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I always start cocktail hour with a turn on the casino floor, and I expected that to be the same too. Same plans to meet up with my buddies. Same High West rye whiskey, neat. Same dinner and dress and the best table at the best club, probably XS because it’s right here in the hotel, followed by another table late night at Drai’s. Sometimes we mix it up with sunset helicopter tours of the desert, concerts at Caesar’s, or a fight at the MGM Grand.
Yep. We’re fucking spoiled.
It hasn’t been a bad gig. Being away from work has put some much-needed pep in my step. But after nine months of pure, I-don’t-give-a-fuck partying, the whole thing has started to feel . . . routine, I guess? Each night bleeds into the next, and if you asked me where I was and who I was with a week or a month ago, I couldn’t tell you, other than: pretty girls in hotel beds, great entertainment, late nights, good liquor.
But with Miss Carter’s palm pressed against mine, something suddenly, thrillingly feels different.
She’s different.
As evidenced by the way she wins hand after hand. Like the rest of the table, I watch in growing awe as the girl’s stack of chips grows. I ask why she doubles down on an eleven (“all comes back to the odds of you getting a face card”). I figure out why she sets chips at the top and bottom of her cards—the top chips are her betting with the dealer, so when Miss Carter wins, which is often, so does Helen (you’re always supposed to tip your dealer).
Miss Carter tips her very, very well. I take note and do the same.
Only when Helen is exchanging Miss Carter’s chips do I realize how much money she has on the table. Holy shit, are all of those thousand-dollar chips?
Fuck, I’m gonna get hard watching her stack ’em. It’s not the money that turns me on. It’s the nimble, knowledgeable way her fingers work. The little smile of satisfaction on her lips. How she knows when to press and when to pull back.
She’s not reckless, but she is definitely not afraid. She’s generous too.
She’s a fucking master. Makes me wonder if she’d be the same in bed.
How have I not seen her before? She must’ve arrived today with the rest of the weekend crowd.
“Thank you, Miss Carter,” Helen says when she hands her the biggest tip yet.
Miss Carter puts her hands on the lip of the table and pushes her chair back. My pulse skips a beat.
She can’t leave. Not yet.
“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Stevie?” Miss Carter says. “I know we just met, but I’ve been at your table for an hour.”
“Stevie?” I say. “As in Nicks?”
“My parents were big Fleetwood Mac fans.” She lifts a shoulder. “It was the eighties. Although, to be fair, it doesn’t suck being named after a musical goddess.”
Fu-uck. Not only is this girl a killer queen at the blackjack table, but she knows her classic rock too?
“I’d argue Stevie is the music goddess. That voice,” I say.
“Those lyrics.”
“The tambourine.”
“Right? In her hands, it becomes, like, this vessel of truth and a serious come-on.”
I hold out my hand. “I’m Hank. And I just became your biggest fan.”
“Ha! I’m flattered.” She takes my hand and gives it a warm, firm shake. There’s that electricity again. “I’ll be here all weekend.”
I give her my best grin, the one that makes the dimple in my left cheek pop. “I’m glad to hear it. Can I buy you a drink?”
“No.” Stevie holds up her purse, packed so tightly with chips they’re spilling out of the top. “But I’ll buy you one.”
“Deal.”
We walk across the casino floor to the bar outside the Tower Suite elevators. It’s just shy of eight, and the place is buzzing with slickly dressed people—mostly dudes—fueling up for a Friday night in Vegas.
A few stare at me. Guys tend to recognize me more often than not. Luckily, they leave us alone as we approach.
I take the opportunity to check out Stevie. She’s thick, ass and tits for days, and my mouth goes dry watching said ass move in those jeans.
Luscious doesn’t even begin to describe her. I wanna sink my teeth into that ass. Grab those thighs while I look her in the eye and fuck her, hard.
“Hank!” Ben, the bartender, holds up his hand. “Get over here. You two, yes, excuse me, but those seats are reserved.” He expertly shoos away a pair of bros in blazers, making room for Stevie and me.
I pull out the barstool for Stevie and try not to stare myself—fuck it, I stare—as she sits and runs a hand through her long hair, tossing it to the side and revealing an elegant neck. There’s a dark freckle there, just underneath her ear, and a matching one on her cheek.
