The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming, but I refrain. This isn’t the first cocky asshole I’ve encountered in this job, and he won’t be the last. Most of the time, these guys are just so into themselves and have had too much to drink that they lose all sense of respect and self control. If I were on the main floor, I would just get him a refill and avoid his area for a while until he left. I’m pretty sure that won’t fly in the high limit room.
“Anything to drink?” I clarify, ignoring his question.
He runs his eyes over my body before saying, “Just a refill on the scotch, honey.”
“Brand?”
He runs his tongue along his lip as he stares directly at my tits.Gross, gross, gross! “Surprise me.”
He reaches his hand out toward me, but I slip away before he can touch the bottom of my skirt. If a guest gets too handsy, we servers are empowered to report them to security, but… that’s on the main floor. I’m not sure how strict those rules are here in the high limit area, given thatthese guests are dropping a huge amount of money to play, anywhere from sixty to seventy percent of the total intake on a given night.
The bar window is smaller here, and I’m not familiar with the bartender.
“Hi, I’m Bex,” I say, leaning against the window. “I’m working the room with Tara tonight.”
The bartender just stares at me.Okayyyyy.“What’s the cheapest brand of scotch you’ve got back there?”
I brace myself for him to say there’s nothing cheap behind the bar here, but he raises his brows and glances down. “Johnnie Walker Red.”
“I’ll get a glass of that please, on the rocks.” He looks confused, like why am I ordering cheap scotch for a guest in the high limit room, but he doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t seem to really care about being here at all, for that matter.
Placing the scotch on my tray, I walk around the room, back to the blackjack tables. The greasy creeper is in the middle of throwing a lot down on the table—looks like he’s splitting aces and then had to split again. At a glance, it looks like there’s about $3,000 in chips on the table. I hate it when they’re literally dirty, rich assholes.
I place his drink down on the table, away from his chips and cards, but close enough that he knows it’s for him. Usually I would hover and wait for a tip, but I’m thankful he’s occupied with his hand so I can slip away.
Or so I thought. As I turn to begin another round around the tables, I feel a damp hand slide up my inner thigh, fingers brushing against my panties.
“Hey,” I snap, twisting out of his reach. Heat floods my face as I glare back at him. Who does this fucker think he is?
He leers at me, licking his lips. “Come on, princess. Nothing wrong with a little appreciation for that thick body of yours.”
I open my mouth to reply, but can’t find the words. I need this job. I need these tips… and this is the high limit room.Is this what I’m willing to allow for those tips?I swallow hard, but before I can respond, a tall figure passes closely on my right, headed straight for the asshole, whose eyes are now wide and wary.
“Frank, man, I heard you were in town—” he stammers, but the guy cuts him off.
Looking directly at the dealer and tossing a thick wad of cash on the table, he says, “Get me in on the next shoe.” The dealer reaches for the cash, but hesitates as he continues. “I don’t play with disrespectful assholes, though.”
The dealer nods and calls over his shoulder to the pit boss. “Escort, please.”
The creep’s eyes have gone from wary to angry. “What the fuck, Frank? Really? Is this your first time here? We can do practically whatever the fuck we want in here.” He throws his hands up. “Look at the money we’re paying!”
The sexy newcomer hasn’t sat down yet. He’s tall, several inches over six feet, and has a lean, muscular frame. When he braces his hands against the table, his broad shoulders flex beneath his shirt. There’s salt and pepper hair at his temples, and scattered in the stubble along his sharp jaw. His hair is dark, a bit longer on the top and shaved shorter on the sides. The long part of his hair hangs down, blocking part of his face as he turns to glare at the creeper.
“Not. Without. Consent,” he growls. Okay, that was fucking hot. A tall, dark, muscular man who is also respectful and self-aware? Is this a hot guy bingo? The creeper goes to respond, but he cuts him off again. “Get the fuck off this table, Gary. Get the fuck out of this room and this casino.”
“You can’t do this—”
Two security guards approach on my left and stand behind the creeper, Gary’s, chair. “Sir, you need to come with us.”
I cast a nervous glance around the room, but no one seems to be paying attention. If anything, a few are throwing grateful looks at this new guy for getting Gary kicked out. Maybe this is a common occurrence in the high limit room?
Gary finally stands from the table, grabbing his chips and stuffing them in his pockets. “Fuck you, Frank.” He turns and waves off the security guards. “I’m leaving. Don’t fucking touch me.” He passes me as he walks toward the exit. “And fuck you, too, you fat bitch.”
Glaring at him, I raise my free hand and flip him off. Not that he sees it or that he cares, but it makes me feel a bit better.
A throat clearing brings me out of my frozen state. I realize I haven’t moved since I snapped back at Gary. Looking toward the sound, I find myself staring straight up into eyes so dark they seem black—there’s a storm raging there.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low and rough. It sends a delicious chill through my body.
