Chapter One
While I might be considered a liar, a scammer, a woman of questionable morals, one thing I’m not is lazy. Which is why, at the bar where my dreams die a slow death, every bottle in the beer fridge stands at attention in an orderly row, every glass is streak-free, and every bill in the till is stacked president-side up. I do what I can, even though it’s never enough.
The Last Chance Bar and Casino, so far from the glitz of the Strip that it can barely be considered Las Vegas, is depressing at the best of times, but on a slow Saturday night, it’s downright demoralizing. Without bodies filling the space, you can’t help but notice the fraying seat cushions, the crack in the mirror behind the bar, and the way half the letters in the Coors Light sign have burned out, spelling “Cool it.”
The one bright spot is Cori. He watches as I polish the Formica bar for the third time tonight. He leans, his elbows landing in the exact spot I’m about to wipe down. “Okay, would you rather,” he drawls, in a way that signals he’s about to say something totally inappropriate, “have a foursome with the Farm Boys at table five—” he pauses to nod at the table of paunchy men in overalls and rubber boots, who are drinking wordlessly as they watch the A’s lose to the Jays “—or digitally penetrate the Slot Zombie in the cowboy hat?” I follow his gaze to an ancientman, hunched over the Fruits Royale 100 machine, whose shrunken head has been swallowed by a ten-gallon hat.
I shudder, fighting to keep the imagery out of my head. “I’d rather remove my own toenails with a butter knife, if that’s an option.”
One of the Farm Boys swivels his head toward me. He picks up his nearly empty beer bottle by the neck and wiggles it, lifting his chin.
“Go work your magic,” Cori says, a wink in his voice.
I plaster on a smile as I saunter over with my tray.
“Another round, fellas?” I ask, clearing their empties. For once, I wish they would order complicated cocktails, something to kill some time, but it’s just two more bottles of beer. One of them hands me a crumpled twenty. I slip it into the pocket of my apron and lean toward him. I squeeze his meaty bicep, my fingers sinking into his flesh. “You didn’t need change for that, did you, babe?” He pauses for a second, looking first at my hand on his arm, then at my face. It’s more than he’d regularly tip, but he won’t want to lose face in front of his buddies. He shakes his head, and I split before he can change his mind.
“Have you no shame?” Cori says as I approach the bar.
“None,” I say, stuffing the bills into my bra.
“How about this: Fuck, Marry, Kill—Customer Edition,” he says, running his tongue against the edge of his teeth.
“Have I not suffered enough?” I moan, swatting his arm.
The doorbell chimes and a pack of guys, red-faced and glassy-eyed, lurch through the doors. They’re in various states of disarray—sweaty hair, untucked shirts, ties pulled loose. A bachelor party, if I had to guess.
“I’ll let you take this one,” Cori says, grimacing. “I don’t feel like getting hate-crimed tonight.”
The bachelors crowd the bar, talking loudly over one another. Do I love large groups of extremely drunk men intent on out-bro-ing one another at every turn? No, but I know an opportunity when I see one. And this is like shooting fish in a barrel.
I’ve never liked that saying, always found it too visceral, but it’s all Ican think of as this pack of Frat Bros, with their glassy eyes and cheap suits, crowds the bar in front me. If there’s anything the shitshow of the last three months has taught me, it’s that you have to look out for number one at all times, and number one needs to dig herself out of the hole she finds herself in, by any means necessary. It’s not that I like ripping off my customers, but sometimes it’s just too easy.
Bang!That ten-dollar bill you’re owed is actually a one. Too bad you’re too cross-eyed to notice.
Pop!There’s no G in your G&T. Consider it a public service.
Crack!If you’re too lit to question why you didn’t get any change, then that’s on you.
And not to make excuses for my questionable behaviour, but when you come to a place like this, what do you expect?
“Drinks are expensive here, huh?”
Somehow, in the scrum of drunk bros in bad suits, I failed to notice this guy, a certified weapon. He has a jawline that could cut glass. Golden skin and full lips. Dark brown eyes, perfectly framed by thick eyebrows. Thick chestnut waves, slicked back—
Oh wait. It’s not slicked back. It’spulledback. In a ponytail.
And just like that, I’ve got the Ick.
It’s not that he’s not good-looking—he looks like he’s straight from central casting for the next major romcom—but long hair on guys is an immediate deal breaker for me. Which is good, because otherwise I might be intimidated by this almost hot stranger insinuating—correctly—that I’m ripping off his friends.
“Expensive?” I say, tilting my head like a terrier.
One side of his mouth lifts slightly, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “My friends didn’t get any change.”
I feel a little flush, an unfamiliar sensation reserved for when I’m attracted to someone, which, due to the tuft of hair gathered at the back of this guy’s neck, is definitely not the case.
“How odd,” I say, holding his gaze.
