ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(20)

Grinning at the way the jeans hug my ass, I can't help but indulge myself with a long look in the mirror. Even my tits look more amazing than normal in this lacy bra. I slip on the top, appreciating the flattering V-neck and loose tunic style.

And I love the way the twelve-hundred-dollar stilettos don't make my arches ache—nothing like the way my Target heels make my feet scream while I'm at work.

I dig in my purse for a compact and swipe powder over my nose and cheeks, lip gloss over my lips, and mascara on my lashes. Thank God for hotel toothbrushes and soap—I won't smell like casino-leftovers this morning.

Instead, I look better than I ever have in my life.

Stuffing my uniform in one of the bags, I grab the other ones, and head for the door. Taking one last look over the suite, I turn back to the breakfast cart.

Snagging the card, I stuff it in my purse. Maybe for personal evidence that for one night, I was irresistible to a man more handsome than I've ever seen.

And maybe this is cheesy, but I take the red rose, too, and push it through the bun on the nape of my neck.

It makes me smile, knowing that even though Ace is a player—a player who played me—he remembered my name.





7





ACE


I find McQueen where he’s working out, at Kit’s Gym. He visits this place like a Catholic schoolgirl going to church. He fucking prays to that punching bag, offers Hail Marys to the practice ring.

McQueen has a pretty face, but that doesn’t keep him from the ring. He trains here everyday.

“Hey, man, what's up?” He pulls off his boxing gloves and gives me a once-over. “You seem way too tense for a man who had that waitress all night. She was fucking hot.”

“She's not a waitress. Her name is Emmy.” I don't want him talking about her like she's a piece of fucking meat.

My pocket vibrates and I pull out my phone. I recognize the number as Trenton, the PI. I left him a message on my way over, but I let it go to voicemail. Right now I need to fucking let off some steam.

“Whoa, boss-man has his dick up somebody's ass.”

“Fuck you, McQueen.” I run my hands through my hair. I'm in a collared shirt, slacks, dress shoes—I look like a fucking businessman. Not like myself at all.

And right now I want to feel alive.

I don't often have this need to remember where I come from—most of the time I want to block that shit from my mind. But the way Mark Denzel told me to stop going after what I want—that property—it has me fucking fired up.

I want to hit something, punch something. I grew up getting in fights, pushing people around until I got what I wanted—but ever since I moved to Vegas, I’ve played by the rules of this city.

A nice suit gets you a meeting. A pimped-out watch gets you an investor. I wanted those things more than I wanted to fight.

So I did everything Mark Denzel told me to do—cut my hair, found a tailor. And it's worked. The only time I act like I did back when I was a Genova is when I’m with women.

With women, I can still be the man I've always been. The man I was bred to be. In control. Dominating. Taking what I fucking want.

Mostly, warm pussy for my cock.

“What are you doing here?” McQueen asks.

“I need to pound something till it bleeds.”

“Not my face,” McQueen says, shielding his cheeks.

“I don't fucking care what.” I pull off my tie, shrug off my suit coat. “I'm pissed, bro. And I need to fight.”

“You know I’m not gonna fight you. We can spar, that’s all.” McQueen laughs. “But you gotta play nice. I have a show tonight.”

I head to the locker room with the gym clothes I brought, and quickly change into work out gear.

I grab a pair of gloves and headgear from a trainer. McQueen joins me in the ring and one of the trainers is in the corner, leading the charge.

We shadowbox in the ring, warming up before we start throwing controlled jabs. We don't go easy on one another, but we aren't complete assholes either. The goal right now, for me, is to fucking get out this rage so I don't go hunt down Grotto and beat him to a pulp.

I remember doing that enough times, the dirty work for my father.

I don't play that way anymore. I'm a man, not a wild beast.

But right now, in the ring, I want to let loose. Lose control.

I throw a punch, a sharp uppercut, connecting with McQueen's cheek with much more force than intended. He’s not expecting it.

“Fuck you,” he yells, pushing away. “Play nice.”

I pull back from McQueen, not trusting myself. I tear off the gloves, raise my hands in surrender.

“Sorry, bro. Not cool.” I swallow, knowing my mind is fucking all over the place.

Grotto. Mark Denzel. Emmy.

Emmy.

That’s what I want right now. What I need. I don't need to fight—I let that part of my life go. I should never have stepped foot in this gym.