There was a long pause, and then:
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Uh… no?”
She chortled. “Sometimes I forget you’re technically new around here.”
I rolled my eyes, and said, “Oh lay off, just tell me who he is.”
Sonia could mock me all she wanted, but is it so criminal to try to get a positive ID on a hot boy?
“You don’t even recognize him from the posters?” she asked with some earnest skepticism.
The wheels in my brain jolted, clanging and shifting together over the sound loops of pings and ca-chunks pouring out of nearby machines.
Oh, I recognized him all right. It made sense now.
Holding my hand low at my side, I flipped him the bird.
Sonia caught sight of my erect middle finger, and murmured with some amusement, “Remember him now?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
Much to my dismay, the hottie across the floor wasn’t some hunky stranger who I recognized from my past life, someone who could offer me a fresh start and my general store in Washington.
No, he was much worse. Because this was Tate, the infamous and infamously absent owner of Dazzlers, and literal poster child for the disasters of unmitigated intergenerational wealth.
And for the first time since I’d begun working here, he was strutting around the casino, like… well, like he owned the place.
My pulse quickened, and I averted my eyes, focusing on the green felt of the poker table. This man who I didn’t even really know, who for a moment I’d mistaken to be just a passing handsome gentleman in the night, had undone my family and by extension, forced me into this miserable job and this unfulfilling life.
Who was he to strut the floor, peacocking like a prince?
Face hot with rage, I gritted my teeth and focused on my work, hoping that the blood tingling in my cheeks (and, much to my embarrassment, in other places as well) would circulate normally in a moment.
Why are the hot guys always so damn evil?
CHAPTER 2
Tate
I EXAMINED MY finger nails. They were, as usual, perfect milky half-crescents, clean, trim, without a scrap of dirt beneath their white arches.
“Am I boring you, sir?”
“Yes, Jack, I imagine you are.”
The squat little man at my side gulped.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be sorry, just don’t do it.”
Sweat was beading on his bald brow, but I wasn’t in any particular hurry to assuage his anxiety. After all, as my father used to say, “fear keeps them on their toes.”
Besides, there was absolutely no way to feign interest in a tour of the casino. Blah blah money blah blah sales blah blah blah. Dazzlers had been the same since the day my dad had cut the ribbon — cheap, gaudy, and a final resting place for many a gambler. There was no innovation, no heart. Just vodka and polyester thongs.
“If I could just—” Jack, who I suppose I might also mention is my business manager, swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Shall I continue with the tour, even though I am boring you, and am also very sorry, so sorry, for boring you?”
You’d think those words would be laced through with sarcasm, like some kind of arsenic cocktail, but nope. He was, much to my dismay, dead serious in his earnestness. Jack was so eager to please me it was almost disquieting. Have you ever seen a dog jump on its hind legs at your bidding, but then never return to all fours, out of worry that you may one day want it on its hind legs again? That’s Jack.
Today, though, I would have to allow him his tricks. It was my bi-yearly tour of the casino, during which time I “made sure everything was running smoothly.” Or at least, that’s what I’d tell the board at our meetings. In reality, I just nodded and signed on dotted lines. I suppose, in a way, I too am an obedient little puppy.
We veered left at tables set for Texas hold ‘em. I saw rows of seats filled with asses which clearly hadn’t moved in hours, possibly days. Men had sunglasses riding low on the bridges of their nose, and women were chain-smoking with such gusto that I imagined they must occasionally swallow the cigarettes, mistaking them for food. These were the bottom feeders of society, and this casino their sea floor. What did that make me? Poseidon?
I couldn’t imagine sitting still for ten minutes, let alone ten hours. I loved the feeling of earth moving beneath my feet, of smelling new things and hearing new chords. To remain in one spot as day lapsed into night, the same buzzing whirls filling my ears and cheap smoke cloying at my nose… it sounded like hell. In fact, between the smoke and the sinners, the resemblance was actually quite pronounced.
We were moving past the blackjack section when Jack noted, “The casino is having one of its best years yet, sir.”
“Oh. Is that so?” I wasn’t particularly interested in an answer, but it seemed to be the thing to say.