Maybe that's why I chose this club tonight instead of one on the strip.
That, and it’s inside the newest 21+ playground in Vegas. A mid-century-inspired facade paired with the finest modern luxuries, down to an awe-inspiring rooftop pool. This place is hot right now, making it the perfect spot to find single, good-looking, and most importantly, wealthy men.
As a 25-year-old single woman, what else would I be doing on a Friday night? Knitting?I think not. I wish Lexi were here right now; it’s been far too long since our last girls’ night. But childcare is hard to find, so I’m flying solo.
Inside the casino, the usual assault on my senses begins. The suffocating scent of cigarette smoke, the obnoxious chimes of slot machines, and slow-moving tourists who make me want to scream. I weave around them and manage to catch an elevator right as the doors close.
The club is sixty stories up. I smash the button and take a moment to steal one last glance at myself in the elevator’s mirrored glass.
I quickly comb my fingers through my long, black waves, check that my winged liner hasn’t dared to smudge, and swipe on a fresh coat of wine-red lipstick. Pausing, I examine the freckles scattered over my peachy-beige skin. They always seem to pop more when the weather gets warm. I smooth down my black satin minidress, counting the seconds until I have a drink in my hand.
The doors open and —damn. This isn’t the kind of club I expected. It’s a rooftop bar that takes decadence to a whole new level.
Gold accents catch the dim lighting, casting everything in a soft glow. The entire space is sleek and mid-century modern, with plush seating areas, a marble bar, and an open patio lined with fire pits. It’s exclusive, dripping with class, and the gold of my heels mirrors the warm gleam of the bar’s accents. At least I dressed for the occasion.
I’m only here because a friend from high school is a cocktail waitress and snagged a last-minute reservation for me, but the second I step inside, I decide I belong here.
As I make my way toward the bar, I scan the room. Every table is occupied. Couples cuddle together, sharing appetizers and slowly sipping their cocktails; groups of men and women in business suits talk quietly at their tables, and a large group of women gathers in a corner booth.
The woman in the middle of the group is wearing a white minidress with fringe lining the bottom, a sash reading “bride” draped over her shoulder. The rest are in varying shades of pink and red. In front of them, the table is littered with shot glasses all sitting around a large heart-shaped cake. I steal a glance as I pass by. Someone scrawled ‘Same penis forever’ on it in bright red frosting. I snort out a laugh as my eyes wander to the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a view of the rooftop patio.
A cluster of men sits at the largest fire pit, right in the middle of the space. Three of them, all in dark, expertly tailored suits.
One has sun-kissed tan skin and messy blond curls; his arm drapes lazily around a girl who looks like she just stepped out of a Barbie box: long, sleek blonde hair, a pink, very short dress, and matching stilettos that have to be killing her feet. She looks like she could be my age. She also looksdrunk. The man she’s clinging to is wearing a smug smile that tells me exactly what his plans are for the evening. I roll my eyes and shift my gaze to the other two.
They both have the kind of build that makes it look like their suits are hanging on by a thread, muscles straining beneath the fabric. Almost-black hair, slicked back. Strong features. They look like they might be related, but one looks several years older, judging by the strands of grey scattered throughout his hair and beard.
They lean forward, elbows resting on their knees, tilting close to each other as they talk. From an outsider’s perspective, it looks like they could be planning something or maybe talking business.
The bearded one is sipping an amber-colored cocktail, and I can’t help but stare as he leans back to run his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. A lock comes loose, hanging in front of his brow. His posture relaxes against the stone bench flanking the fire pit as he takes another sip. Something about him tells me he’s not a man who relaxes often.
Interesting.
I slide onto a barstool and order my usual. “Vodka martini, extra dirty.” When my drink arrives, I steal another glance toward the fire pit. His sleeves are now rolled up to his elbows, revealing permanently inked ones underneath. His eyes scan the patio for a moment before locking on mine through the window.
This is my moment.
I let my gaze hold his for a second before I slip away from the bar and through the door, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.
The entire city stretches beneath me as I stand at the rooftop’s glass-lined edge. The sun has just dipped behind the mountains, leaving streaks of pink and orange blazing across the sky. I watch as the city glows to life below, feeling his presence beside me before I even turn to look.
“Martini?” His voice is deep and smooth. “Bold choice.”
I glance up. His eyes gaze into my own, the same warm brown hue as the whiskey he’s sipping. I catch the scent of expensive cologne — something woodsy with a hint of spice — and cigar smoke. More tattoos peek out from beneath his collar, teasing just enough to make me wonder what else might be hidden beneath that suit.
“Extra dirty,” I say, shooting him a sly grin.
His lips twitch as if he’s amused. “Not many women order it that way.”
I swirl my martini and pop an olive into my mouth, my eyes never leaving his. “What can I say? I like it filthy.”
The smile that follows is almost predatory.
I take a slow sip, letting the tension linger. The way he holds himself and the calm in his posture are almost unsettling, yet I can’t look away. I let my gaze drift down the length of his body.Expensive cufflinks. Designer watch. Italian leather shoes.Making mental notes.
He’s the first to break the silence. “Are you waiting for someone?”
I hesitate, weighing my answer, but decide to keep it simple.
