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Chapter One
Aria
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
Whales belong in the ocean, not in a casino. But in my experience, more often than not, that’s exactly where you find them. Cozied up to a poker table or a craps table or a roulette wheel, sucking down Lagavulin and hassling every pretty girl that walks by.
Then again, I live in Vegas and I work at the Atlantis, currently the hottest casino on the Strip. Where the hell else am I going to see a whale other than right here in my own backyard?
Tonight the place is crawling with them, rich men throwing around thousand dollar chips like confetti and tossing back thousands of dollars’ worth of free liquor the same way. I want to say that it’s an unusual occurrence, but the truth is, this is my life. Has been for a while now.
It’s a different view on this side of the casino from your typical Vegas experience, one filled with ten thousand dollar suits and ten million dollar bets. The air fairly crackles with the sound, the scent, the feel of money. Which translates into much higher tips than working the regular floor does, tips I desperately need. All I have to do to earn them is ignore the fact that the whales on this side of the velvet ropes have much grabbier hands. And an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.
“I need two fingers of Lagavulin, a Belvedere and cranberry, another Nolet’s Reserve and tonic and a shot of Patron Silver,” I tell Michael, tonight’s bartender, as I pick up a dirty martini and a couple of mojitos made with top shelf booze.
He nods, never breaking rhythm as he shakes a margarita in one hand and squirts Coke on top of rum in another.
And then I’m off again, teetering back toward the high roller tables in the four-inch stilettos my boss insists all the cocktail waitresses wear. I don’t mind them so much—learning to walk in Louboutins and Manolos was pretty much a required course growing up in my house—but after seven hours straight on my feet, even my steel arches are beginning to whimper.
Which is probably why I’m not at my most patient when Whale Number One, a Japanese businessman who just flew in from Tokyo, rubs a suggestive hand over my ass and down my scantily clad thigh.
I turn around and shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up in a pretend gesture of surrender. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask him, keeping my voice sweet and my eyes steady. It’s my experience that guys like this have trouble keeping up the letch act when they’re looking straight into your eyes. It’s a lesson I learned from my mother years ago: rich men will only give you respect if you demand it.
Even if you’re married to them. Or maybe, especially then.
But that’s a different story, a million worlds away from where I am right now. Thank God. These days, the most I have to worry about are guys who like my butt a little too much.
“Another Lagavulin, Aria,” he tells me, his English accented but precise.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be back with it in just a moment.”
This time when I turn away, my ass goes unaccosted.
I drop off the mojitos to Whale Number Two and the idiot blonde about forty years his junior who is currently decorating his arm. He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and I thank him for the tip before bracing myself to deliver the dirty vodka martini. It’s going to Whale Number Three, a Russian billionaire, and he’s a real douche. He’s only been here an hour and already I’ve got more than one bruise on my ass from his unwelcome advances.
“Here’s your dirty martini, three olives,” I tell him with a forced smile as I set the glass down in front of him. I take care to keep my body—and my ass—angled away from him, but somehow the fucker gets a pinch in anyway. I grit my teeth and count backward from ten as I remind myself of all the reasons that punching him is a bad idea. Starting with the fact that I really need this job. “Can I get you anything else?”
I pull the eye contact trick, but this guy is one of the rarest—and the worst—ones. He looks me straight in the eye and fucking gropes me again. I’m seeing red at this point, my hand itching to curl into a fist I can plow into his face. He’d look so much better with a broken nose. And a missing tooth or two.
I, however, wouldn’t look nearly so good living on the streets, and right now, the only thing standing between me and total poverty is this job. Not quite what I imagined for my life when I graduated from Vassar top in my class, but I figured out a long time ago that beggars really can’t be choosers.
Besides, right now it’s this or crawling home to Daddy with my head down and tail between my legs. And since that’s so not going to happen, I’ll just have to grin and bear it. I might not be able to control this guy and what he does, but I’m damn sure able to control myself and the life I’m making for myself. And that includes not giving in to my temper, no matter how much I’m provoked.
Besides, my shift is almost over. I can take anything, even the loss of control that comes with this job, as long as the end is in sight. I learned that the hard way a long time ago.
“How about a date tonight?” he says as he slides a warm, slightly sweaty palm up my arm. It’s all I can do not to shudder in disgust.
“The casino frowns on employees dating customers. But I’m happy to bring you another drink, or a menu if you’re hungry.”
“What the casino doesn’t know won’t hurt anybody.” His hand continues its foray up my arm, the backs of his fingers brushing against my breast, my nipple. “When do you get off?” He grins at his own innuendo.
I meet the dealer’s eyes over his head and Jake speeds up his dealing. His face is carefully blank but I can see the look of disgust in his eyes, know that it mimics the one I’m currently doing my best to hide.
“I’ll be working for a while yet,” I tell him, gently extricating myself from his grip. “Just let me know if you need anything else.”
I smile tightly as he flips a chip onto my tray—a twenty dollar one—but I can’t bring myself to say thank you. Instead, I nod in acknowledgment and disappear into the flow of traffic just outside the ropes marking the high roller area. It’s not until I’m several steps away that I allow myself to breathe again.
I take a couple more orders, deliver them to Michael as I pick up my latest round of drinks. And then I’m off, making yet another circle around the tables. Tonight, this half of the high roller circle is much better behaved. As long as you don’t mind a few lingering glances and a pat or two on the ass.
It’s not forever, I remind myself as I ignore the way Mr. Benson slides his hand up the inside of my arm. He takes his Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks and flips a twenty dollar bill onto my tray as a token of his appreciation. I pocket it and thank him nicely.
Next stop is the poker table. Buy-in is fifty grand tonight, and every seat is taken. I drop the Belvedere and cranberry at Mrs. Jenkins’s elbow, the Nolet’s Reserve and tonic next to Mr. Davies and the shot of Patron Silver beside Mr. Cervantes. I back up without waiting for a tip—three hours delivering drinks to him has already taught me to get in and out as quickly as possible.
It’s as I’m heading back to the bar that I notice Whale Number Three—the Russian guy—hassling some casino bunny who’s wandered into the big leagues. She’s dressed up, probably planning on catching herself a high rolling whale, but even from here I can tell the one she’s caught is way out of her league.
Damn.
I hurry back to the bar, pick up my drink order and scoot in that direction. The last thing I want to do is engage in another conversation with this guy, but his hand is wrapped around that girl’s arm and I can tell by the way she’s twisting around—and the grimace on her face—that he’s hurting her.
On my way over, I stop by one of the security guards, nod in their direction. He takes a look, but then shrugs at me, like he has no idea what I expect him to do.
