different than it had been earlier in the day. The waves had churned, the skies had darkened. Then something pulled him underneath the water—later his dad said it had been a riptide—where he flailed in the dark, wet cold, fighting for air.

Strong arms jerked him out of the water. His father carried him back to shore, where they both fell onto the sand, gasping. After a few minutes, his dad had said, On the surface, the sea can look like a beautiful dream. Now you know what lies beneath it.

As good as Dmitri’s offer sounded, Braxton wasn’t sure he wanted to test what lay underneath it. The guy could be as straight-up as they came, but this was still Vegas, the sin capital of the world.

“Appreciate your thinking of me,” he said into the phone, “but to be honest, I like my life right now. It’s calmer, more predictable.”

After a beat, Dmitri said, “I admire a cautious man. Before you make up your mind, I invite you to conduct a due-diligence check on my holdings and other business projects, because you will not find a single black mark. Better yet, I will save you the work and forward a recent due-diligence report conducted by The Dayden Group. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes.” He had sometimes used The Dayden Group, a business-assessment service, to conduct corporate background checks.

“My associate will drop off their report along with the retainer check tomorrow morning.”

After ending the call, he looked at Grams, who raised her eyebrows. “That sounded like a job offer.”

“It was. But...I don’t know. I’ve never met this guy, except by phone, but at least he’s giving me some information to review.”

“He’s Russian, I take it.”

“How’d you know?”

“That troubled look. You only get it when Yuri’s name comes up.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, as though he could wipe off any remaining trace.

“I used to make snap decisions all the time, Grams, rarely second-guessed myself. But these days—” he gave his head a shake “—I overthink everything to the point of wearing out the idea before it gets a chance.”

“My darling—” the rings on her hand sparkled as she gestured toward the shaker “—let’s make those martinis and talk.”

* * *

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Braxton arrived early for work at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations. Dmitri had said the retainer check would be delivered at nine o’clock and Brax didn’t want to be late.

After turning on the lights and starting the coffee, he sat at his desk in the waiting room and checked email on his smartphone. At his old place, he liked to crank up the tunes first thing in the morning, his favorite bands being Green Day, Florence and the Machine, and anything by Maroon 5 and its lead singer, Adam Levine. Although sometimes nothing soothed his soul like an old country classic by George Jones.