Hustler

by Meghan Quinn

  “Thank you, Mr. Saint,” she says gratefully.

  Letting my personality show just a little. I wink at her and say, “You can call me, Gavin.” Then I take off.

  Chapter Four

  **NELL**

  “Morning, sunshine,” Page sing-songs, instantly making me want to punch her in her way-too-chipper throat.

  My best friend is the complete opposite of me in every way. She’s a morning person to my night owl. She’s blonde to my brunette. She’s sweet to my sour. She’s tall to my petite…

  You get the picture. Somehow, despite our massive differences, we seem to fit. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

  “Too early,” I grumble as I make a beeline for the coffee pot, in desperate need of my morning fix.

  “Long night?” Page chuckles from her place at the stove as she flips a perfectly round pancake. That’s another thing that makes Page the world’s best roommate. The girl can cook like her life depends on it. And she never withholds her culinary brilliance.

  She works as a personal chef to the people living the lifestyle of the rich and famous. It’s not what she dreamed she’d be doing when she graduated from culinary school. The pay is pretty lousy, and she’s got some horror stories that could rival my own when it comes to working for dick heads, but there is one massive perk that comes with her job.

  Leftovers.

  We basically live off of everything her upper crust clientele deem unworthy to pass their pearly white veneers. Their paleo, gluten free, and Atkins diets are our gain.

  “If by long, you mean quitting my job and then immediately begging for it back, then yeah, I had a long night,” I answer before hopping up on the counter next to her and sucking down a large gulp of caffeinated goodness.

  “You quit?!” she yelps, shooting me a wide-eyed, worried look.

  “In my defense, the only reason I quit was because I thought I was getting fired. It was a simple misunderstanding. It worked itself out.”

  “Why did you think you were getting fired?” she asks as she turns back to the pancake and takes a sip of her own coffee.

  “Because I kneed a dude in the junk.” That sip she just took sprays everywhere as she begins to choke. “Ah, man!” I pout, looking at the ruined food in the skillet. “You just ruined that pancake. That’s coming out of your stack, not mine.”

  “You kneed a guy in the junk?”

  “Yeah,” I shrug casually as I lift my mug to my lips.

  “You know, it’s not all that surprising coming from you, but care to tell me why?”

  I set my mug down and proceed to tell her about Ramos and his wandering hand, and the bizarre conversation that came after with Gavin Saint.

  “Gavin Saint? You mean, the Gavin Saint?”

  I nod, “Yep. The Poker King of Vegas, himself. Apparently when he’s not taking everyone’s money, he works security or something for Hotel Paragon. I didn’t recognize him at first, but when he insisted I call him Mr. Saint, it clicked.”

  “Damn, girl. You got some one-on-one time with Gavin Saint. Is he as gorgeous in person as he is on TV?”

  I think back to how those dark, nearly black eyes bore into me as he talked. I have to suppress the shiver that wants to work its way up my spine. Truth is, the man is sex on two legs. What we’ve seen when watching him play poker on TV is absolutely nothing in comparison to what he looks like in person. My body completely ignited under his gaze. But no way in hell am I admitting that out loud. Page is a hopeless romantic at heart, and if she thought I was interested in any way, she’d be playing matchmaker in a heartbeat.

  “Meh,” I shrug. “He’s okay, I guess. Kind of an asshole, if you ask me. Just like all the rest of them, entitled, thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he has money.”

  “Well that’s a shame,” she mumbles as she places the last pancake on the plate and flips off the burner.

  We carry our breakfast over to the coffee table in front of the couch and sit on the old, faded carpet. As usual, the first bite melts in my mouth and I let out a moan of appreciation. Once we’re finished, I take the dirty dishes back into the kitchen and begin washing everything. That’s one of our deals. If Page cooks, I clean, and seeing as we don’t have a dishwasher, I spend the next ten minutes washing everything by hand and setting it on the drying rack next to the sink.

  “So what do you have planned today?” Page asks. “I was thinking we’d hit up a couple consignment shops. See if we can find anything good.”

  Page and I don’t live in the best part of town. Putting it bluntly, it’s shit. The apartment complex we rent out of is run down, and I’m pretty sure the dude under us cooks meth on occasion, but we try hard to make our place as nice and welcoming as possible… on a broke girl’s budget, of course. We hit up flea markets, consignment shops, thrift stores, estate sales… you name it. I like to refer to our home as hobo-chic. The furniture and décor might be noticeably old, but everyone who walks through our door has an instant sense that they’re welcome. It is the best we can do.

  “Can’t today,” I pout. “Mr. Saint is making me come in for training this afternoon after last night’s ordeal.” Just the thought of seeing him again has my stomach twisting into knots.

  “Fun,” she snickers at my expense. “Think you can refrain from junk punching anyone today?”

  “I make no promises,” I answer with an evil smile.

  ***

  By the time I’m in the elevator at Hotel Paragon, I’m a mess of jumbled nerves. I know I played it up as no big deal to Page, but I desperately need to keep this job. When I called my mom earlier for our weekly chat, she informed me that tips have been low at the diner she works at, and they haven’t been able to pay the phone bill. She warned me not to worry if I called and couldn’t get through and that she’d get the bill caught up as soon as possible.

  My father’s disability checks and my mom’s work at the diner just isn’t enough to cover their household expenses, my dad’s medical bills from his injury, along with the debt they’d racked up for my years of gymnastics training. Back then, I didn’t have a clue how they managed to pay for all of the expenses that came with it, and if I were being honest, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be a gymnast. And as a self-involved child, I wanted my parents to do whatever they could to make that dream happen. And they had.

  Now the guilt of everything they struggle with just to give me my dream weighs heavily on me. When I originally got to Vegas, I was so sure I’d show up, audition, land a part, and start raking in the money before I could blink. Then I’d be able to pay my parents back for everything they’d done for me.

  Yeah, not so much.

  I’m barely living hand to mouth as it is, and haven’t been able to do anything to lessen my parents’ burden. Every week they tell me not to worry about them, that they’ll be fine and to live my life. But every week I feel that dread in the pit of my stomach at the exhaustion in my mom’s voice or the defeated undertone of my father’s. Something has to happen, and soon.

  Hopefully I’ll be able to get through this training, make some decent tips, and send them enough money to at least keep their phone on. I hate the idea of not being able to talk to them every week.

  The door to the high roller’s suite is closed when I arrive, and unsure what to do, I reach up and knock.

  “Come in,” Gavin’s deep, gravelly voice calls out through the thick wooden door. Gavin is sitting at the poker table, his strong forearms resting along the edge casually as though he’s completely at ease. Which, considering he looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, is about right. He’s dressed in another impeccable suit, and that just fucked hairstyle he’s rocking makes my fingers twitch to run through it and see if it feels as silky as it looks. Damn, the man is just too good looking for his own good. Fortunately for me, he goes and opens his mouth, destroying the picture of perfection I can’t seem to get out of my head. “Nice of you to show,” he says sarcastically as I take a step into the
room. Instantly, my hackles rise.

  “You said two, didn’t you?”

  His head tilts to the side as his gaze rakes up and down my body. His expression remains blank the entire time and I have no idea if he finds me attractive or beneath him. The man gives absolutely nothing away.

  “I did,” he responds in a tone bordering on uninterested. “And you’re late. I don’t like being kept waiting, Miss Prescott.”

  I glance down to the watch on my wrist before looking back at him in bewilderment. “It’s only 2:05.”

  “And that’s five minutes I had to waste sitting here when I have more important things to do. Next time we schedule a training, I suggest you try a little harder to be on time. It’s a common courtesy, Miss Prescott.”

  I feel my eyes narrow in a glare, and my mouth opens, words spewing out before I have a chance to stop them. “Well excuse me for throwing off your schedule, your Highness. I’m so sorry for inconveniencing you. It won’t happen again.”

  At my sarcastic remark, something on his face changes. The blank, emotionless demeanor shifts away as his lips spread into a perfectly straight, white smile. It takes his already handsome face and bumps it up a thousand notches. With just one smile he went from hot to panty drenching gorgeous.

  “Good to see that fire wasn’t just a fluke,” he mutters as he stands from his chair at the table and slowly makes his way to me.

  “Huh?” My head starts to spin from a combination of confusion and Gavin Saint’s crisp, clean scent.

  “Five minutes might not seem like much to you or me, Miss Prescott, but to the men who frequent this room, it’s an insult,” he speaks in a low, lulling voice as he circles me.

  “Wait… so you were testing me just now?”

  “I was,” he answers, coming to a stop directly in front of me. Those eyes glimmer nearly black as he gazes intently down at me. Despite the way my insides are melting into a puddle, I keep my chin held high, hoping and praying he can’t see that his very presence is turning me into an embarrassingly wet bundle of lust.

  “I totally failed, didn’t I?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a fail,” he chuckles. “You said all the right things, just be sure to drop the sarcasm next time. Oh, and I’d lose the your highness also. I don’t see that going over too well.”

  “Noted,” I murmur, feeling the heat of embarrassment creep into my cheeks. When he reaches out to take my arm, just above my elbow, bolts of electricity shoot from the tips of his fingers throughout my entire body, and it takes everything I have not to shiver at his touch as he leads me further into the room.

  “I see you got a new pair of heels,” he offers, looking back over his shoulder, scanning my body once again.

  “Oh… uh, they’re my roommate’s,” I answer as a million butterflies take flight in my belly. Biting my lip, I try not to look directly at him as he takes the seat he vacated just a minute before. To my surprise, he uses his foot to scoot the chair next to him out and, using his hold on my arm, guides me into the seat.

  “Well, they look great on you,” his voice rumbles. “You really have fantastic legs.”

  That snaps my attention back to his face, and I see those nearly black eyes staring at my legs with laser focus. “Is this another test?” I blurt, drawing his attention back up.

  “Do you want it to be?” he grins wickedly. I can’t help but feel like the situation is beginning to spiral out of control, and I need to do something to stop it.

  “I’d like to get this training under way so we aren’t both stuck here for longer than necessary.”

  That smile on his face brightens as he props an elbow on the poker table and rests his chin on his fist. “Tell me a little bit about yourself, Miss Prescott. Maybe getting to know each other will help smooth things along.”

  “Um, well…” I start, wringing my hands in my lap nervously.

  “There’s nothing for you to be nervous about,” he says, as if he is reading my mind. “You can speak as candidly as you want right now. No repercussions.”

  I regard him skeptically, one brow raised on my forehead. “Really?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he answers, drawing a little X over his heart with his index and middle finger. The casual gesture works to lessen some of the tension in the room.

  “All right. For starters, you think you could knock the Miss Prescott bit off? I feel like an eighty year old woman who should be driven around by Morgan Freeman. If you won’t call me Nell, at least call me Penelope, for crying out loud.”

  His deep chuckle resonates through my chest. “If that will make you more comfortable.”

  “It really will,” I huff.

  “All right then, Penelope. Tell me something else about you.”

  The way he’s looking at me, like he’s genuinely interested in hearing what I have to say, is flummoxing. Sure, I’m pretty used to guys hitting on me, but if my time in Vegas has proven one thing, it’s how rare it is to find someone who isn’t fake or has ulterior motives. But then again, Gavin Saint is a world renowned poker player with a notorious reputation as a player. Of course he’d put on a better act than other men.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, what was it you really wanted to do when you moved to Vegas?”

  Briefly taken aback at his intuitiveness, I gape for several seconds before finally answering, “How do you know I didn’t have a burning desire to be a cocktail waitress at Hotel Paragon?”

  “Please,” he scoffs. “That’s like a porn star saying he’s doing it for the art, not the money. It’s bullshit. No one comes to Vegas to be a waitress or a card dealer. Those jobs are filled with people who dreamed bigger before the real world knocked them down a couple of pegs.”

  That assessment stings more than I care to admit. “Wow, you don’t hold back any punches do you.”

  “I speak the truth,” he shrugs. “I tell it like I see it, and I’m rarely wrong. So tell me, why did you really come here?”

  The way he’s leaning in to me, the lowered tenor of his voice, and the hooded stare are all indications that Gavin Saint is a man used to getting what he wants. And in this moment, what he wants is my story, my secrets, the things I only tell to those I feel close to. Sadly, for probably the first time in his life, he isn’t going to get what he wants.

  I mimic his stance and lower my voice to a seductive level. “I came here so you could train me to be a proper cocktail waitress in the high roller’s suite, and nothing more. So if it’s all the same to you, I’d appreciate it if we get to that and stop screwing around.”

  I catch a brief flicker of shock in his dark eyes before he quickly extinguishes it and replaces it with his blank mask.

  “And where would you like to start,” he asks. “Perhaps I’ll teach you the right way to handle a VIP shoving his hand up your skirt.” Before I can formulate a response, his hand comes down on my thigh. Focusing as much energy as I can into not showing just how much the feel of his rough palm on my bare skin is affecting me, I pull in a calming breath and work to keep my face as blank as his as he slowly moves higher up my leg. “How would you handle one of the men in the room touching you like this, Penelope?”

  Wrapping my fingers around his wrist, I tamp down the unwanted desire I suddenly feel to slide his hand further up my skirt and instead remove it from my leg. “I’m sorry, sir, but we can’t permit touching like that.”

  “What if I make it worth your while?” he asks in a voice that is devastating to my insides.

  Making sure my voice portrays the boredom I’ve painted on my face, I lie. “Trust me, there isn’t enough money in the world to make that worth my while.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says softly, turning his wrist in my hold so that his big hand is now encompassing mine. I suddenly get the distinct impression we aren’t talking about VIP’s anymore. “I haven’t gotten any complaints so far. I wouldn’t knock it till you try it.”

  �
��Charming,” I reply, giving my hand a sharp tug, but the bastard only tightens his hold. “But I think I’m going to have to pass. Venereal diseases aren’t really my thing.” I smile rather smugly as I lean closer, ready to impart my kill shot. “Besides, I’m sure you’re used to it feeling like a hot dog being thrown down a hallway by now. I’d hate for the reminder of what it feels like to be inside a woman who’s tight to ruin you for all other vaginas.”

  Chapter Five

  **GAVIN**

  When I first arrived for my little training session this afternoon, I wasn’t expecting to be steam rolled by Penelope, and I’m not speaking of the fiery sass that pops out of her mouth with every other word. I’m talking about her sexy as fuck legs that rival Carrie Underwood’s, her fuckable lips, and the floral scent that keeps emanating off her body, surrounding me in a cloud of lust filled haze.

  Still gripping her wrist, I can feel her pulse beating against my fingers. Funny thing about the beating heart, it’s a person’s biggest tell if you’re able to get close enough to it. Penelope might be putting on a front, acting bored, uninterested, flippant at best, but I know better, because by the pace her heart is pounding, I know I have an effect on her, I’m just wondering why she’s not giving in to my passes.

  Backing away from her, I stand from my chair and close the middle button of my suit jacket. With a dominant and authoritative presence, I move behind her, pacing ever so slightly, preying on her like a hawk ready to strike. “Miss Prescott, are you always this vulgar when speaking to authority?”

  “Why are we back to calling me, Miss Prescott?”

  I grip the back of her chair and lean over her shoulder so my breath tickles her neck. “Because it seems to me by putting a sense of relaxation between us, you’ve found it easy to be disrespectful with that filthy mouth of yours.”

  “I only call it like I see it,” she responds, her eyes fixated on the room in front of us.

  “And how might you see it?” From the way my voice tickles the hairs on the back of her neck, I can see goosebumps pop up on the skin along her arms. I’m satisfied with the imposing impression I’m making on her.