My lips part slightly as I stare at him, trying to process his words. I'd been anticipating him making up an excuse to get as far away as possible from me and the drama that surrounds me and my problems. Instead, he just blew my mind by showing he understands. He’s seen some shit too.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He nods. “Let’s go. I have a suite in the VIP section upstairs with a bottle that has your name on it. You deserve a night out to properly celebrate the end of your shit marriage.” He hops off the bar stool and grips my hand in his, but I quickly yank it back.
“Uh… did you miss the part where I told you that I work here?” I gesture down to my short black skirt and low-cut, V-neck tank top with the words ‘Cypress’ Palace’blazoned across my chest.
He shrugs. “Not anymore you don't.”
Um… what?
He smiles. “Shit, sorry. You said you had a controlling ex, and here I am, being all alpha male and controlling. Let me explain why you no longerwantto work here. I’m a professional athlete and I have a job for you. One that will pay a hell of a lot better than whatever this place full of drunken idiots harassing you pays.”
I fold my arms across my chest, adopting a protective stance. “I don’t think so. I’m not into the whole dom/sub thing.”
Dexter tosses his head back in laughter, the sound a deep throaty noise that reverberates through my body. It's been a while since I've been with a man and that laugh, with his looks has me considering changing that tonight despite whatever crazy job he has.
“I'm not looking for a sub, and even if I were, I don't see you as the submissive type. I need your help, and with your negotiation skills, educational background, and general overall grit and determination, I think you can help me, and I can help you.”
I stand firmly rooted in place. “I’m not a lawyer yet. I haven’t passed the bar. If this is something legal-related, I can’t help you.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need a lawyer. I need a publicist.”
I hesitate. “I’m not sure what that is, but I’m not that either.”
“Not yet, you aren’t. Come on, stop being so stubborn, Mae. Save all that stubbornness and sassiness for the job I need you to do. I promise, I'll make it worth it. Financially.”
I hesitate, glancing back at the bar where drinks are stacking up for the table of men I should be serving—then back to Dexter. Tall, broad, devastatingly handsome Dexter. His watch glints under the lights, encrusted with diamonds, a silent promise that money is no issue for him.
Quitting my job on a whim is reckless. Dangerous, even. The old Mae would never. But the old Mae played it safe and got nowhere. The new Mae takes risks. She bets on herself—just like she did when she hustled those men out of their money.
I’m tired of scraping by, sick of this dead-end job and the endless cycle of barely making rent. I’m doing my best, but my best isn’t enough—not for me, not for Elsie. This past year has been nothing but a fight: feeding my daughter, keeping my car from falling apart, finding a roof to sleep under. Survival.
I’m done just surviving. It’s time to start thriving.
At what point is good Karma going to come to me for doing the right thing by leaving Vance despite knowing I’d lose my parent’s financial support? Maybe, this is my reward for the last four years of hell that I’ve endured.
“It’s nothing illegal?” I ask.
He shakes his head no. “Completely legal.”
I sigh, stash the chips that I'd won in my pockets, strip off my apron and throw it on the ground in a mock touch-down celebration.
“I don’t know what kind of athlete you are, but it better be football, the NFL, and you better be the highest paid player in the league.”
Dexter laughs again, then takes my hand in his and guides me toward the elevator to the second floor of the club.
Chapter 2: Mae
The second floor of the Cypress Palace casino is a world apart—reserved exclusively for the elite. Hollywood actors, star athletes, and their entourages lounge in cordoned-off sections, separated by velvet ropes and guarded by hulking bodyguards hired by both the celebrities themselves and the casino who wants their money. The air is thick with money and self-importance, the kind of energy that thrives in places where no one ever hears the word "no."
The women who work this floor are my unintentional rivals, though they’re mostly, blissfully unaware of my existence. They glide through the room like they own it, heels clicking against the polished marble floor, their smiles equal parts invitation and performance. Their confidence is probably bolstered by the thousand-dollar tips they pocket nightly—tips slipped to them by the very people they aim to charm.
Among them is Miranda, who halfheartedly trained me when I first joined the casino staff five months ago. Her “training” was more a crash course in passive aggression, delivered with the grace of someone who clearly thought I wouldn’t last. So, it’s no surprise that the second she spots me stepping off the elevator with Dexter, her face twists into an unflattering scowl.
She storms toward me, her movements quick and sharp, her anger barely concealed beneath a layer of false professionalismand thick foundation. If I weren’t so focused on what’s coming next, I might laugh at how predictable she is responding to me entering “her” space. I’ve always been agirl’s girlbut for whatever reason, Miranda seemed to dislike me from the moment I started here.
“What the hell are you doing up here, Mae?” she snaps, planting herself squarely in my path like she’s some kind of gatekeeper for the VIP section. Unlucky for her, I don’t work here anymore and she’s about to piss off the hulking guy standing next to me.
