by J. Saman
Hits you on a different level.
But she’s trouble. And I don’t have time for a lost girl.
There’s a lot more to the story than that, though. A lot more. I haven’t lived in this town all that long, only existed in this very exclusive world with irregular infrequency. I grew up on the smaller side of life thanks to my mother, but there was nothing small about my father’s world, and as a result, I know what a girl with money looks like.
Mia has money.
Her suitcases were designer. Her purse is, too, and the shoes she wore last night have those signature red soles. And yet, she was driving that piece of shit Chevy that was older than Cal. She wouldn’t answer my questions and practically broke down into hysterics when I explained why buses weren’t an option. And why couldn’t she go to a hotel? I can’t imagine money was the reason.
No, it’s because she didn’t want to produce an ID or credit card.
She said she had no one to call.
Girls like her always have someone to call—a boyfriend or a daddy—and the fact that she said she didn’t and was stranded in the middle of nowhere in that car, before running off alone into the Las Vegas night, only to turn up now, is raising all kinds of red flags. It also pisses me off. Like she’s been right here, under my nose this entire time.
That didn’t stop you from helping her.
It didn’t. Her crying in my truck that night dropped me to my knees. And really, what was I supposed to do? Leave the woman stranded somewhere? Or worse, in a Vegas bus station? No way. Never in a million years. I hadn’t expected her to run out on me. I’d thought she’d stay and let me help her.
She’s scared. Of me personally? Of men in general? I’m not entirely sure yet.
But I do know she doesn’t like to be touched, which only seems to make me want to do it more.
I sigh. Out loud and right in the middle of the hall.
Mia Jones. Who are you? And why do I want to know so badly?
I pull out my phone and find that it is, in fact, off. I turn it on, wait for it to power up and text Cal, informing him that I’ll train Mia again tomorrow night. Not that she really needs much training. She’s a decent bartender, despite being noticeably inexperienced. That will work to my advantage since I hate tending bar. That was not a lie. It’s why I became a waiter instead of taking on any other position.
I have plenty of experience waiting tables, which, considering what my life has become in the last six months, makes me nostalgic for that simpler way of living. Last night, when I came in and Cal told me that Kippa had called out and that I was needed to train the new girl, I was not pleased. And when I challenged him on Kippa, he just threw his hands up in the air and said, “Why do you think I hired the new girl? This is your show and you’re the only one who can do it.”
He was right. It is my show. All of it. So, I sucked it up and made my way over to the bar.
And then I saw her.
My tragic mystery girl.
Even though she looked a little different than the last time I had seen her, I knew her instantly. There’s no forgetting a woman like her. I saw her smile at the asshole with the pinched face who was being nothing but rude as he ordered his drink. I watched as she fumbled about making his drink, even though I knew she didn’t know how to work the register. I even caught the flash of panic in her eyes when he asked if he could start a tab.
I watched her because I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
I had no idea how to process encountering her again. And after two solid weeks.
I resented her for running off on me. I was bitter because I was worried about where she went and whether she was okay. I was furious that after two fucking weeks, I still thought about her.
It’s why I was so cold and detached at first. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to grab her, shake her and demand answers. Ask her if she knew everything she’d put me through? But more importantly, I just wanted to make sure she was okay, and that frustrated me most of all.
Then she made that comment about knowing how to handle a dick and that wall I had constructed to keep her back crumbled. Her embarrassment was adorable. The way her cheeks reddened was alluring. And how she looked in that uniform dress was downright sinful. The outfit she’s wearing this morning might be just as bad.
But she’s raising more red flags than I care to think about. And yeah, I crossed the line when I told her not to talk to that guy. Technically it’s part of her job to flirt with the customers, and what she does when she’s not working is none of my business. But I couldn’t stop myself. Just like I couldn’t stop myself from touching her cheek. Her hair. Jesus, it’s like spun silk and the color of molasses.
I brush off that encounter because I’ll have another opportunity to try and figure her out tomorrow night. Walking through the hotel, I pass the main casino and make my way down the hall to the staff and corporate area. The resort chain is comprised of three hotels in Las Vegas and another dozen satellite ones throughout the country. Turner Hotels are quickly becoming exactly what my father envisioned.
As for me? I don’t know if he ever anticipated me.
If he ever really figured me into the equation. But the fool thought he was immortal. That a life of alcohol, cigars, and cocaine wouldn’t catch up to him, and now here I am. Maybe that’s why he paid for MIT and then Wharton after the Army. Not that business was ever my endgame. It wasn’t. I just went along with his suggestions because I was at a loss. I had no idea what I wanted my future to be after I left the Army. It was like that bullet to the shoulder flipped my world on its head, and the life I had once envisioned for myself was no longer relevant or desired. So, I went to his fancy schools and when that was done, after he spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on my education, I became a waiter.
I liked waiting tables. I liked going to clubs. I liked meeting women and fucking them. I liked living that life.
Then six months ago, my world flipped upside down once again.
My father died.
He left his girlfriend of ten years some cash, but nothing more. Everything else went to me. The hotels. The restaurants. The clubs. The casinos. The empire. All mine now.
And since he had never publicly claimed me as his son, I was unknown. I did not exist in the media. The tabloids had no knowledge of me. I was the son of the woman he spent a summer loving and he never had any other children. His will was explicit and thus far, uncontested.
So, it all fell on me.
I spent four months traveling across the country from one hotel to another, checking them out individually.
And now I’m in Vegas. The end of the line. The biggest cluster of hotels we have, and by far, the most lucrative. The casinos are the main reason behind that. The money they haul in is astronomical. The hotels and restaurants rake it in as well. But you don’t get to know, understand, a business until you work in it.
I’m a waiter in the most popular restaurant we have. I’m a Pit Boss in our most popular casino. And I’m a bouncer in our most popular club.
Each of these are spread throughout the three hotels here in town.
Corporate types have no idea what makes these places run, but if you get on the inside, become one with the culture, you learn more than you ever could while sitting in a board room.
It’s why we’re refurbishing three of our restaurants, expanding our casinos and bolstering our nightclubs. The money is exorbitant, but in the end, we’ll make it back and then a shit ton more. I’ve already seen the changes I’ve made pay off. Not that there’s anyone to challenge me. There is no board. My father was the sole propriety entity.
He was also a colossal prick.
But I’m not.
Even though I am technically the one in charge, the name behind the show, I am not the faceplate. Nor do I want to be. I like the fact that the press still have no idea I exist. They think my father’s second in command is in charge, and for some of it, he is. Enough to keep him happy at least. One thing my fath
er did right was to hire a dynamic executive team. Despite my age and inexperience, thus far, they’ve been receptive to my ideas.
I punch in the code, swipe my card, wait for the beeps, and then I’m in, walking down the long white corridor until I reach the elevator at the end. It takes me right up to the corporate suite. I button the top button of my shirt, straighten my tie and become my most ruthless self.
“Mr. Turner,” my assistant says with a warm smile. She’s been working here since she was twenty-two and is Vegas born and raised. She’s become an invaluable resource. “They’re waiting for you in the gold room, sir.”
Sir. I almost scoff. I’m twenty years her junior, but suddenly I’ve become sir to her.
“Thank you, Malerie.”
I open the double doors without a moment’s hesitation, and when I enter, everyone sits up straight. And if I’m Malerie’s junior by twenty years, these men have got thirty on me. I’ll give them their dues, because they do not regard me as a kid. The changes I’ve already enacted in the other hotels are making money on the investments we’ve put in, and in the end, it’s making them richer.
Vegas is our headquarters. It’s our start. Everything else is a branching out of the original. Which means it has to be the best. It’s why I’m here. It’s why I’ve spent the last two months of my life playing house and learning everything there is to learn about the hotel and casino business.
“Jake, my boy,” Morgan Fair says, the smile on his wrinkled face oozing from his voice.
Maybe they do see me as a kid, after all.
He stands up, slaps me on the back like we’re close chums and gives a shit, then he sits back down on my right. No coincidence. He’s the figurehead.
“Morgan,” I say before I greet everyone else at the table. I take my seat at the head of the polished mahogany table, steeple my fingers and sit up straight. I may be young in this game. I may not have a lot of experience. I may be so far out of my depth I’m drowning in the swell.
But fuck it and fuck them.
Twenty-nine is not a boy.
We settle into business and for the next hour and a half, I talk shop. I discuss the new DJs and music acts who will be headlining our clubs and concert venues. I disclose the new celebrity chef I hired and the theme of the new restaurant we’re adding. I describe the new sports betting that’s going live later this quarter, which is similar to fantasy sports leagues you see online, all done through a secure app that can be accessed anywhere, anytime. It’s a plan to keep them gambling with us, even when they’re not physically here. Maddox’s dream baby.
All of this goes well. They’re in. They’re excited.
And I feel fan-fucking-tastic when I walk out of that boardroom.
I don’t think about Mia. Not once. Not until the door of my father’s condo clicks shut behind me and I’m blasted with the chill of the air conditioning and the quiet of an empty space. Now she’s back. Full force. How? Hell, if I know.
This thing with her… This thing that is not even close to being a thing… Well, shit, it’s turning me back into a bartender. It’s filling my mind with questions I wonder if I’ll ever get the answers to. I have so much on my plate. Expectations. Deliverables. Working three different jobs at all different hours in addition to playing CEO.
I don’t have time to be the guy on his knees for the girl who doesn’t want him there.
I don’t have time for the effort she’ll no doubt require.
My expensive shoes tap against the marble floor as I make my way to what is now my bedroom. I grew up here in a way. It was the only place I ever visited my father. He may have owned two dozen hotels nationwide, but Vegas is where he liked to be. When I visited, he never took me out. We stayed inside. He’d order room service, which I thought was unbelievably cool, I’d swim in the private pool he has on the large wraparound terrace, and it would be just him and me.
It took a very long time to realize what he was actually doing. Hiding me.
After he died, after his girlfriend took all the furniture when she left, I redid things a bit. Made it more me and less him. But now it’s a just a giant lonely place that still doesn’t feel like home. The balcony is off the master and the family room, but I enter it through the bedroom because that’s where I was headed when I decided blistering heat was more favorable than a soft bed.
The heat is so overpowering it steals my breath, instantly covering me in a sheen of sweat. It’s well over a hundred today and that’s street level. I’m fifty stories up. None of the other rooms have balconies. No hotel in Vegas would ever be that stupid. My father had this added on and had the railing made out of thick glass that goes up to my waist. I don’t dare touch it. It will most likely burn me if I do.
I just stand here, staring out at the strip and the mountains and the bright blue desert sky. The heat is blistering. The air is heavy, sweltering and absolutely perfect. I close my eyes and let the sun sear into me. Let it brand me. Let the sweat wash away…well, everything.
That thought makes me smile for some reason.
Like this is the fresh start I’ve been looking for. Because this is my chance. I’m no longer the middle-class kid from Baltimore. I’m no longer the rich son of the hotel tycoon. I’m no longer the party guy.
I’m Jake Harris Turner.
And that new distinction has made me accountable. Has made me an adult. And has made me want to figure out absolutely everything about the woman dominating my thoughts.
Chapter Seven
Placing my earphones in my ears, I adjust them until they’re the way I like them. I hit play on my running mix, tuck the iPod into the plastic, waterproof protector on my arm and set off. It’s raining today. It’s the first time I’ve seen rain since I got here, and I welcome it. Wet and cool. At least, cooler than normal. The scent of fresh rain against hot pavement—petrichor, I once heard someone call it—fills my nostrils as I crack my neck and stretch out my muscles until the tightness releases.
I’m new at this. Not the running part—I used to do that every chance I got. Exercise was one of the few freedoms I had—but the leaving the hotel part, that’s new. And the training part. But Maddox offered to help and since he’s a huge bear of a man, former-Army per him, he knows how to throw a solid punch.
Taking Back Sunday unapologetically blares in my ears as I run down the strip, heading for less conspicuous territory. This is normally an excessively busy area, but right now, at this very early hour, it’s quiet. I find my rhythm quickly, enjoying the solitude of the wet, gray morning.
The cold rain comes down in angry torrents, slapping against my skin with a sting and soaking me through. My mind clears, allowing me to only focus on my breathing and footing on the slippery concrete. It’s the only time of day I don’t actively think of him. That I’m able to let go.
I jog up the street another two blocks until I spot the black sign with white block lettering that says, David Torres, Gym and Mixed Martial Arts Studio. I have no idea who David Torres actually is, but Maddox says he’s a good friend and is cool with us using one of his training rooms for free as long as it’s before eight.
Slowing down before I reach the door, I walk the last hundred or so yards, hands on my hips, as I pull the cool morning air in through my nose and out my mouth. Two extremely built guys head straight for the door to the gym, shooting the shit with each other. The people who train here are hardcore. Professionals. Or trying to be. I’m not, nor am I trying to be, but this is the first thing I’ve done that’s made me feel strong, empowered even, since I left.
I scoot in behind them before the door has a chance to shut and head straight for the stairs that will take me to the third-floor private training space. The first floor of the building is the main gym. Every kind of machine and free weights a person could desire is there, as well as a few treadmills, stationary bikes and elliptical machines. It’s also where the locker rooms and saunas are located.
The second floor is set up into four separate
spaces. Two are training or class studios and the other two are set up as mock octagons for sparring. The sparring rings are intense and only for the professional fighters that train here. I’ve never been here during those scheduled hours, but I did overhear one of the other women discussing it in the locker room. Apparently, a man got his jaw broken, and his eye swelled up so badly he couldn’t see out of it because he refused to spar with protective gear.
The last thing I want to watch is people getting the shit beat out of them for sport.
The third floor, however is set up as open space for private lessons. Half of the floor is the regular pale hardwood that make up the rest of the gym, the other half is hard mats. I have private lessons three mornings a week with Maddox. When I asked him, again, why he was helping me, he informed me that he has four older sisters. Four. And so, his rationale was this: “If any one of my sisters were in the position you’re in, I’d like to think there would be someone to help them the way I’m helping you.” I took that, and I kept it. Maddox is a good man and I do not know how I’ll repay him yet, but I will. Fake IDs, new jobs, personal training and just generally being there when I need him.
He’s like the big brother I never had. A gorgeous one, but our relationship is purely platonic. And I know that one works both ways. He doesn’t look at me the way Jake does. Jake looks at me like he doesn’t know how not to. Like he doesn’t want to look anywhere else. Maddox didn’t notice I’d dyed my hair until I asked him what he thought of the change.
I make my way up the last step and walk through the large, glass, double doors that lead to the studio. The door closes behind me with a swoosh and I’m instantly assaulted with the scent of bleach disinfectant, chemical air freshener and sweat. It’s is as unpleasant as it sounds, and yet, it’s oddly comforting.