I laughed out loud. “Wow. Devious. They’ll believe you, too.”
She suddenly got serious. “That was a joke. I mean, we did get the wine, but I can pay you back – ”
“Are you kidding me?” I waved her off. “Forget about it.”
“No, that’s a lot of money.”
“Monica, please. I just gave your favorite three women in the world five grand apiece to leave.”
She stared at me in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Hey, that’s what ol’ Blue Eyes said you pay a call girl for – not to have sex, but to leave after it’s over.”
She was silent for a second… and then she got mad.
“You asshole! No wonder your uncles hate you! You gave away $15,000 of their money to – ”
“Whoa, whoa, WHOA – that was my money. I won it.”
“What, tonight?”
“Yeah!”
She snorted. “How much did you win?”
“I was up 250 when I quit.”
That was when she really got mad. “Two hundred and fifty dollars?! That’s not even enough to – ”
“Hundred thousand, Monica,” I interrupted. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Her jaw went slack… and then she regained her composure.
“Oh. Well, then I’m absolutely telling your uncles you ordered the wine. Jackass.”
I laughed. “Why are you calling me a jackass?! I bought you dinner and a bottle of Château LaFite!”
“Because you paid your hoochies 15 grand to leave! I thought you liked me until I heard that!” she said as she swatted my arm.
“I do like you! I hated those other chicks so much I had to pay 15 grand to get rid of them!”
She looked at me sideways. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“Tell you what: I’ll pay you even more to lie to my uncles and tell them I’m coming in under budget.”
“Ohhhhh, so you’re gonna bribe me?”
“If you wanna call it that… sure.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I’d say you can’t afford me, or that my integrity’s not for sale, but you did just get me to lie about a $900 bottle of wine.”
“There is that,” I said.
“Mm.”
“Reminds me of this joke where a guy asks this woman, ‘What would you say if I offered to pay you to sleep with me?’ and she goes, ‘I’d tell you to go to hell.’ Then he says, ‘Okay, would you sleep with me if I donated a million dollars to charity?’ She thinks about it for a second, then says, ‘Yes, I guess so.’ And he says, ‘Okay, will you sleep with me for 50 dollars?’ She gets all offended and yells at him, ‘What do you think I am, a whore?’ And he says – ”
“‘We’ve already established that, now we’re just negotiating,’” Monica said, and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard it. Thanks for comparing me to a whore, JACKASS.”
“So… what do you say about taking that bribe, huh?”
“No,” she said with fake sweetness. “You already compared me to a whore, so fuck you, JACKASS.”
I shrugged. “I’ll have to tell my uncles that you ordered the wine, then.”
She playfully poked my chest. “Go ahead, punk, and see where it gets you.”
“What if they believe me?”
“Pffft – like that’s gonna happen.”
I laughed. “Somebody’s in a good mood.”
“A bottle of good wine will do that for you.”
“Good company, too?” I asked.
“If you can get it, sure.”
“What, Simon wasn’t good company?”
She made a face, like she felt conflicted. “…he’s a very nice man.”
“I’m a nice man,” I said, cocky as hell.
She made a face like Yeah, RIGHT. “No you’re not.”
“No, I’m not,” I agreed with a laugh. “So where is he?”
“He was tired. He went on up to bed.”
I didn’t think that was the whole story, but it was awesome all the same, and I decided to roll with her version of events. “WOW – it’s only midnight. In Vegas, that’s like, 7PM anywhere else.”
“So I’ve heard.”
That, ladies and gentlemen, was what you call an ‘invitation.’
I pulled out my phone. “Say… you want to see what I really do?”
“If it involves you with your pants off, NO.”
I grinned and started scrolling through my texts. “Relax. My pants will stay on till you take them off for me.”
“Then I guess you’re going to be buried in them,” she deadpanned.
I chuckled. If the redhead had her entire life, she’d never come up with a comeback like that.
Suddenly I found the message I was looking for. “Oh, I got something you’ll like…”
“I’m sure you think you do,” she said, “but it’s staying in your pants, too.”
I laughed out loud. “I was talking about a big winner, Monica, not a big wiener. But I like the way you think.”
She rolled her eyes. “A winner of what, exactly?”
“A winner of a plan.” I offered my arm to her. “Shall we?”
She looked at me and hesitated for a second, a dubious look on her face… and then she finally hooked her arm in mine. “What the hell. Why not.”
And just like that, my whole night improved by a thousand percent.
18
Monica
I kind of wondered if I was jumping from the Asshole Frying Pan into the Douchebag Fire – but those ten minutes bantering with Vic in the casino were more fun and lively than the rest of my evening with Simon put together. Plus, there was absolutely no expectation of sex.
Well, maybe there was on his part, but I’d been clear: your pants stay on till you die. So as far as I was concerned, sex was completely off the table.
I have to admit, I was a little curious about the ‘big wiener’ crack, but I figured that was just Vic embellishing the truth.
Probably more like a Vienna sausage, I told myself.
Although… still curious.
I realized, though, that I was spending a little too much time thinking about what was in the shorts of a guy who generally irritated the hell out of me, who was a flagrant womanizer and a coworker, and who dressed like what a 13-year-old boy thinks is ‘macho.’
That cured me of speculation about the wiener.
19
We took a limo (of course we did, it was Vic we were talking about) from the Mandalay Bay to the Palms, where we went up to a rooftop nightclub named Ghostbar. A gigantic line of at least 300 people stretched around the corner to get in.
We headed right to the front of the line (of course we did). I figured Vic would have to call somebody to get in, but he went right up to the gigantic Samoan bouncer who lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw Vic.
“It’s The Beard!” the guy laughed, and he and Vic hugged.
I noticed that in the line behind us, a lot of cell phone photo flashes started going off.
Vic introduced me, and the bouncer was all smiles. Then they chatted for a minute – How’re you doing, What’s going on, Partying hard? – before the guy unhooked the velvet rope. “Go on in, my man!”
They did a final hug and fist pound, and we entered the club. The cell phone flashes were still going on behind us.
“Are you on the list?” I asked Vic.
“Nope.”
“So you’re friends with that guy?”
“Yeah, whenever we’re in LA at the same time, I invite Toa onto the boat.”
“That’s his name? Toa?”
“Yeah, it’s Samoan for ‘warrior’ or somethin’.”
“We got lucky he was working tonight.”
Vic looked at me like I was a five-year-old who’d said something adorable.
“What?” I asked.
“Monica, you do know I can get into any club or party in Vegas like that, right?”
he asked as he snapped his fingers.
I rolled my eyes… and then looked back at him, unsure.
He nodded with a big smile, like, Oh yeah.
“What, because you have ten beeeellion followers on Instagram?” I asked in a Austin Powers Dr. Evil voice.
“Yup. Everybody knows The Beard.”
“Oh God,” I muttered to myself. I was definitely in the Douchebag Fire.
Then something clicked.
“Wait – was that what all those people taking pictures was?!” I asked incredulously. “They were taking them of you?!”
“Probably. Just to warn you, you’re going to wind up on a lot of Instagram accounts tonight.”
“Why?”
“You were standing next to me,” he said, as though it were self-evident.
I shook my head. Like a 21st century version of Alice, I’d definitely plunged through the douchebag looking glass.
In contrast to the long line outside, the club wasn’t exactly packed. There was lots of room to move around comfortably.
“Wow, clubs really like to make it seem like they’re something special, don’t they?” I mused out loud.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s tons of room in here, but they’re making everybody wait to get in.”
Vic laughed. “Monica, this is a private birthday party. A music exec bought out Ghostbar for the night. Ordinarily, there’d be a thousand people out there in line.”
Wow.
I was pretty sure that buying out a club in Vegas on a Friday night took a lot of cash. Probably a Vic Cortelian-worthy expenditure. That impression was reinforced when we got free drinks at the apparently open bar – a whiskey on the rocks for me, a gin and tonic for him.
“Do all those people out there know it’s a private party?” I asked.
He grinned. “Yeah. They’re on the list.”
“They’re on the list?! Then why can’t they get in?”
“They will, just not yet.”
“Then why are they making them wait?”
“That’s what clubs do to make themselves seem more exclusive. If you’re not famous enough or hot enough, they make you wait.”
“So how’d you get in?”
Again, like it was self-evident: “Well, I’m obviously hot. Plus, I’m The Beard.”
I sighed and just rolled my eyes.
I noticed I was doing that a lot lately.
The further we got inside Ghostbar, though, the more I wondered if Vic wasn’t telling the truth.
Virtually every third person beamed when they saw him and yelled, “Vic!” usually followed by a fist pound or a hug. And the more famous the person, the more likely they were to come over, and the happier they acted.
There weren’t any HUGE stars there – no Rihannas or Ryan Goslings – but there were a lot of faces I recognized. That guy – didn’t he win an MTV music award for best new artist? That woman over there – hadn’t I seen her in an Us Weekly photo spread last month?
And so many of them came over to shake Vic’s hand, or hug him, or chat and get a selfie.
Yet I noticed that not once did Vic ever take a photo for himself. I guess he wasn’t on Instagram duty tonight.
A black rapper with twisted tufts of hair and lots of tats came over. “Yo, Vic, we gotta talk, man – I wanna launch a vodka line and I need your help, brother!”
Vic chatted with him for about five minutes, then said, “Hit me up, I’ll help you out.”
A beautiful little waif of a girl came over and said, “Vic, Vic – look at my designs – I’m trying to get into boutiques – what do you think?” as she scrolled through photo after photo on her phone.
Vic talked to her for another five minutes, then ended with, “Next time I’m in LA, we’ll go out – wear your best design and I’ll post a photo.”
Afterwards I asked, “Doesn’t it bother you?”
“What?”
“All these people trying to use you.”
He shrugged. “They’re just hustlin’.”
“That’s what I mean. They’re hustlers, trying to use you.”
“No, no, no – they’re just workin’ it, doing what they gotta do to succeed. I admire that – hell, I genuinely want ‘em to succeed! I want to see Anya’s clothes in every high-end department store. I want to see T-Dawg’s vodka in every bar in the world.”
His benevolence towards all these other people was a striking contrast to his own do-nothing life, never building anything of his own. “Do you want them to succeed because that way you can live through them vicariously?”
“Vi – vicare – what?” he asked, playing the clown.
I gave him a stern look. “ Don’t even start with me.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, okay, maybe I do. Ironic, isn’t it? Since my business model seems to be people living vicariously through me.”
I figured I had him cornered, so I pushed a bit harder. “It’s all a big show, though, isn’t it.”
“It’s real,” he said defensively. “It’s all real.”
I snorted. “I’ve seen some things on your boats that are definitely NOT real.”
He laughed even harder. “If you can touch ‘em, they’re real enough!”
“Mm,” I grumbled.
He looked out over the crowd. “See, this is what I do: connections. People. The yacht, the Instagram, the flashy lifestyle – that’s what I use to get to know them. And once I know them, that’s how I bring value to the table. That’s what my uncles don’t understand, and never will. I’m hoping you can explain it to them.”
“What do you get out of all these connections?” I asked.
“Me? Well… I get a lot of friends… a lot of fun times… a lot of women…”
Ugh.
“…plus it makes it a hell of a lot easier to convince some nerdy entrepreneur to sign with the firm when I can give him a taste of my life. Don’t forget to tell my uncles that.”
“This sounds like a sales pitch,” I said warily.
“Just hustlin’, baby,” he said with a grin.
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered.
As far as I could see, the ‘connections’ were just an excuse for the yacht, the flashy lifestyle, and the women – all paid for by his uncles.
Everything he’d said was totally a sales pitch for me to get his uncles off his back, and to leave his lifestyle alone.
But that was Vic: hustler extraordinaire.
And, I have to admit, he was damn good at it.
“You’re a piece of work,” I told him.
“I’ve been called worse,” he said with a grin.
20
I take back what I said about there not being any huge stars at the party.
About thirty minutes in, a gorgeous, muscular guy in t-shirt and jeans walked over. He had ink all up and down his arms – tattoos of music-related things: the symbols on Led Zeppelin’s fourth album, the logo for the Beatles in that world-famous font, a red hot chili pepper, a picture of the Rolling Stones’ icon lips. Not to mention images from his own group’s album covers.
His band was the biggest breakout of the last five years, with half a dozen number one hits and three multi-platinum albums. They sold out every stadium show in minutes. Anybody who hadn’t been under a rock knew who this guy was: Derek Kane, lead singer of Bigger.
Once upon a time the tabloids had been filled with his drug-fueled and womanizing antics. I held a sort of grudge against him for something he’d done during that period. He’d been dating a regular girl – not a famous singer or an actress, just an everyday, normal girl – and he’d totally screwed her over. But then he’d gone into rehab, and all the salacious stories had stopped.
Despite my grudge, though, my jaw pretty much hit the floor when he came over.
“What up, man,” Derek laughed as he hugged Vic. “You doin’ okay?”
“Absolutely. Hey, Derek, meet Monica. She’s a professional pain in my ass. My uncles hired her to reign in my pa
rtying.”
Derek shook my hand and smiled at me. “I hope you’re not doing too good of a job.”
“Uh… n-no… not so far…” I said, stuttering and acting like a total starstruck idiot.
“Good, good.”
“So how’s it going, bro?” Vic asked. “When do you guys go back out on tour?”
“Not for a while. Just working on the next album right now.”
“Are they here?”
“Naw, they’re all back in Athens. Except Riley, she’s around here somewhere, macking on chicks.”
“Girl after my own heart,” Vic chortled.
“Athens, Greece?” I asked, trying to inject myself into the conversation again. Apparently my grudge didn’t hold up very well against meeting a gorgeous rock star in the flesh.
“No,” Derek said. “Athens, Georgia.”
Crap, that’s right…
The band was famous for being from the same college town as R.E.M. and the B-52s.
DUH.
“So what brings you to Vegas, then?” I asked, and immediately cringed.
I mean, who really needs an excuse to go to Vegas? Especially a rock star?
He played along, though. “I’m just out here for Holden’s birthday.”
“Oh – is he here?” I asked and looked around – as though I even knew who Holden was or what he looked like.
Both Derek and Vic both looked at me like I was a little slow on the uptake.
“Uh… yes,” Derek said politely. “This is his party.”
“…oh.”
I felt like an idiot. Not just because of my social faux pas, but also because I was having a flashback to high school. Back during my zits and braces phase, I’d flirted incompetently with the football team’s quarterback, who was in my Algebra II class. He was always nice to me, but obviously had no interest whatsoever. It took me a long time to get the hint, though.
…oh God, just kill me now…
Vic stepped in and took the heat off me. “I’m sure we’ll see him before we leave, but if we don’t, tell Holden happy birthday for me!”
“Will do.”
“Hey, we gotta do that benefit concert we keep talking about!”
Strip Poker: Bad Boys Club Romance #2 Page 6