“Lady, this isn’t what I ordered!” some old man calls after me, seconds after I handed him a bourbon and ginger—without a tip, mind you.
Turning back to him, I pop my hip and hold my tray close to my chest. “I’m so sorry about that. What can I get you to drink?” My tone is heavy with false sincerity, a talent you really have to master if you want to make it on the floor.
The man thrusts his drink toward me and rolls his eyes. “I asked for a bourbon and ginger, so bring me a bourbon and ginger. And none of that bottom shelf shit, either.”
Having been serving on casino floors for the last few years, I like to think I have pretty thick skin. But this man’s attitude, the dramatic eyeroll, insistence that the drink he’s handing back to me isn’t the drink he ordered, combined with the fact that I’m ready to clock out and go home… I have to swallow hard to keep my emotions in check.
“Of course. I’ll be right back,” I say, taking the drink from him. Of course, his attention is once again lost to his slot machine, so I stalk away without another word.
I walk all the way back to the server’s station, place the drink down, and focus on my breathing. Four seconds in, hold for seven, exhale slowly for eight. I’m nearly through my exhale when Carlos sidles up. He reaches for the glass, but I wave him off.
At his questioning expression, I say, “Asshole says I brought him the wrong drink.”
“Ah,” Carlos nods, wiping his hands in a bar towel. “And?”
“And I didn’t. So, I’m going to ask you to put a lime in this drink so I can bring it back to him. All freshened up and shit.”
Carlos laughs, flips open the lid for the garnish, and places a lime wedge just inside the glass for me. “I hate assholes like that. And,” he glances down at his watch, “aren’t you off now?”
“As soon as I deliver this drink back to that prick,” I say, picking up the drink. Turning sharply, intending to march back to that man with a bit of attitude, I gasp. I almost ran straight into a broad, muscular chest which belongs to—
“Mr. Blackwood!” I say, bringing both of my hands up to hold the glass.
“Bex,” he says kindly. “I thought I told you to call me Aaron?” His dark hair is shaggier than I’ve ever seen it, and it drapes over his eye in a way that most women would find incredibly sexy. Paired with the expensive looking gray suit and crisp white button down, Aaron is attracting the kinds of looks that I most often experience when I’m out with Corey.
I glance around the casino floor, wide-eyed. “I’d feel more comfortable if I called you Mr. Blackwood, especially while I’m still on the clock.”
Aaron brushes the hair off his face with a large hand, then glances at his watch. “Aren’t you off now?”
First Carlos, now Aaron. Yes, I should be off now, but I have to deal with a prick first.
“Just one last drink to deliver,” I say, holding up the drink.
“Okay,” he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his suit. “I’ll wait here for you.”
What is going on? Immediately, my mind goes to Corey, and I wonder if he’s okay. Our call last night was awkward, to say the least, and I get the distinct impression that something’s bothering him. But no matter what I try, whether it’s on our calls or in our texts, he insists everything is fine. It doesn’t feel fine—it feels… distant.
As I approach the cranky old man, he barely looks at me before he reaches a hand out for his drink. He lifts it to his lips and holds out a finger, indicating he wants me to wait, but I shake my head. “I’m off the clock now, buddy. If you don’t like what you ordered, just own up to it next time.”
Annoyance flashes in this guy’s eyes, but I’ve already spun on my heel in the direction of the staff room. I’m not sure if Aaron wanted me to meet him back at the bar or the staff room, but I’m hoping he’s in the staff room. There’s nothing worse than technically being “off” the clock but getting caught by customers with requests all because you lingered on the floor.
I punch the code for the staff room with some unnecessary force, then slam the door open, nearly catching Aaron on the other side.
“Whoa,” he says.
“Jesus, fuck, I’m so sorry, Mr. Blackwood!” I cover my mouth with my hands. Could this day really get any more irritating?
“Bex, I’m fine. Honestly. I’m sorry; you seem to be having a bad day.” He says this as a statement and not a question, so I simply nod.
I make my way across the space to the timeclock on the wall. As I punch in my ID number to clock out, I glance back at Aaron. “Definitely not having the best day,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s really okay. Look, I was hoping to talk to you about something. Do you have a few minutes?”
My heart begins to race. “Is this about Corey?”
“What? No. Well, sort of,” he says, laughing. Aaron is always so serious when I see him here at the casino. Sure, I’ve seen him smile occasionally, but he’s not known for being the laughing, joking type. That’s his brother, Drew. Hearing him laugh gives me a feeling I can only describe as warm and fuzzy. “Corey mentioned something about the youth center art show.”
My pulse instantly goes from pounding concern for Corey to annoyance. “What did he say, exactly?”
