ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(6)

McQueen and Jack had their own talents … they worked harder than Landon and I, because they started with nothing. But we all found our way, and somehow, stuck together.

Taking a swig of whiskey, I try to focus on the game ahead, knowing I need a night off now more than ever. I still feel tense from the unprecedented rejection I just received in the hallway. And, you know, that asshole Grotto.

What the hell? I haven’t seen that SOB in a few months, and now he shows up in my casino, thinking he’s a boss? He’s a boss of nothing. He got run out of NYC the same time I left.

Our pasts are too tangled for my liking. I want him out of Vegas.

I push him from my mind. I don’t want to think about anything that will add stress tonight. Tonight is about letting loose. About taking the fucking edge off.

But damn, it’s impossible for my mind to not return to Emmy Rose. That one is something else.

First of all, she denied me my singular desire—her pussy. And two, she didn’t know who the hell I was.

Maybe I’m losing my edge?

Carla winks at me as she begins pulling chips from the drawer under the table. She’s been working my game for the past three years, ever since I bought this casino and moved in. She is solid, salt-of-the-earth, and worth her weight in gold in a town like this, where most people come to take advantage of one another.

“You doing okay, boss?” she asks. I hate that she can see that something is off with me tonight. Clearly, my game needs work if even Carla can smell the rejection from across the room.

“Aww, this boy’s good,” McQueen says, punching my arm. “He’s probably just tired from all the ass he’s been getting. Heard you were recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor in Vegas Weekly, bro. There was a photo of you half-naked, looking like a fucking king.”

I shrug off the comment, hating that kind of attention. I prefer spreads in the Las Vegas Times mentioning my real estate investments. That’s what reminds me that I’m something bigger and better than a guy with a ripped torso, from a shady family.

I’m not the son of a Kingpin anymore; I’m a businessman who knows how to fucking take care of himself.

We’re waiting for the other players to show. I only invite my closest friends to my game.

McQueen, of course. Then there’s Jack, the in-house DJ at my nightclub, Stacked, who’s already texted saying he’s running a few minutes behind. Then there’s Landon, who didn’t text, and I’m betting the lucky bastard is busy getting fucked as we speak.

I’ve seen women go wild for him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s the heir of Solitaire, the most exclusive diamond importer in the world.

Luckily for all of us there are plenty of wet lips waiting for us to part them.

A few minutes later, Landon and Jack walk in, and the game can begin. Jack immediately puts his phone in the dock and sets the tone with a playlist, dark electronic music filling the room.

He does a little dance move, cracking his neck as he exhales. Yeah, it’s obvious he needs a night away from the grind of working the club and the media asshats who’ve been following him around.

He just broke up with his on and off again girlfriend—the singer Ashley Quick—so I have no doubt he is ready to decompress.

We bump fists, and I shake Landon’s hand.

“Good to see you, man,” Landon says to me, passing around a box of fine cigars, then lighting one for himself. “And, fuck, your tables have been nice to me this weekend.”

“What are you even doing playing black jack? Don’t you get bored?” I ask him.

“I got bored years ago. I gotta fucking figure my shit out, is what I need to do.”

“You in town long?” Jack asks him. “I got a show tomorrow night that’s gonna be hot.”

“I’ll be here until Monday,” Landon says. “You know I don’t go to clubs much, but I’ll come.” Landon has a private life we don’t see much; he has a darker side that I’ve heard mention of a few times.

He usually has a woman who’s pretty devoted, but the relationships don’t last long. I’m guessing he’s into that BDSM shit, which is probably hot as hell, but I prefer to fuck without the handcuffs.

I’ve rarely had a problem getting a woman right where I want her—I don’t need a lock and key to get a pussy in place.

“I’ll get us a table.” Turning to McQueen I ask, “You working Friday’s show? Or are you free?”

“I’m working, but fuck yeah, I’m in. I’ll come when I get done, maybe midnight or one.”

“Cool, I’ll put you on the list,” I say, happy to hook up my friends. My table at Stacked is prime, and I’ll be sure to tell my personal assistant, Denise, to fill the table with plenty of hot women. Jack will appreciate my forethought when he gets off stage.