ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(16)

Okay, back to reality, Emmy. That was make-believe, this is real-life.

And even though the last thing I want to do is put those fishnets back on, put on the crumpled pleather leotard, slide on those stilettos … I know I must.

I need to get to my apartment, shower.

I need to visit my sister in the hospital.

I need to pretend this never happened, because Boss-man is shady in the ways I promised myself I’d never get tangled up in again. Shady in ways that make me feel like I am my mother’s daughter.

And I want to be more. The past five years, I have fought to be better, braver. Stronger. The kind of woman my mom never was.

I wrap a sheet around me and walk from the bedroom to retrieve my clothes. Stepping back into the empty suite’s living room, where the guys played poker last night, I think how much really has been a mystery.

I’ll never see Boss-man again. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll glimpse his friends around the casino.

Before I dress, I grab my purse from the closet where I stowed it last night when I got here. No missed calls on my phone, so that’s good. Though I did miss a text an hour ago from Claire asking if I wanted to meet for morning Bloody Marys.

I smile, hoping she had a good night, knowing there is no way in hell I am going to dish about mine.

I need to put that orgasmic time behind me.

It’s for the best—I certainly have enough on my plate. Determined to move forward, I walk through the living room to get last night’s uniform. Putting my sad excuse for an “outfit” back on will equal a walk of shame I’ve never experienced in Vegas.

But there are worse things than getting properly screwed.

No shame here.

A few shopping bags sit next to my rumbled uniform. Looking around the empty room, I frown, knowing they weren’t here last night.

Setting my phone down on the stack of magazines on the side table, I take a better looks at the bags around me. Designer everything. Completely above my pay grade.

I pull out a tissue-wrapped pair of Saint Laurent white skinny jeans and a black-and-white top in a size six. My size.

Well, at least on the days I don’t eat Tommy C’s pizza. Which last night I did not.

Next to it, a Jimmy Choo bag contains a box with a pair of size nine leopard print heels, that yeah, look like they might hurt to walk in, but it would be worth dying in these. A La Perla bag holds a gorgeous white medium-sized thong, and a matching white lace bra — 34DD, my size again.

A fourth bag holds a Bordeaux-colored, sleeveless bandage dress from Herve Leger that literally has me drooling. Another shoebox holds a pair of Dolce and Gabbana peep-toe booties in black. There are no underthings for this dress, and I kind of think that’s the point. This dress leaves exactly zero to the imagination.

I swallow, never actually having held such amazing pieces in my life. I empty all the tissue paper from the bags, wondering what it all means, not liking what it implies. There’s no note, no explanation. No nothing.

Standing, I bite my lip. Hesitant. Near the door, there’s a cart with a carafe of coffee and a silver lidded tray. I walk to it and lift the lid, revealing fresh fruit and a bagel with lox.

I frown; my stomach roars. I try to think. What the fuck does this all mean? Then, next to the food on the cart, I see a small vase with a single exquisite red rose. An envelope leans against it.

On the front it reads Emmy Rose in a rough scrawl.

Running my finger across the seal, I pull out a piece of Spades Royalle stationary.



Emmy,



I want to see you again.

In this dress.

Then I’m gonna tear it off of you.

And you are gonna fuck me.

I won’t take no for an answer.



Tonight. Eleven o’clock. Stacked.



— Boss-man



My heart pounds in my chest, and I don’t know what to think. I blink, trying to decide … do I put on these fucking clothes and walk out of here like I’m the property of a guy who is supposed to be a one-night stand?

The property of a guy who’s shady. Shady like the kind I have to avoid—the kind that was my father. The kind that killed my mother. The kind that nearly killed me.

I saw the way Boss-man spoke to the guy in the hallway last night. It sent a shiver down my spine … I can’t go back to a life full of loss, full of nothing. I’ve worked too hard to become something.

I can’t. I can’t get tangled up with this cocky bastard. That note alone should be reason enough to stay clear of this womanizing, no-name asshole.

He thinks he can buy me? I cannot be bought.

Grabbing my fishnets, I sit on the couch, determined to walk out of here—yeah, maybe in yesterday’s clothes, but my head will be held high.

As I start to roll the netting over my foot, I hear my cellphone ring. I grab it, wondering if it might be Boss-man.