Chapter 1
Bex
“You’ve got a run in your stocking, Bex,” Marla, one of the slightly older servers, says as she comes up behind me at the bar.
“Are you fucking kidding me? These are brand new!” I set my tray down and twist around, trying to find the run.
Marla pokes a spot on the back of my upper right thigh, just below the hem of this tiny uniform skirt. “Yeah, right there. If you need another pair, I might have one in my locker,” she offers.
Sighing, I shake my head. “Thanks, Marla, but you’re tiny, and I’m… squishy,” I say, laughing. It’s true. Marla used to be a dancer back in the day and has kept her body thin and lithe throughout the years. I, meanwhile, have always had big hips, a big tummy, and big tits.“Curvesfor days,” is what my ex-boyfriend used to say. No chance in hell I’d fit into Marla’s stockings.
“Ay, cutie, it’s that squish that gets you the big tips!” Carlos, the barback, hollers to me.
“Absolutely!” I affirm as I take the beers set next to my ticket and begin refilling my tray.
It’s nearing 10 p.m. on a Tuesday in Las Vegas, and I’m working the late night shift at the Bravado—the newest, most sophisticated casino on the Strip. I transferred to this casino a few months ago and love almost everything about my job. The tips are better here, since the clientele tend to be higher end, the staff are nice, the other servers aren’t bitchy, and the hours are decent. I do, however, have a love/hate relationship with the uniform, but I’m pretty sure that’s par for the course when you’re a Vegas cocktail server—they’re all short skirts, low-cut tops, and made with the smallest amount of material possible.
I know it’s not most girls’ dream to grow up and be a cocktail server. Hell, I wanted to be an archeologist for most of my young life. That’s what happens when you grow up watchingIndiana JonesandThe Mummy, resulting in massive crushes on Harrison Ford and Brendan Fraser at the delicate age of eight.
Regardless, my life took so many unpredictable twists and turns during my teenage years, and then again in my twenties. It began when I was in high school, with my parents’ divorce. Then I chose a college I wasn’t interested in, just to follow my high school boyfriend, who was on their football team. That asshole cheated on me within months of the first semester starting, so what did I do? I dropped out and traveled to California to stay with some friends. I eventually found my way to Las Vegas a few years ago, and have been happier than I’ve ever been in my life.
Mostly. Sort of. Well… I don’t hate my job, and I’m living with two amazing roommates. The allure of partying every night in Vegas has faded over the years. I recently turned thirty, and it’s wild how quickly the club scene loses its luster.
If there’s anything that gives me a sense of excitement these days, it’s volunteering at the youth center near my apartment. I stumbled across the center a few years ago when they were looking for volunteers to lead efforts for their art program. I’ve considered myself an amateur photographer my entire life—a passion that has only grown as I’ve gotten older. Being out here in the desert, we have access to some pretty amazing national parks, and I spend a lot of my free time out there, wandering and taking photographs.
With the funding for their arts programs recently cut, my conversation with the head of the youth center went easier than I expected. I began volunteering once a week. Due to the lack of funding, I don’t get to take the kids out of the center for field trips or anything, like I wish we could do. We spend an hour each week sharing our art and challenging each other to find art in the everyday places people often overlook.
It may sound boring and, certainly, there are arts programs out there that are more tactical and hands-on than my “beginner photography” session. Most of the kids in my sessions are older teens, and this gives them someplace safe to go for an hour each week. It also challenges them to see the world around them in a unique way, which is more than I can say for most of our society.
“Mama, the boss said you’re needed in the Regency Room when you’re done with this round. Brandy will pick up your section,” Carlos says, sliding a Red Bull over to me and interrupting my thoughts.
My heart flutters at his words, because the Regency Room is Bravado’s high limit poker room. Usually, the most tenured and experienced servers get called to serve there, since that’s where the biggest tippers are.
Marla sighs. “You lucky bitch,” she says with a smile. “Go get ‘em.”
I pop into the employee restroom before heading to the Regency Room. If I’m going to get the best tips, I need to make sure I’m looking my best. My wavy chestnut hair is hanging halfway down my back, curled slightly. I’m wearing my typical work makeup tonight: smokey eyes, defined brows, a dash of blush on my cheeks, and a deep red lipstick that matches the red of my uniform.
“You look sexy as fuck tonight,” I say to myself in the mirror, running my hands over my uniform and smoothing out the front. With the corset style of this uniform, my D-cup breasts perk up without looking like they’ll slap me in the face, and my cleavage has the perfect amount of bounce when I walk the floor.
Growing up as a curvy girl, in a society that impresses that beauty and happiness come with being thin, wasn’t easy. I’d be lying if I said my size hasn’t impacted my confidence throughout the years. Sometimes, I ride the body-positivity wave, buy myself cute new clothes, and rock what I got. Other times, the insecurity gets the best of me, and I get depressed, hop on some diet or fitness fad, and try to shrink myself into what society says women should be.
Now, I’m hovering somewhere in between. Being a woman is a straight up roller coaster of emotions on a good day, and I have plentyof bad days, too. I keep waiting for this magical moment where the bad days go away and I truly love myself—rolls, cellulite, and all—but that has yet to happen.
But damn, if this cocktail server uniform doesn’t make me feel sexy as fuck today. It’s the love/hate relationship at work, but on days like today, when I feel confident, and my hair and makeup look as good as they do, I know I pull it off. I’ve learned to embrace the days when I feel this way, because they can be few and far between.
I smooth out the back of my skirt, my hands brushing over the run in my stocking, right below my ass. “Fuck,” I mumble, shaking my head. I wish I had remembered to toss an extra pair in my work bag, but nope. I can envision them perfectly where I left them… at home, on my dresser, so I wouldn’t forget to grab them and bring them to work. Oh well. I shrug. Nothing I can do about that right now. Let’s just hope the patrons in the Regency Room want to focus more on my tits than my ass tonight.
There’s only one other server in the high roller room tonight, but she’s on break right now, so I’m handling all the tables. It’s not that many, since the room is more exclusive and intimate. There are only three blackjack tables, one roulette table, and one craps table. The vibe is still pretty chill—things don’t tend to heat up on the tables til closer to midnight.
I take my first pass around the room, calling out, “Cocktails?” a few times. Most don’t even glance up at me as I pass, which is fine. It lookslike the other server just delivered refills before I came in, so there’s not much for me to do.
As I pass the last blackjack table, the guy at the end does a double take at me. I can feel it from his glance, the way he leers at me—this guy is a creep. He’s got greasy dark blonde hair, and a rumpled sports coat on, like he’s been in this casino all day and has no idea how terrible he actually looks.
“Hey, princess,” he calls, motioning me over. I hold back an eye roll and saunter over to him.
“What can I get you?” Ignoring the nickname, I glance down at the table where he’s already got a full glass of scotch.
“You mean, besides some time alone with you?” He gives me a greasy grin and chuckles at himself.
