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One goodie I’m certain you’re going to love includes $20,000 in casino credit to satisfy your ongoing gambling addiction.
I pause and laugh to myself when I read her last comment.
Pretty sure it’s not considered gambling when I only take bets I’m sure of, Mace.
Macy has been my assistant for the past five years, the woman behind the scenes who keeps my schedule in order and ensures everyone who is supposed to get paid or is supposed to pay does exactly that, and her use of sarcasm knows no bounds. Honestly, it’s one of the things that made me hire her in the first place, and at this point, I’d be disappointed if she sent an email without some kind of sarcastic jab.
She keeps shit entertaining, and it’s a well-known fact that I like to be entertained.
The email goes on to mention several other comps the investors are sending my way, including the fact that if I want to bring a few guests out for my stay, they’d be happy to accommodate.
And Macy doesn’t hesitate to add her teasing two cents to that update.
I’d like to take this time to remind you that it’s not a good idea for you to bring a plane full of women to Vegas. Pretty sure we both know how that ends. And it’s not good. It’s actually a huge pain in my ass trying to fly rando women back to New York on commercial flights.
In my defense, I’ve only done that once. Over four years ago. And it was enough of a clusterfuck that I vowed to never do shit like that again.
I might be a noncommitment kind of guy, but these days, I prefer one woman at a time, thank you very much. Threesomes and crazy shit like that are only fun when you’re dumb and in your twenties. Once you hit your thirties, you realize they’re more of a hassle—and a fucking mess—than anything else.
Also, I can’t deny this email shows the glory in doing what I do. Most jobs don’t include free casino credit to play blackjack and craps and generous offers of accommodating extra guests.
I quickly shoot Macy a short response—letting her know she’s a smartass and I saw her email—and then I move on to my text messages, where I find a bunch of random chatter from my brothers in our ongoing group chat.
Before I read whatever bullshit they’re spinning this evening, I steal a quick glance toward the staircase. I have no idea if Sophie Sage is going to follow through with her Okay to meet me here, but I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Truthfully, she’s a bit of a conundrum.
I can tell she’s the type of woman who prefers a plan, a well-thought-out scenario. She wants to know what she’s getting herself into before she agrees. And she wants to feel secure in knowing what to expect.
But she’s also someone who can thrive in spontaneous situations. Hell, more than that, she fucking blossoms. She can be impulsive and spur-of-the-moment and even find immense pleasure from those things, but it’s a matter of if she’ll let herself give in to it.
If I’m being honest, I normally wouldn’t bother trying with a woman like her. In the past, I’d consider her hesitancy far too much work for a guy like me, but there’s just something about Sophie that makes me want to spend more time with her.
Have a lot of fucking fun with her.
Do all sorts of dirty, sexy shit with her.
She’s the ultimate challenge—the one woman who wants to experience all the fun I can give but struggles with giving in to that desire.
Man, it’d be a trip to bring her out to Vegas and show her the kind of fun the City of Sin can provide…
The fact that I even have the silly thought to invite her on a work trip makes me shake my head. I’m fucking drugged on her pussy, obviously.
I resign myself to kicking back at the bar and relaxing until she arrives, and with my eyes back to my cell, I check out what my brothers have to say.
Ty: Anyone want to hit a party in the Village with me?
Flynn: Nope.
Ty: You still in Montana?
Flynn: Nope. Just don’t want to go hang out at some hipster party in Greenwich with you.
Ty: It’s not a hipster party, you jackass.
Flynn: Who told you about the party?
Ty: Kip Morlein.
I laugh to myself, already knowing what Flynn’s reaction will be. Ty somehow manages to have the most eclectic groups of friends, and Kip Morlein is a perfect example of that. The man runs an art gallery in Bushwick and is weird as fuck. Super nice, but a total fucking weirdo.
Flynn: LOL. Now, I’m definitely not going. The last time I went to a party that Kip Morlein told you about, they were serving organic wine, and everyone was wearing white dresses like it was some kind of cult.
