ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boys (14 page)

S
tanding in the large
, vacant space, I see potential. The building doesn't need to be torn down completely, just rebuilt. The foundation is solid.

I wonder what sort of fucking metaphor this is supposed to be.

“What do you think?” The real estate agent, Stacy, asks us—Landon, McQueen, Jack and me. She’s a no-nonsense type of woman, in her fifties, and a typical cougar. She is eyeing us so hard she’s practically purring. And no one has even made a move.

And we won't. We take this meeting seriously.

“What’s the business we’re investing in, exactly?” Landon asks. “I don't really give a shit … but this money is actually my father's. He was quite proud at the notion of me wanting to be a venture capitalist. I just had to evade his questions about what the venture itself is.”

“Right,” I say, rubbing my jaw. “The thing is, we need to decide.”

“You don't know what you intend to use this space for?” Stacy asks. Her nails tap against the clipboard she holds in her hand. “It’s pretty important to know what you want it for, considering the bank is going to need to approve the loan based on the intention.”

I don't answer, and Jack cuts in, “Is anyone else interested in the space?”

We all know Grotto claimed a bid, but we don't know what for. And we know only one person will win.

“Yes, I know for a fact one other solid offer has been made. But since the bank owns this property, they’ve chosen to keep it open for bids until the end of next week.”

“What will they base their choice on? Highest bidder wins?” I ask. If it’s that simple, we just need to find out how deep Grotto's pockets go.

“It's more complicated than that,” Stacy explains. “The city of Las Vegas has brokered agreements with banks to invest in projects that will add the most value to the city.”

“And what adds the most value to Sin City?” McQueen asks. “Strip clubs? Because then we know our business model.”

“I don't know those details,” Stacy says. “I wish I did know what they were looking for, but they keep that close to their chest—with reason. If everyone know what they wanted this property bought for, every bid would come in riddled with false claims.”

“So you're saying we need to know what our business will be before we can make an offer?” I ask, my hands in my pockets in an attempt not to fidget. This is all making me more nervous than the first time I had sex.

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

Landon lifts his hands as if he’s about to add something important to the conversation. Then he drops them. “I got nothing. Honestly, Boss, this is your show. I'm just here for the applause.”

“You really don't have an idea what you want this space for?” Jack asks.

“Grotto can't have this property,” I say adamantly. “I don't know much, but I do know that. He has bad intentions.”

“And yours are pure?” McQueen laughs. “Bro, you own Spades Royalle. You have female escort phone books on every bedside table. Your hotel drips sex and sleaze—”

I cut him off. “Sex, yes, but not sleaze. My place is classy, right?” I ask my friends.

They shrug, apparently not knowing the difference between the two. Fuck, maybe I don't either.

Stacy steps in, smiling at me. “Look Ace, Spades Royalle is special. It has an exclusive feel that no other casino in Vegas offers. I'm not sure what Grotto's plans are, but let me ask around, see what I can dig up.

“And in the meantime, I can move forward with paperwork, and just leave the parts blank you aren't ready to commit to. In a week though, I'm going to need to know your plans so I can submit this offer.”

“Sounds good,” I say, grateful for her cooperation.

* * *

A
few days later
, the guys and I meet up at Spades to discuss the meeting with the real estate agent. McQueen has a show tonight, Jack does, too. Landon will be playing at a table he reserved with some of the other high-rollers, and me … well. I'm acting like the Boss I am.

We sit in the whiskey bar, commanding the room.

“So what are your big ideas, Ace?” Jack asks. “You heard Stacy. She wasn't joking.”

“Yeah, and what the fuck, bro?” McQueen asks. “You want us to money up but you don't know what for? Don't you need a business plan?”

“You're right. I just saw this property so close to the strip—which is never available—and wanted to pounce. Same thing as when I found the listing for what I turned into Spades Royalle. It was a shitty place before I renovated it.”

“Time isn't on our side, though,” Landon says pessimistically.

“I say we build a strip club. People love those. And there are never enough of them in Vegas. Hell, I'll star in the show.”

“You already star in a stripper show,” Jack says, laughing.

“Spank You is classy,” McQueen says defensively. He's right, of course—no trashy stripper routine is gonna fly in my casino. But Spank You is an all-male revue … so the likelihood of Jack or Landon ever actually seeing McQueen perform is slim to none.

I haven't seen him either. I have a manager to do the hiring for that one.

“So you jackasses think Vegas wants another strip club?” I ask, taking a sip of my aged whiskey.

“Why the hell not?” Jack asks. “We'll make it classy like the shit at this hotel, but more bare pussies and big tits. Truth is, I think I need more strippers in my life. Ashley was way too insecure to ever let me go to a club like that.”

“That's because Ashley was a bitch,” Landon says.

“Hey, talk nice about her,” McQueen says, defending the singing sensation who was Jack's longtime girlfriend.

“To be fair,” Jack says. “She also picked out my clothes if we were going out and refused to let me pee without shutting the door.”

“See,” Landon says. “She was a bitch.”

I'm laughing with the guys when out of the corner of my eye I see Emmy.

I watch her cross the casino floor, a tray in her hand, her feet in those high-ass heels, her thonged cheeks covered in fishnets, the pleather of her uniform pushing her tits up to perfection.

I haven't seen her in days. I swear I get a hard on and she hasn't even looked in my direction.

“Hey, is that your girl?” McQueen says.

Jack punches him in the shoulder.

“What?” McQueen asks. “Just because she kicked you out of her apartment doesn't mean she doesn't still want you.”

“It kind of does,” Jack says. “Which is reason number eighty-nine that you've never had a long term relationship.”

“Like any of us asses, have besides you,” Landon says truthfully.

“That's gonna change,” I say, standing up.

My friends laugh. “What's that mean?” Jack asks. “You just gonna go up to her and force her to be your woman?”

“No, I'm gonna go up to her and remind her why she shouldn't have walked away.”

* * *

I feel his eyes following me as I cut through the casino floor. I know he's just now noticed I’m here, but I've been watching him move around the place since he walked in an hour ago.

I swear to God my heart is connected to his. Being near him causes my pulse to quicken, and the longing I want to ignore to rise to the surface.

It’s been one hell of a week.

Tomorrow Janie will be taken off life support.

I should be with her now … but I was so tired, so exhausted at being alone in that room, with no one to talk to.

Sure, Claire and Tess have generously sat with me, brought me In-N-Out and Starbucks. They've sat with Janie so I could go home and shower, sat with her so I could cry alone in the chapel, praying to a god I have no faith in. A god I've never believed in.

But I don't want to be alone tonight. I'm tired of crying, tired of sitting in a sterile room. I need to do something. So tonight, I came to work. But my mind isn't on this job. My mind is on the fact it is my sister’s last night on Earth.

And when I decided to come I wasn't even thinking of Ace. Because yeah, he ripped my heart out when he told me he had known my sister, but he isn't my sole reason for living.

Not that I have any clue what is.

“Emmy, stop,” Ace calls out to me.

I keep walking.

“Emmy Rose, wait,” he calls again.

I stop.

Maybe it's because he calls me Emmy Rose, my name falling off his lips so effortlessly, like he’s made to speak my name. Or maybe it’s because I'm so damn tired and confused. Maybe it's because the last time I was lost I fell into the comfort of his arms, and I feel lost again right now.

Last time he held me and I now … now I just need to hold on for dear life.

“Emmy,” he says once more, coming to a stop at the heels of my feet. He doesn't hide the fact he wants me. Me, his employee. Him, the most powerful man in this casino. He doesn't pretend there isn't something between us—the thing I’ve been pretending all week doesn't exist.

He comes up behind me and wraps an arm around my waist. He pushes the hair from my neck and growls in my ear.

“Don't tell me to leave. Don't tell me that ever again.”

“Okay,” I whisper, my chest heaving, my entire body tingling under his tight hold. I nearly drop my tray with the one hand I use to balance it. My other hand grips his forearm tightly; I don't want to let go. He’s keeping me steady, grounded in a way I wish he couldn’t.

But he does.

Oh, fuck me, he does. I feel the way he grounds me by the hardness in his pants, the hardness pressed up against my ass.

I like that when I’m in these heels we’re the same height. It gives me the advantage right now, to feel what his body really wants.

It wants what I want.

He loosens his grip and then grabs the tray of drinks. He sets it down on a table absently, not caring that he’s just screwed up the game some players were betting on. He doesn't see anything because he only has eyes for me.

He takes my hand, holds it so tight. Leading me across the floor, the one I’ve memorized as I’ve worked this room to death for two months straight. I pass Tess, and her eyes bulge out her sockets.

I smile, sheepishly. All week, she's heard the reasons why Ace and I are bad news. She's listened to me berate his cockiness and his insensitivity and his absolute womanizing behavior.

But I know I wear my heart on my sleeve, and for all the mean things I've called Ace this week, I've also whispered his name in my sleep.

And I know my friends have heard the utterances, because they have called me out on it.

I've denied it. Over and over again.

Because who am I to think of this man when my sister is close to death?

Ace pulls me down a long hall, to the elevator bank he's led me to before.

When we enter the elevator, he pulls his signature move and calls the operator, telling him to make the car stop.

It reminds me—his quick words that create a response—how powerful he is.

How quickly he can crush me.

How quickly he did, last week.

The elevator is lined with mirrors. I see Ace from a million different angles, and in each one he looks like a different man.

In one he is bruised, in another battered—he is soulful, commanding, a killer, a lover.

He is so many things.

He is a monster.

He is mine.