by Frankie Love
Besides, sex isn’t going to solve any of my problems … so maybe I should focus on my actual job instead of, you know, this man.
“So, another whiskey?” I ask, taking the empty glass from the coaster on the table, noting that his drink of choice matches mine. Though surely he drinks from a shelf I’ve never been able to reach.
“Perfect. Boys, what can she get you?” he asks the guys at the table, and I look them over more closely.
These men are strong, capable—everyone here is dripping with a cockiness that only a man who is never denied what he wants can claim.
I feel denied everything. Moving here for Janie has been so hard … so lonely. I want to go back to my normal—I want to start grad school, become a social worker so I can help kids who grew up like me. Dirt poor, with shit parents.
I want to return to my job at the bar near campus—only this time I’ll keep my vow of never dating an asshole again. God knows I’ve had more than my fair share. Basically, I’m ready to be a legit grown-up.
The next guy I date is going to take me out to dinner at Olive Garden and watch Netflix with me on the couch. I want what Claire may have found: a boyfriend who works at a car lot and is in a bowling league.
I want a bowling-league relationship, a pitcher of beer guy who wants a picket fence. I’m ready to have a regular life.
It has been so lonely waiting for Janie to wake up.
“I’ll take a scotch, neat,” says a man in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I recognize him immediately as Jack Harris, the resident DJ at Stacked. Holy shit.
Claire said I was going to be in the highest-rolling room at this casino, but hell, this is a room I have no business being in.
Tess, my Southern co-worker, has shown me Jack Harris’s picture on her phone in the break room plenty of times. She’s always snapping pictures of him when he walks through the casino. She’s a bit obsessed, actually. Seeing him up close, I can see why.
He’s confident but chill, has a man-bun, and has tattoos across his forearms. The good, sexy kind of hipster. Not my type, but I can see the appeal.
“Got it, Jack,” I say, pleased with myself for not asking for his autograph.
The guy next to him orders a rum and coke. He’s in work out clothes, and is seriously ripped. Like, a head-to-toe muscle machine. He has a dimpled face and is giving Channing Tatum a run for his money.
“And what was your name?” I ask, wanting to be as courteous as possible for the rest of the evening. My bank account is counting on these tips.
“McQueen,” he says, offering me a smirk and wink.
I know. He seriously sminked at me. Does that work on women? Any woman, ever? He may be sexier than Magic Mike, but McQueen knows it. Which, for me, is a turn off.
I’ve always liked guys who have a layer of insecurity, a healthy layer of doubt. Maybe it’s because I’ve always liked to take care of people … like I’m doing right now for my sister. A sister who’s never been there for me … yet here I am, putting my life on hold for her.
I glance around the table, wanting to focus on this moment, on these men. As if reading my mind, the table gives McQueen a hard time for his lame-ass game and I smile, put at ease by their familiarity.
“And for you, sir?” I ask the last man at the table.
“I’ll take an Old Fashioned, please,” he says with an English accent.
“Perfect, and what was your name? Just want to get it right tonight,” I say, looking over at Carla, who I know is pissed about me being late.
Surprisingly, she gives me a small smile, and a nearly imperceptible nod, and I know I’m doing okay.
Fine, even. I don’t need to be nervous. Everyone here is above-par, there’s nothing skeevy about this poker game, and I appreciate being around men who aren’t taking themselves too seriously.
“I am Landon, milady” he says, finding my hand and kissing the top of it. Okay, he’s a pretty adorable Englishman. “And your name, dear?” he asks.
“Emmy,” I say, looking around the table of men who are just straight-up worthy of the cover of GQ. “Emmy Rose.”
“You’re not going to ask for my name?” the mysterious hallway guy asks.
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” I say, flushed just by hearing his voice. “What was your name, sir?”
“Tonight, you can call me boss,” he says, confidently.
ACE
I can’t help it.
I love to watch her squirm in that skin-tight, fuck-me-now leotard. The one that can’t help but show off her perfectly erect nipples.
Her nipples are on display, as if they’re tiny little gemstones just begging to be polished. Oh, hell yeah, I’m ready to spit-shine those cock-fuckers.
And when I finally look up from that goddamn perfect pair of tits, I see her face. Usually I’m all sorts of crass, all sorts of don’t-care-about-her-smile, so as long as she has a nice shape, good curves—but fuck.
Emmy Rose is something else entirely.
I want her in a way I never want a woman. In a way that feels dangerously close to losing whatever edge I have left.
This girl turns me warm inside, soft in ways I’m not.
Well, not entirely soft. My fucking cock is on fire.
I need this woman.
How the hell am I going to sit through a night with my boys when all I want is an evening with her?
EMMY
Okay. So I did not see that coming.
I try to regroup, smiling brightly across the dimly lit room, absorbing the fact that the guy who propositioned me in the hallway is also a complete narcissist. It kind of kills the vibe for me, actually.
He wants me to call him fucking Boss?
Still, this is the guy I imagined going down on me while I took care of things earlier in the restroom.
And by things, I mean orgasms.
His friends shake their heads, laughing, as if they’re in on a joke I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been hoping they weren’t the douchebag guys I expected, and for a moment they fooled me into thinking they weren’t completely womanizing asshats.
But I guess I was wrong. They all fist-bump Boss from across the table.
Okay, this doesn’t need to be awkward. He has his eyes on me, as if studying every emotion splayed across my face.
“Right-e-o, boss man,” I say to him.
Right-e-o? WTF? Who says that shit? And why me? Now?
I glance over at Carla, embarrassed by my very uncool verbiage. Her eyes have been on the table, on the cards, but now she looks at me with an expression reading, what the eff is your deal?
She doesn’t know the half of it.
Boss raises his eyebrows, but thankfully his friends don’t comment. They’re all looking at their cards, placing bets, and here I am staring at him like a freaking weirdo.
“Okay, well, pleased to meet you, sir,” I say, saluting him.
Did I seriously salute him? I shake my head slightly, catching Carla’s eyes once again. She’s a hard-hitting woman at this casino, and no one messes with her. She’s tough as nails, and I want to stay on her good side. I know she’s already annoyed at me for being late.
She eyes me and then looks at the empty bar behind us. Her eyes say, Go get the drinks and stop acting like you’re in freaking boot camp.
Taking the cue, I excuse myself and make a beeline for the bar in the lounge to pour the orders.
I deliver them seamlessly; thankfully the guys are focused on their game, and I’m focused on not spilling liquor on the pants of any bosses or famous people.
Super chill!
Throughout the night I manage to pour, mix, deliver, and even eavesdrop—even though I know it’s rude. It’s impossible to ignore them. There are only six of us in this suite. And honestly, they are completely entertaining.
It’s cute how Boss and his buddies act in here, in this private room. It makes me think maybe the money and glamour around these men is just a facade. M
aybe they’re just down to earth dudes with nice clothes. And for a second, I forget the womanizing Boss comment and think maybe Claire was right, maybe this is a good gig.
But then I hear them talk about women again. Sex. MILFs. Threesomes.
Yep, this is a boy’s poker den alright.
“And then I sat on the bed while these two women fucking rode me, one girl on my cock, the other had her ass on my face,” McQueen says, sighing. “Best goddamn night of the week.”
Week? Ugh. I swore he was going to say LIFE.
“See, you need more of that in your life,” Boss says, shaking his head at Jack. “That’s why you need to stop letting Ashley hold you by your nut sack. Why’d you break up this last time? She get pissed again when some other woman came on to you?”
“Something like that. She wanted to get serious.” Jack shakes his head. “And by serious, she meant plan a destination wedding to Barbados.”
“Fuck, mate, you aren’t even engaged,” Landon says.
“Exactly,” Jack says, laughing. “And I’m counting on you assholes.” He points at his buddies. “You better never ever let me get back together with her again.”
“You guys are lucky bastards,” Landon says. “My parents are rattling me non-stop to bring a girl home.”
“To the castle?” Boss grins. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find someone to satisfy your parents who would also be game with an open relationship.”
“I’m not ready for all that mess. I like women on my turf, not my father’s,” Landon says, finishing his Old Fashioned.
Taking the cue, I deliver another round to the men.
“What about you, boss?” Landon asks. “You ever think about settling down?”
McQueen laughs. “Him? Settle down? Never.”
Jack joins in, high-fiving McQueen across the table.
“His idea of settling down is a one night stand … but even that—I’d have to see it to believe it,” Jack says. Then turning to Boss, he asks, “Have you ever had a woman stay the night? Like, even one time in your massive penthouse?”
“Not once,” Boss says proudly.
I feel his eyes skim over to me, and for some reason my stomach flutters. Which is beyond stupid. He just tried to screw me in a hallway and then is going on about his commitment issues. I do not need that sort of baggage in my life.
I have enough fucking issues of my own. I have ninety-nine problems and a womanizing man isn’t one of them.
By the end of the night my nerves are rattled. It’s been a long day. But the men at the table have left me a pile of chips equaling three thousand dollars.
Seriously? It would take me a few weeks to earn that on the casino floor.
I look at Carla, who’s putting the poker game away.
She shrugs. “It’s the best gig of the month. This will pay for this quarter’s preschool tuition for my daughter.” She flashes me the five thousand dollar chip they gave her.
Best gig is right.
I look over at the foursome spread out on the couches; they’re still drinking and talking. I have no clue who won the game; I was preoccupied with not fucking up the orders, and making the perfect cocktails.
“Hey, Emmy,” Boss calls. “Come over here.”
Realizing he still wants me on the clock, I walk over, ready to take more orders.
“What can I get you boys? Another round?”
“Aww, you’ve been working all night, toots,” McQueen says, patting the cushion next to him. “Sit, take a load off.”
“He’s right,” Jack agrees. “What can I get you ladies? Carla, whatcha drinking?”
“I wish, boys,” she says, grabbing her bag from where it’s stashed under the table. “But I’ve gotta get home to relieve my babysitter.” She purses her lips in a matronly way, although she doesn’t even look thirty. “Be good, be safe, okay?”
“Always,” Boss says, grinning as she exits the suite.
He looks younger now than he did in the hallway. Maybe it’s the drinks, or maybe he’s just relaxed around his friends. I bet for a guy like him, with so much money, so much privilege, it’s nice to have a place to let your guard down.
“I should probably go, too,” I say, feeling the arches of my feet screaming at me to take the heels off.
Also, even though tomorrow is a day off, I need to sit with my sister at the hospital and check in with her doctors. And it’s already two in the morning.
“One drink,” Landon pleads. “Stay for one drink. What do you like, Chardonnay? A nice Pinot?”
Boss laughs. “Way off, I know her drink of choice.”
I laugh under my breath. Who is this cocky guy who thinks he knows me so well? I mean, besides being a sex-god.
“You don’t know me, Boss-man,” I say, smiling, but I find myself lowering into the spot next to McQueen, on the seat he offered. Maybe sitting here with these men is exactly what I need. It’s been a long time since I just enjoyed myself. “But no, Landon, I’m not a wine girl.”
“Let me guess,” McQueen says. “Sex on the beach?” he asks with a straight face, and we all laugh as I shake my head.
“I bet you drink lemon drops,” Jack says. “Women love those things.”
“Nope. Not me.”
“Whiskey sour,” Boss says, definitively.
“Close.” I shrug. “But I drink whiskey, neat.”
Jack laughs, claps his hands twice. “Looks like you’ve met your match.”
“Whiskey neat, huh?” Boss stands, walks over to the bar and pours me a solid two inches of the dark amber. Liquid gold, but I don’t need any courage. As he hands me the glass, I feel like a million bucks.
I want to cash in.
I’m with some of the most impressive men in this city, in a private lounge, the only woman here … and I’ve listened to them talk about sex all night.
I’m ready.
I drink the oaky whiskey. It glides down my throat and warms my chest. Hell yeah, that is delicious.
Handing back the empty tumbler, I offer him a smile dripping with lust.
He’s no fool. He takes the glass, sets it on the coffee table, then looks at his friends.
“Sorry, bros,” he says. “I’m kicking you out.”
“Whatever happened to bros before hoes?” McQueen asks. Then, casting an apologetic glance my way, he says, “Sorry Emmy — no disrespect.”
“None taken. I know what I am. And a ho, I am not.”
“So then, what are you?” Landon asks as he stands, signaling for Jack and McQueen to follow suit.
“I’m a flower. Lots of layers, lots of delicate petals that need tending to.” I toss them a raised eye as they stand to go, my words thick with innuendo. They kiss my cheek on their way out. Perfect gentleman.
But not the one I want.
I want Boss-man.
“Cute, Emmy Rose. Very punny,” he says, shutting the door on his friends.
“Well, pun intended.” I bite my lip, shifting on the couch. Suddenly I’m nervous and eager and just so ready for this man to properly screw me. The way I should have let him do hours ago in the hallway.
Relieved that his eyes are as hungry as mine.
“So, what’s your real name?” I ask, finally able to ask the question I’ve been obsessed with all night.
“You’re funny.” Boss walks toward me, grabs my hands, and pulls me up to standing—avoiding my question. “And you’re sexy. And you drink whiskey. Who the hell are you, Emmy Rose?”
“I guess I’m the fucking girl of your dreams.” I’ve found this confidence somewhere inside me, like being so close to this cocky asshole makes me more powerful. Capable. Strong. I sure as hell hope I can harness this strength tomorrow, when I ask the doctors what their actual plan is for my sister’s care.
For a second that thought pulls me away from this moment. Returning to his gaze, however, all I can think is how crazy this is.
I mean, it is crazy. Me. Him. Here.
I am not the sort
of girl that 1) fucks gold-watch wearing men or 2) even knows gold-watch-wearing-men.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old, never-gonna-get-my-graduate-degree, waitressing girl.
But I swear when he looks at me he sees me as a woman.
His woman.
We’re standing close. So close. So close I could reach up, pull this dangerous man’s face to mine.
But before I can, he pulls me in first.
4
ACE
There is something ridiculous about this woman. All night I’ve been watching her, my hungry cock twitching every time she brushes her body close to mine.
I know it’s been one night. One singular night, but god, I need her in the worst, most ball-knocking way.
I want her.
All of her.
And now I can. Now I will.
She stands so close to me, her breath shallow, her perfect tits rising and falling with every single breath she takes. Those swollen lips of hers have parted, as if willing me to press my tongue inside her mouth.
I swear she’s breathing me in. She’s so fucking ready, and I haven’t even grazed my mouth over her anything.
But god, I’m ready for her everything.
“Emmy,” I say, pulling her face to mine. My mouth hovers over hers, and I know I can have any pussy in this town, but in this moment, all I want is to press my lips on hers.
So I do.
I devour that mouth. I kiss her hard, not because I like to play rough, but because I just want to consume her. She smells as sweet as her name, but I know she has a rougher edge that has barely surfaced.
I saw it earlier on the casino floor when that guy denied her a tip, and when the other guy offered her his number. I saw it when McQueen tried to smooth-talk her tonight.
She doesn’t play games.
She has a back-story, sure, but as I slide my hands lower, over the pleather of her leotard, skimming my fingers over her firm ass, I don’t want a back-story. I just want her on her back.