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1
The Game Begins
Evangeline
I place my clutch on the top of the dark mahogany bar and take a seat, crossing one leg over the other, facing the opulent chandelier that hangs from the ceiling. The crystals send prisms of light to dance on the walls, giving the space a beautiful touch of color. With no windows to let in the early evening light, the space is otherwise dark, like deep waters. The upscale bar is decorated with plush couches in a deep shade of pink, fluffy pillows, and shadowy corners. In a town like Las Vegas, this bar is an oasis for those who want to be anonymous—and have enough money to pay for it.
I grab the bartender’s attention, his eyes lingering on my face for only a second before they fall to the low cut of my dress. He offers me an embarrassed smile when he notices that I’ve caught him staring at the outline of my breasts.
I don’t mind.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t be wearing a dress that leaves so little to the imagination.
He’s young and handsome, nicely built, with a kind smile, and a great head of hair which I’m sure helps with the tips. His uniform of a crisp white dress shirt and black vest are neatly pressed. The glint of a gold name tag pinned to the lapel reads Tony.
“Champagne?”
I have to order something while I’m here waiting. I typically don’t drink, not because I can’t handle my liquor, but I need to have a clear head. That’s why only one glass of champagne is my limit.
Tony knows who I am, or more importantly, what I am.
The glass appears in front of me and I hold it by the stem, letting the last of the foam fizz out before taking a sip, leaving behind an imprint of red lipstick.
Across the room, I see a man walking towards me in a very expensive dark suit with a bold blue tie. He’s tall, distinguished, with a head of dark hair that is now peppered with grey. He’s handsome, but that hardly matters. He makes his way over with an interested smile. He takes the seat next to me at the bar and I swallow hard, giving him a practiced smile because that’s what I’m supposed to do, when everything inside of me wants to get up from this chair and walk out the door.
“Hello,” he says in a confident, smooth voice.
There is no indication in his demeanor that we have met before, but his eyes glint with recognition and unrequited want.
And so the game begins. “Hello.”
“Are you here for the conference?” he asks, resting his arm on top of the bar, his fingers close to my arm as if itching to touch me.
I look down at my dress, cut low, cinched at the waist, and flaring out at just the right length to show off my legs which his eyes drop further down to admire.
The music and the chatter in the bar aren’t loud, but I lean in anyway, my lips close to his ear, giving him a decent view down the front of my dress, and ask, “Do I look like I’m here for a conference?”
I can hear the long intake of breath as if he’s admiring my perfume, and when I straighten, I notice the flare of his nostrils and the black pupils of his eyes swallowing up the pale blue.
“No, I don’t suppose you are.” His laugh is deep, but not the nervous laugh of a man who is embarrassed or shy talking to a beautiful woman. It’s the practiced laugh of a politician.
He scans my face, taking in my wheat-colored hair that hangs in waves to just below my collarbone, and his eyes settle on my plump red lips. I blink, and he pushes a few stray pieces of my bangs away from my eyes as if to see me better.
I let him, because after all, he did pay for me.
My job is to tempt men into thinking I’m obtainable when neither of us have the intention of more than just one night. It’s the illusion they pay for, and a heavy payment at that. He’s already paid for it, so I know he wants to fuck me – that’s why he asked specifically for me, and my heart beats against my chest at the thought.
“I’d ask to buy you a drink, but I see you already have one,” he says in a smooth tone, pointing to the champagne flute in front of me, his gold cufflinks reflecting light from the chandelier.
I catch Tony’s eye and signal for the check with a flick of my wrist.
Turning my attention back to the man next to me, I ask, “So, what brings you to Vegas?” I hold the glass to my lips, taking a sip, feeling the bubbles pop on my tongue while he watches ever so intently.
He smiles, sitting straighter in his chair, clearly liking this game very much. “Business.”
Business, indeed.
Tony slides the billfold purposefully towards the man and nods at me before leaving.
