Is this really happening to me? Is this real life? I throw my tray up behind the bar and nod toward the bartender. “Have a good rest of your night!” I call as he shrugs. A fucking wet blanket in the high limit room, geez.
Nodding toward Tara, I say, “You good?”
She nods back. “Yeah, thanks for helping cover tonight. Hopefully not the last,” she says, grinning.
We both did pretty well tonight, in terms of tips. Corey tipped me $100 every time I passed the table, whether he asked for a drink or not. And after the fiasco with Gary, it seemed like the other guests were more generous than usual. I guess there might be a bright side after dealing with an asshole like him, after all.
There’s a box on the wall where I can scan my employee ID, essentially signing me out for the night. I swipe it, and it lights up green, recognizing my shift is over. I turn, realizing I’m away from my usual back room and locker, where I have my bag stored. Hmmmm. Maybe I can slip across the main floor and back before Corey notices.
It’s difficult, slipping across the main floor without being caught—my uniform gives me away–and sometimes I get guests calling out to me, or worse, grabbing at my body, demanding a drink. In this case, I am halfway across the floor and some smartass twenty-one-year-old kid—I can tell by the wristband he has on, something security will do at the entrance if someone is twenty-one but looks underage—grabs me by my elbow and yanks hard, toward his slot machine.
I turn to him, ready to tell him that I’m off the clock and someone else will be coming around to take his order, but I’m cut off, seemingly by my rescuer this evening.
Corey is suddenly behind me, his hand on this guy’s wrist. Corey’s grip is not gentle, if this guy’s face is any indication.
“Shit man,” the guy stutters. “I-I-I-I just wanted a drink.”
“She’s off the clock,” Corey growls, pulling the guy’s hand from my elbow and tossing it away. The guy nearly falls from his slot machine chair.
“I didn’t know!” the guy shouts in an abnormally high pitch, and I shoot a look toward Corey. Frank. I need to get to the bottom of that.
“Relax,” I murmur, patting his arm. “Hazard of the uniform.” I gesture down at the short, tight get-up, and he nods.
“Whatever,” he mumbles. “You shouldn’t have to cross the floor like this if you’re not on the clock.”
Rolling my eyes, I continue my way across the floor. Judging from the heat behind me, I know he is following. God, I can’t wait to get him somewhere quieter to ask about his name… and who he really is.
As I make my way to the “employees only” door on the far side of the casino floor, I throw Corey a glance over my shoulder. “Wait here,” I call, pushing through the door.
The backroom is quiet—it doesn’t seem like the main floor has been cut yet, so they must still be busy. Which is fine—I don’t want to answer any questions about how the high limit room was, especially not given the Gary fiasco and Corey trailing me.
He wants to take me out for a drink. Me?! I’m no one. And he’s… Well, judging from the response people have to him, he’s someone important. Even judging from his body alone, he’ssomeone.A celebrity?Someone I don’t know?
Shaking my head, I pull my bag from my locker. There’s nothing exciting in this bag, unfortunately. There’s a pair of leggings, a tank top, and a cozy ripped-up sweatshirt I prefer to wear when the weather in Vegas dips to thirty degrees, like it’s supposed to tonight. This isn’t sexy, but it’s what I have. What I have is basic, and—if I can guess by the amount of cash Corey was throwing down in the high limit room—he’s used to more than basic.
Is he ready for me to roll out of this back room wearing leggings and a sweatshirt? I look at my reflection before spritzing on some perfume, when a wave of insecurity douses my initial excitement. I close my eyes and visualize this man—tall, dark, lean but muscular, a jaw so chiseled it could cut glass. His gravelly voice did things to me, made me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Opening my eyes, I shake my head at myself. I’m overthinking this, a trademark Bex quality. He wants to grab a drink, get to know me better,but I’m… me. No one special. A plus-size cocktail server he got to play white knight for. Maybe that’s his thing?
My whole life, I’ve romanticized even the smallest details, turning things into something when they were really nothing. I’ve been this way since I was younger, when I was the youngest out of my friend group near my childhood home. Dermot Cassidy lived down the block from me. He was thirteen years old, tall for his age, with shaggy blonde hair, and I had the biggest crush on him. One day, he carried me home after I wiped out on my bike and was bleeding badly from my knee. After that gesture, I was convinced he liked me back. I was nine years old and spent the rest of that summer chasing after him like a fool until he finally told me he didn’t like me and he was just trying to be nice. Well, he sort of publicly shouted it at me in front of all the other kids on the block. So, needless to say, it was a traumatic moment for my young heart.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson then, but… nope. There have been many Dermot Cassidy’s in my life, and each time I say to myself “this is not a big deal, be chill”, I am the opposite of chill, and I make every little detail mean something that it doesn’t.
Bracing my hands on the sink and leaning toward my reflection, I whisper, “Don’t be dumb, B. He’s a sexy older dude who’s not interested in anything more than a drink and conversation tonight. Take it for what it is. Leave it at that.”
Tossing my uniform into my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and head out to the main floor.
It’s not difficult to find him; he’s standing in the center of a small group of women, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they are fawning over him. One of them is holding her phone up to snap a selfie with him—a selfie that he’s not posing for because his eyes are scanning… for me. The moment he sees me, he pulls away from the group.
“Thanks, ladies. Have a good night. Be good girls!” he calls. One of them swoons—literally swoons. I’ve read about this in romance books, but I’ve never seen anything like it in real life.
He approaches me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and he looks a bit bashful. My mouth is still hanging open, confusion etched across my face, especially as two of the women give me the nastiest glares.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, stepping in close to me. Now that I have my heels off, he towers over me by at least a foot.
“Um,” I search for the words, but find myself unable to find appropriate ones.
“Are you still good for a drink right now?” He turns, gesturing back toward the cabaret bar in the far corner of the floor. “I was thinking we could get a table over there—”
