by Frankie Love
They always do.
I’m cocky as hell, but shit, I’ve got reason to be. I own Spades Royalle, the sexiest casino in Vegas. Fuck, the sexiest casino in the country.
And sure, I’m a player, but why wouldn’t I be? The highest rollers in the world come to play at my tables—it’s no surprise that the hottest ass comes to the same place.
Everyone wants a taste of the action my casino offers. A taste of what I offer.
The cocktail waitresses who work here, with their tits pushed high and asses hanging out, know why they were hired.
The dealers I cut paychecks to know I only want the fastest hands on my casino floor.
The dancers at my shows know I only want the hottest performers in the city.
The DJs at my nightclub, where table service starts at ten grand, know I only want the best beats, the most fuckable women dancing.
The Spades Royalle is my domain. I own this town, and this casino, and every freshly-shaven pussy that sets foot here knows it.
With my tumbler of whiskey in hand, I walk across the casino floor toward the elevator leading to a private suite I’ve reserved for tonight. It’s the perfect place for mixing business with pleasure. I avoid taking anyone to my penthouse on the top floor—this way I can keep all my transactions from getting personal.
I don’t do personal with any woman.
I’m my own man. I don’t need anyone up close and in my shit. I don’t want them to think they have any chance at long term.
I keep my bets safe.
And the safest bet I know is one night stands—make that one hour stands.
The only people I trust are my closest friends, McQueen, Jack, and Landon. My family? Not a chance. They’ve screwed me over more than once.
But who needs family when you have Vegas?
Downing my drink of choice, Johnny Walker Blue—neat—I look around for a cocktail waitress. I like playing this game, finding a piece of ass that looks nice and giving her a fifteen-minute break she wasn’t expecting.
They never turn me down.
A perfect brown-haired honey works the room, carrying a tray in one hand, setting down beers and cocktails in front of the men at the tables. They offer her chips as tips, but I have a different sort of tip in mind.
Her face is flushed, tendrils of hair falling in her face as she moves quickly, knowing money is up for grabs if she works the tables the right way.
I press my lips together, ready to sweep her from the floor, toward my suite, and push her round, perfect tits around my cock.
I know she’ll want it. It’s obvious she needs it. A scowl crosses her face as a blackjack player forgoes giving her a tip, and she rolls her eyes slightly as a guy offers her his phone number.
Watching her as she crosses the smoky floor, I know what she needs. It looks like she’s had a long night and she needs to release some of that pent-up hostility. I know there’s plenty of time to work her up and down before my monthly private poker game begins.
She walks toward the hall where I’m standing, an empty tray in her hand. Probably headed to the bar to fill her orders.
Oh, I’ll fill her orders all right.
EMMY
Fuck. My. Life.
I made one rule when I moved to Vegas two months ago—I would not screw bad boys. Or asshats. Or really anyone I met on the casino floor. And the thing is, I’ve made good on my promise.
However, I still have to deal with these guys. Here I am, another night serving drinks to men who assume I am ready and willing.
Really asshole? You think I want your phone number? You think I’m wearing this black pleather leotard—the one that is giving me a serious wedgie—or these fishnets and five-inch stilettos, for you?
You think I have my tits pushed higher than humanly possible because I want to screw you in a hotel that is actually not where I’m hanging out for fun? Because I’m here for one reason, and one reason only: it’s a fucking job.
And god, I need the money.
My sister Janie is still in the hospital, and the bills for her care are coming out the hoo-ha. Landing in Vegas to make sure she was okay was never my plan. I was supposed to start grad school this fall … but fall is in two weeks, and my ass is still here.
Northern Washington University has been my plan ever since I realized if I wanted to get a leg up in life, I needed to work my ass off and get there myself. Nobody is going to help me get ahead. My parents were MIA for most my childhood—you know, before they kicked the bucket.
So it’s always just been Janie and me … except not. Because she left town the moment she turned eighteen, and I’ve been waiting for her to return ever since.
A text here and there, an update on what city she’s in—that’s all she’s given me over the past four years.
That’s why I’m hanging on so tight. That’s why I’m here to help her when she wakes up from the coma. The fact that she had my number in her phone as her Emergency Contact means something, right?
I want a family. I want people in my corner. I’m just tired of barking up the wrong-ass tree.
My sister is my only chance at a family.
And hard as it is to swallow, it looks like grad school is going to have to wait. It’s going to take forever to get the money to pay for both Janie’s care and school.
Especially at the rate things are going tonight at the Spades. A guy at the blackjack table takes his gin and soda without giving me a tip—which, okay, I get it. These players owed me nothing.
But I am beyond ready to catch a break. The best thing about showing up to work today was when Claire, another waitress who’s been here a lot longer than me, offered me her waitressing spot at some private poker table tonight.
She has a date—and now I have an extra shift.
Win-win.
I mean, except I can’t even remember the last time I had a date. The last time I had anything for me. I’ve been in Vegas for two months for Janie, and I certainly haven’t gotten any action at the hospital.
And before then I was in school and working … always working.
I need a freaking day off … from everything.
I’m walking toward the kitchen to reload my empty tray one last time, before I switch gears for the poker event, when a man stops me.
More like, we stop one another.
Because damn. One look at him and I can’t take a step forward. He clichés the fuck out of me—he stops me in my tracks just as I’m a foot from passing him.
His eyes are a smoldering green, like an evergreen tree deep in the forests of my hometown. He leans against a wall, with an empty tumbler in hand, and he smiles a slow, self-assured smile.
A smile with a mouth that looks like sex, smells like sex, and I’m guessing could lick like sex.
What the hell, Emmy?
I am not having sex with guys I “meet” here. That is rule #1.
I need to get my mind out of the sex-gutter, whatever that is. I need to focus on this job. On making cash. On getting my sister’s bills paid and getting her back on her own two feet.
I need to keep. walking. forward.
But before I can take another step, he speaks. His voice is as lush as his eyes.
“You ready to take a break?” he asks, standing up straighter now.
I’m above-average height, about 5’9”, but with these damn heels, I’m tall.
He’s taller. He looks at me, pushing his dark hair from his eyes. The pinstripe suit he wears screams designer and I notice a gorgeous gold Rolex heavy on his wrist as he crosses his arms. But he isn’t all nice and neat. I see a tattoo inching up his neck, but I can’t tell what it is.
In a flash I can see he’s working hard to look the part of a high-roller. His eyes and voice tell me there’s more to him than all that high-end bullshit I don’t give a crap about.
“Do I know you?” I know my tone is harsh, but the day has been long. My feet hurt from these damn shoes. It doesn’t matter that he is sexy as hell.
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And damn, he is sexy as hell. I mean, his shoulders are broad and there’s enough of a five o’clock shadow on his face that I could imagine nuzzling against it…nuzzling my thighs against it.
God! Why the fuck am I thinking about pressing my lady parts against this dude’s face? Get a grip, Emmy.
“We haven’t met, but I’m prepared to get very familiar with you.” He cocks both an eyebrow and his head toward the other end of the hall.
I don’t even know where that leads. Well, I know where he thinks it might lead.
“Uh, I don’t screw strangers. And certainly not while I’m on the clock. I don’t think the owner of this place would like his employees fucking casino junkies. Just saying.”
“I don’t think your boss would mind.” He smirks, ever so slightly, and I hate that. Hate when guys think they know better than I do. I know how much this job means—the fact that I landed a gig at the most exclusive casino in Vegas is no small thing.
I’m proud I got this job and I’m not going to lose it over some horny guy in a nice suit.
Not that I wouldn’t have liked to enjoy this guy in his nice suit. His biceps pull at his jacket seams and I want to rip it off him. See those chiseled muscles for myself. But not on the clock. Not like this.
“I gotta go,” I say. “I’m gonna be late for my next shift if I don’t leave now. Okay?”
“Hey, you take your work seriously, not going to fight you on that,” he says, raising his hands in defeat, a smile pressing across his face again, like he knows something I don’t. “But before you go, what’s your name?”
“Emmy,” I tell him. “Emmy Rose.”
I hustle away, tray in hand, and make it into the kitchen without falling over my own two feet. Because even though I just walked away from his offer, I don’t want to trip on my ass in front of him.
I hope he’ll remember my name and look me up later.
When I’m not at work.
2
EMMY
I drop the tray on the counter in the kitchen where we refill our drink orders. Ugh. Sometimes I have my shit together, and other times, I am just a complete wreck.
There is nothing I wanted more than to allow that hallway stranger to take me to a hotel room and have his way with me … because I am just plain tired of running at this speed. Work. Hospital. Bills. Work. The hamster wheel is spinning so fast, I just want to crawl into bed.
With that guy.
Well, honestly, any guy—but, after being stopped by that man, my sights are a little higher than normal. He was so fucking hot.
“Hey, you okay, chica?” Claire asks, coming up behind me, surprising me. “You seem all flustered.”
“I thought you would’ve left already for your date?” I sigh, sort of jealous that she’s going out on the town while I’m working. Even if it is a supposedly high-end gig tonight. “Where is your date taking you?”
Claire pulls out a compact and applies bright red lipstick. It looks great with her platinum hair. She’s a total Marilyn Monroe: light skin, lighter hair. She even has a perfect upper lip beauty mark. In her white mini-dress she’s a dream.
She’s one of the rare Vegas women who are never fazed by money or fame. Her date tonight is a local guy, a modest employee at a car dealership who bowls. At like, a bowling alley.
“I know. I’m late. We’re going off the strip, obviously. We’re getting pizza at Tommy G’s.”
“Yum,” I say, nearly drooling, thinking a thick slice of pepperoni pizza sounds amazing right about now. Since getting this job, I’ve been conservative with my calorie intake in a way I’ve never been before. There is no room for a pizza-belly in this one piece.
But Claire can pull it off. She can pull anything off.
“Thanks again for covering me tonight,” she says, squeezing my bare arms. “I know Carla is all intense about it, but don’t let it bother you.”
Carla’s the lady in charge of this gig. She’s intense about everything, so Claire’s advice is solid. “No pressure,” I say, thinking for the ten thousandth time in the past five minutes how I actually want to get the pressure off.
“Hey, before I go, did you hear back from the detective?” Claire asks. “Any news?”
She’s asking about my sister’s case. We still don’t know who was driving the car she was in the night of the crash. The night she went into the coma. She was a passenger, and the driver fled the scene. I’ve been waiting two months for some sort of lead.
Of course, it would be easier if she was awake.
“Nope, but what’s new? He’s been such a flake. I just wish I had real money to hire someone who could take care of things for me. I’m so over my head.”
“Okay, well, keep me posted. Text me tomorrow—we both have the day off, right? We could do brunch?”
“Yeah, I have tomorrow off. I’m going to the hospital, but I’ll text you and we can meet up.” I smile at Claire, grateful I’ve met someone in this town who isn’t trying use me. I have an ugly history with guys who aren’t so nice … right now I only have time for friends who have my back. “And Claire, thanks for asking about my sister. It means a lot to have someone in my corner.”
“Hey, that’s what we girls gotta do.” Claire kisses my cheek, and I’m sure she’s left a bright red lip mark. “Oops,” she says, pulling away and grimacing. “You should probably wash that off before you go to the poker room. Carla says this party is as high-stakes as it gets.”
“I hope I don’t trip in these fucking heels,” I say. “I need a foot masseuse like nobody’s business. I don’t know how you’ve worked here for four years. Four weeks, and my body is begging me to get hired as a receptionist.”
“It gets easier, and the money is better here than an office job,” she says. “Anyways, about this gig, apparently the game happens once a month. Carla was pretty private and hush-hush about the players, and she’s gonna be pissed I’m not there … but no worries. Act confident and don’t let her intimidate you, okay?”
“Why do I feel like you are setting me up to fail?”
“I’m not. I know there will be big tips tonight, and you need the money more than any of us girls here.”
“Thanks, Claire.”
“Anytime, sweet cheeks.” She slaps my fish-netted booty and leaves the kitchen.
I’m touched by her thoughtfulness, by her knowing what the extra money means to me right now.
Looking at the clock on the wall, I know I won’t have time to refill those drinks before this job.
Tess, another one of the waitresses, comes in the back, and I beg her in the nicest way possible to help me out. She agrees, because she’s from the South and never thought a bad thing in her life.
Okay, it’s a stereotype, but her sweet-tea smile makes my teeth hurt. She’s too innocent for this town. She is the opposite of Claire, who is no-nonsense, no-frills.
Tess came to this town looking for fame, some sort of fortune. More than once, I’ve seen her sitting at a slot machine during her lunch break, biting her lip, hoping for a payday.
I hand her my list of drinks and direct her to the tables I’d been working. I’d been over at blackjack and know there are better tips in that area than the slots she’s been working all night.
“You’re a life saver,” I tell her.
“Thanks, Emmy,” she says. “I am so sick of those blinking lights.
“Sure thing.”
I know it’s Vegas, all steamy sex and scantily clad women—but I don’t actually hate this job. I like the girls I work with. There’s a sense of camaraderie I’ve never had before. I know it’s a far cry from my life in middle-of-nowhere, Washington, but as stressful as things have been with my sister, I’m grateful to be able to come here to work and feel like the women around me genuinely have my back.
Leaving the kitchen, I head to the break room to grab my purse and coat, because I’ll be in the private suite all night and will take my breaks up there, too.
But before
I can ride the elevator to the suite, I need to wash the lipstick off my face.
As I step down the corridor on the way to the bathroom, I see the hallway guy from earlier, the one who made me heat up with desire.
He doesn’t notice me though; he’s talking to another man, a man even more intense than he is. And this other guy is nowhere near as put together. He looks like he stepped out of a mafia movie, all old-school gangster, like he belongs in an Italian restaurant in NYC, or at least in downtown Las Vegas, on the old strip.
Everyone knows the owner of Spades Royalle has past ties with the mafia, but I’ve never glimpsed any dark dealings here. Granted I haven’t worked here very long. And I promised myself that if Spades Royalle ended up being a seedy establishment, I’d get the hell out.
I don’t need any drama; I’ve spent my life fighting against a shady past.
Spades Royalle was the first place I was hired when I moved here, and I needed money. Bad. And since the girls who worked here were nice I figured, worst-case scenario, it would be a temporary position. Everyone says this place is more exclusive than other casinos, and it has a boutique-y feel that I like.
But while it may be smaller in size, the Spades makes up for that with the big-name guests. Spades has become the go-to swanky, sex-pot locale for the rich and famous coming to Vegas.
Still, it is Vegas. Near-naked women are everywhere—hell, I’m one of them. There are strip poles in every hotel room at the Spades, and while prostitution isn’t legal per se, there’s a phone directory beside each bed, listing women you can call if you want to be “tucked in.”
And after a childhood with a father who never put women first, I know the best thing to do is stay far away from the owner of this hotel. Keep my head down, show up to work when I’m told, and cash my paycheck.
Because even if some people say the owner has changed, that his dirty past doesn’t follow him, I know the signs of shady dealings—and from where I’m standing now, watching these two men, I don’t like the exchange I’m witnessing.
And while this guy I’m staring at may be shady —he has still gotten me downright hot. His eyes are full of suppressed emotion, his jawline square—and everything about him screams I’m a mother-fucking man.