Morrison

by Chelsea Camaron

  “Feeling pretty lucky, are you?” the chick with the wandering hand asks.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.” I flip my cards—two blackjacks, both a winning score with kings.

  That’s one of my quirks, too. Kings of the same color tell me I should be happy with what I have, so I collect my chips and start to stand.

  She looks up at me and shrugs her shoulders. “Your loss.”

  “Baby, I’m a winner all the damn time, and my night isn’t over. Maybe I’ll catch you around.”

  I walk away, twelve hundred dollars ahead in two hours. I hadn’t planned to stay this long, but I am winning.

  Seeing my car come around and stop beside me, I motion for the guy to pull forward because I can’t fully inspect her if she’s in the shadows. When he pulls up, I walk around her, then hand him a fifty and I’m off. The last stop of the night is gonna have to be Caesars.

  I walk in to find the place is packed, so I look around for an open table, but don’t see one. What I do see is a group of four chicks eye-fucking me, and these girls are from money. I cannot only see it, but when one walks past me, I can fucking smell it.

  I look down at her feet and spot perfectly manicured toes sticking out of her Fendi peep-toe slides. I slowly look up to see legs that are smooth and golden tan. I know damn well she is freshly waxed. Her little black skirt hits above her knees, but not too far up. She is wearing a pink, silky-looking, tank-style shirt. Her long black hair is in loose waves, and her dark brown eyes meet my gaze. She is classy in an old-money kind of way.

  Her friends walk by, all of them looking me over, appraising me. She is interested, and they know it. That’s what first-class ass does. They don’t make the decision on their own. No, they have a board of little debutant directors.

  I watch as they nod at her with approval. As far as she and her friends are concerned, this isn’t going to be a challenge: She is definitely getting a piece of this quadruple-approved ass.

  But it’s not enough of a game for me. Even though I’d love to tap into that, she hasn’t earned the right to get on this ride, not yet, anyway. As a result, when I see an open spot at a table, I decide to ignore First Class and do the job I came for.

  As soon as my butt hits the chair, the dealer throws the cards down on the table, and I pick them up. Five-card draw and I am holding two queens and a jack. Not great odds, but I throw some extra chips on the pile and up the ante. Then I throw three cards back, keeping my queens, and get three in return. I now hold another queen and an ace in my hand—three of a kind, ace is high.

  The feeling of calmness washes over me. I know I’m gonna win, and when I do, I look around to see the same crew of girls checking me out.

  Still not interested in them or their friend, I decide to call it a night at the tables. I’m up enough to put this game on hold. I walk toward the window to cash in my chips.

  She isn’t in my direct path, but with a few movements, she slinks right in front of me, looking expectant.

  I brush against her as I walk by, and she makes no attempt to move, giving me a whiff of her money with a hint of sweet, expensive perfume.

  After cashing in, I head toward the exit, deciding to go to Omni since the night is still young.

  A kaleidoscope of lights cascades through the main part of the club and a DJ plays some tune that attracts the crowd as I walk in. This place is four stories high and architecturally impressive. Between its dome ceiling and pillars and being filled with beautiful ass, bumping, grinding, moving, it’s electric.

  I don’t go to the dance floor, though. I walk to the bar.

  “Sparkling water, please, on the rocks.” The guy looks at me funny. “Listen up, man. I’m gonna tip you well, regardless of what I drink.”

  He nods, then goes to get my order.

  While waiting, I watch as the girls from earlier make their way to the dance floor. As they dance, they look around, trying not to be obvious. However, when one of the girl’s eyes meet mine, they all lean into a huddle—the boardroom.

  I swivel my stool so I am again facing the bar, and moments later, someone is at my side. I don’t have to wonder who it is, either—I smell her. She is determined. I’ll give her that, and possibly the release she is so obviously looking for.

  I look at the bar where her hands are resting and see a small indentation of where a ring once sat. Glancing up again, I see her smile.

  “You wanna go back to my place?” I question, knowing it will give me her tell. Will she continue trying to play this game, or will she let the player run the table?

  She tries to look annoyed, but then she smiles. “I have a room here.”

  I nod, then take a drink, in no hurry to tell her either yes or not interested. This doesn’t knock her off her presumptuous pedestal; it just tilts it a bit, making her a little vulnerable, which is where she needs to be.

  She shifts in her slides, a little less poised, and I turn my stool to look at her, eye-fucking her from head to toe. I am judging her like the show pony she is, while she is crawling out of her skin, waiting for my response. I don’t give her one, though.

  She tries to get some control back by asking, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “I’m not into relationships,” I tell her honestly, letting her know before shit goes down that I’m no prize to be brought home to Daddy.

  “I’m recently single, too. No desire to jump into another.”

  “I can tell.” I take another sip, then grab her hand and hold it up, rubbing my thumb across the indentation. She takes in a quick breath, and I stare into her eyes. “Let’s go to your room and make you forget all about it. When you go home, you can remember this night, and relish your little secret. Because what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  Chapter 6

  Hailey

  Everything happened so fast. Jamie really had asked her husband for a divorce, and he’d compromised by arranging for her to have a shithole apartment so she could have some time to herself. He cut her off financially once she actually did leave him and moved into said shithole. What he didn’t know was she had been taking online classes for years and gotten a degree in medical billing, and she’s already lined up a job for herself so she can get by.

  Well, sort of.

  To our knowledge, no one else knew of her request for a divorce—Alex had told her to keep up appearances until she was sure she wanted to walk away from the life he had built for her. Until Monte made his comment, I’d played along with the lie that Jamie was still living with Alex. No matter how fucked-up her situation with him, no matter the games he is playing with her financially, I just have to be thankful he gave her a two-bedroom apartment, although neither one of us ever expected for me to end up at her place with Marisa.

  I was only permitted to become friends with Jamie because Alex was so deep in debt to Monte. His business needed an investor, and Monte fulfilled that role, becoming his long-term supporter and lifeline to financial survival.

  Checks and balances once again.

  With Jamie not wanting to continue her marriage to Alex, Monte loses his power of keeping my friend in line for the sake of her husband. The scales don’t tip in his favor.

  We should have known Alex would tell Monte. He wouldn’t keep that kind of secret from the man who has him by the balls.

  My refusal to open our bedroom to added participants tipped the scale. And not in his favor. Rather than compromise, he tossed me aside. Funny how staying faithful is a compromise. It’s just another example of just how fucked-up my world is.

  As soon as Monte headed out for his meeting, I packed what I could. I left my wedding rings on the dresser in the hopes that I wouldn’t somehow owe him for the overly priced designer jewelry that obviously meant nothing to him.

  Marisa and I had been at Jamie’s shithole apartment three days when the cops came. The two officers informed me that, although Monte had reported my car stolen, if they were able to recover the vehicle from me, I could avoid hi
s pressing charges.

  Before I had even had a chance to think about my life, it was already falling apart. Knowing I needed income and now a car, I let myself get sucked into the first job I could find, as a cocktail waitress at a casino. Then, using the grocery money I had stowed away, I bought a hooptie of a car that I have to pray will indeed start every time I turn the key.

  That was three months ago, during which time I received some sort of weekly reminder from Monte of what I owe him. Marshall, the chief chucklehead in charge of collection detail, said he would buy me an additional three months before he would start after me for payment. So now I have three months to find a solution to my problems. Three fucking months!

  The pay is good, but more than anything, the contacts will prove invaluable. Monte may think he holds the cards; however, he is too quick to think I will keep playing with his deck. Momma didn’t raise me to roll over. Regardless of our circumstances, she didn’t give up; she kept playing every hand life dealt her, no matter how the odds were stacked against her.

  My mother was far from perfect, but she was a fighter. Despite how bad things got, she always pushed forward, even if it wasn’t always in the right ways.

  Marisa and I will play the hand, and when the cards have been laid out, we will somehow win. Somehow, I will get in and win the pot. I will pay Monte every penny I owe so I can walk away with my precious baby girl, free and clear.

  Somehow, I will.

  “Come on, Flounder, time to get out.” I squirt a fish bathtub toy at her. This week, we are on a Little Mermaid kick. Next week, it will be Cinderella…again.

  I pick my daughter up from the bathtub to dry her off, and she smiles sweetly at me, momentarily taking away the stresses of my day.

  After lotion, pajamas, and hair and teeth brushing, we snuggle in the guest bed of my one trusted friend’s home. My heart hurts thinking of what we have left behind, but it wasn’t safe for us anymore. I live and breathe for the little girl beside me. Nothing will harm her ever, no matter what it takes from me.

  I look down as her eyes follow my finger in wonder at each word I read aloud. “Bedtime stories” is what she calls this. Precious moments is what it is for me.

  “And they lived happily ever after…The End.” I run my fingers through her soft hair.

  “Another one, peeez, Mommy?”

  How can I say no to that?

  After she snuggles down against me, I begin the new story as she gently drifts off to dreamland. Oh, if only it were this easy…

  I look to the bedside clock and sigh, knowing I have only thirty minutes to doll myself up for work tonight before I have to leave Marisa with Jamie.

  One day, I won’t be burning the candle at both ends.

  One day, I won’t be keeping a secret from my daughter.

  One day, we will be able to simply be Marisa and me.

  —

  Suit-wearing, slick-talking, snake-in-the-grass bastards. All of them! This is temporary, only a job. Moment by moment, I just have to get through another day.

  My feet ache with every step my high-heeled, covered toes have to take while I pull down on my skirt.

  Sleazy cocktail waitress uniform. These assholes think it’s made for easy access. They also think they can touch me wherever and however they want so I can earn my tips.

  One day, this will be a mere memory. For now, I have to keep working the casino. This is a means to an end. Thankfully, it is one that pays well, but it damn sure isn’t easy. I can’t let it get me down, though.

  Eye on the prize. Get the contacts and get in the underground games. Play a tournament.

  Win.

  Repay debt. Be done. Resume life.

  Momma always said, “The boys won’t like it if you beat ’em, Hailey Sue. You gotta hustle harder, play smarter, and tip the right man off. Know your place, darlin’.”

  “Yeah, Momma, how’d that work out for you?” I mutter to the dry Vegas air around me. Then I blow out a frustrated breath as I make my way to my car.

  You have got to be fucking kidding me right now!

  The minute I think this night can’t possibly get any longer, it damn sure does. One of these entitled motherfuckers has parked his car behind mine, blocking me in with no way out. I am sure his Porsche won’t look so good when I leave the imprint of my little Nissan hatchback’s bumper in the passenger door.

  Going over to my car, I unlock the door manually, since the keyless entry no longer works. Annoyance consumes me as I step out of my heels and let my feet hit the gravel beneath me. At this point, I don’t care how dirty it is—my feet hurt, my life is a complete mess, and tonight has been never-ending.

  I toss my purse into the back as I reach in to grab my duffel bag. Opening it up, I put some sweats on over my skirt, grab an old T-shirt, and cover my pushed-up, barely covered tatas, then start pulling the pins out of my hair. Once I free my locks from their fancy updo, I quickly throw it all up in a messy bun on top of my head.

  Glamorous, I am not.

  Once I have adjusted my look from work life to real life, I wait.

  Impatiently, I wait.

  If this guy is in a tournament and winning, I could be here all fucking morning. Making my way over to the car impeding my escape, I run my manicured finger over the edge of the beauty.

  One day, I will be just like these entitled fucks. One day, I will park my car wherever the hell I please without any regard for its being towed, hit, or stolen.

  Must be nice to not care about losing a hundred grand.

  I wish money was all that was at stake for me. But some of us can’t be so lucky, can we?

  I’m tapping my finger on the trunk when I hear a whistle behind me.

  “Get your fuckin’ hands off my ride!” A suit-wearing prick comes running over, muttering something about not having his usual valet guy.

  Well, la-dee-da, park your own car and you won’t have to worry about which valet guy stowed your ride in the wrong place.

  “Oh, what’s wrong? Afraid you might get a little dirt on ‘precious’ here? We wouldn’t want that now, would we?” I mock him, wiggling a finger in the air before bringing it back down onto the car. The acrylic on my nails does nothing to remotely scratch the clear coat of the vehicle, but it does make the asshole move faster.

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy? That car cost more than some people’s houses.”

  “Crazy? Nope. Pissed the fuck off? You betcha.”

  He looks at me, tilting his head to the side as if he is truly studying me. Then his hand comes up to his chest in mock pain.

  “Pissed at me? Why would you be pissed at me, babe?”

  “ ‘Babe’—fucking ‘Babe.’ Do I look like a pig to you?” I look down at my ripped sweats and college shirt, then raise my hand to ward off his response. I do look like a pig. And bottom line, I can’t risk being at war with any underground players, so it’s time to swallow my pride yet again. “Don’t answer that. I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot.”

  I extend my hand to him and put myself in the sweet zone as best I can. “I’m Hailey. I work inside and just got off. I came outside, ready to go home…only, you seem to have blocked me in.” I can be sweet at least long enough for him to say something stupid or move his car. I hope he can shut up and we can both move on.

  His eyes dance in humor as he takes my hand in his, giving me a firm handshake. “Call me Caldwell.”

  Chapter 7

  Morrison

  Call me Caldwell, call me Big Daddy, call me whatever you want as long as those red fucking lips are talking on the bone phone.

  After looking at fancily dressed broads all night, even blowing a few off so I could get some sleep, this chick is like an exotic, dirty little treat. She isn’t dirty in the way you would be led to believe, though. She doesn’t seem to have a 1980s bush and a stank-ass odor that makes me want to vomit in my mouth just thinking about it. I mean, let’s face it: I have tasted my share of week-old fish in my day, if you know
what I mean. The kind of stank that’s unbearable, especially since you know you have to finish the job with some fake chow action, seeing as how you already started.

  Her? Her clothes are fucked up, her hair messy and shoved into one of those “I don’t give a fuck” hairdos that would normally not be to my liking. Her hair is brown and thick, and I just want to go all Captain Caveman on her, then drag her by that thick mess to the nearest rock, bend her over, and fuck the bun loose.

  “You have breakfast yet?” I ask, pleading in my head for her to be as unruly as she appears in her damn bare feet on the gravel. Fuck, that would usually bug the hell out of me, but not now. I want to hear her say in a raspy Miley Cyrus voice, “Caldwell, I’m starving. Let’s just skip dinner and have me suck you off right here, right now.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” She snaps her fingers in my face. “Eyes up here, Slick.”

  I take my time looking up from her tits. Why rush? I mean, you don’t go to the pet store and immediately say, “Yeah, I’ll take that one.” You kind of check out the kitty first.

  “Hey, Slick, there isn’t a chance in hell I’m letting a guy like you try to wine and dine me. So, why not—”

  I hold up a finger. “Shh…I was just thinking about dessert.”

  “Is that so? What makes you think I’d let you?”

  I finally look into her eyes to see her chewing on her lip. “ ‘Let’ me? I wasn’t thinking about me, babe. I was thinking about the Caldwell cocktail I was gonna let you sample.”

  She lets out an annoyed laugh. “Yeah, well, I was just thinking pretty boy must have been turned down by the socialites in there, so let me give you some advice. They look at you and see a guy who spends just as much time in front of the mirror as they do. They’re thinking, ‘Damn, he’s hot, but with a face like that, he probably isn’t a giver.’ So, while you were thinking about me sucking you off, I was thinking about how my pussy grinding on your face might just teach you a lesson about how a woman really only wants a man to be a fucking man.”