Knock it off, Emmy—of course he’s thinking about the game. There are easily half a million dollars worth of chips on the table. The truth of that hits me in the gut—that amount of money could change someone’s life. My life. Forever. And for these guys it’s chump change.
Still, it isn’t my business whose money is up for grabs and how often.
I am on the clock.
“What can I get you?” I ask him politely, as if we hadn’t sort-of met earlier. Discretion is important in Vegas.
“You know what I want,” he says, his voice low so only I can hear his words.
Looking down at myself, I see my nipples are standing at attention through this pleather leotard. I lick my lips cautiously, wanting to press myself against him, but also determined not to lose a grip while working tonight. If he gets me too hot and bothered, it will be obvious in this outfit. If I get wet again, like I did in the bathroom, everyone will know.
Besides, sex isn’t going to solve any of my problems … so maybe I should focus on my actual job instead of, you know, this man.
“So, another whiskey?” I ask, taking the empty glass from the coaster on the table, noting that his drink of choice matches mine. Though surely he drinks from a shelf I’ve never been able to reach.
“Perfect. Boys, what can she get you?” he asks the guys at the table, and I look them over more closely.
These men are strong, capable—everyone here is dripping with a cockiness that only a man who is never denied what he wants can claim.
I feel denied everything. Moving here for Janie has been so hard … so lonely. I want to go back to my normal—I want to start grad school, become a social worker so I can help kids who grew up like me. Dirt poor, with shit parents.
I want to return to my job at the bar near campus—only this time I’ll keep my vow of never dating an asshole again. God knows I’ve had more than my fair share. Basically, I’m ready to be a legit grown-up.
The next guy I date is going to take me out to dinner at Olive Garden and watch Netflix with me on the couch. I want what Claire may have found: a boyfriend who works at a car lot and is in a bowling league.
I want a bowling-league relationship, a pitcher of beer guy who wants a picket fence. I’m ready to have a regular life.
It has been so lonely waiting for Janie to wake up.
“I’ll take a scotch, neat,” says a man in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I recognize him immediately as Jack Harris, the resident DJ at Stacked. Holy shit.
Claire said I was going to be in the highest-rolling room at this casino, but hell, this is a room I have no business being in.
Tess, my Southern co-worker, has shown me Jack Harris’s picture on her phone in the break room plenty of times. She’s always snapping pictures of him when he walks through the casino. She’s a bit obsessed, actually. Seeing him up close, I can see why.
He’s confident but chill, has a man-bun, and has tattoos across his forearms. The good, sexy kind of hipster. Not my type, but I can see the appeal.
“Got it, Jack,” I say, pleased with myself for not asking for his autograph.
The guy next to him orders a rum and coke. He’s in work out clothes, and is seriously ripped. Like, a head-to-toe muscle machine. He has a dimpled face and is giving Channing Tatum a run for his money.
“And what was your name?” I ask, wanting to be as courteous as possible for the rest of the evening. My bank account is counting on these tips.
“McQueen,” he says, offering me a smirk and wink.
I know. He seriously sminked at me. Does that work on women? Any woman, ever? He may be sexier than Magic Mike, but McQueen knows it. Which, for me, is a turn off.
I’ve always liked guys who have a layer of insecurity, a healthy layer of doubt. Maybe it’s because I’ve always liked to take care of people … like I’m doing right now for my sister. A sister who’s never been there for me … yet here I am, putting my life on hold for her.
I glance around the table, wanting to focus on this moment, on these men. As if reading my mind, the table gives McQueen a hard time for his lame-ass game and I smile, put at ease by their familiarity.
“And for you, sir?” I ask the last man at the table.
“I’ll take an Old Fashioned, please,” he says with an English accent.
“Perfect, and what was your name? Just want to get it right tonight,” I say, looking over at Carla, who I know is pissed about me being late.
Surprisingly, she gives me a small smile, and a nearly imperceptible nod, and I know I’m doing okay.
Fine, even. I don’t need to be nervous. Everyone here is above-par, there’s nothing skeevy about this poker game, and I appreciate being around men who aren’t taking themselves too seriously.