ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boys (7 page)

And I love the way the twelve-hundred-dollar stilettos don't make my arches ache—nothing like the way my Target heels make my feet scream while I'm at work.

I dig in my purse for a compact and swipe powder over my nose and cheeks, lip gloss over my lips, and mascara on my lashes. Thank God for hotel toothbrushes and soap—I won't smell like casino-leftovers this morning.

Instead, I look better than I ever have in my life.

Stuffing my uniform in one of the bags, I grab the other ones, and head for the door. Taking one last look over the suite, I turn back to the breakfast cart.

Snagging the card, I stuff it in my purse. Maybe for personal evidence that for one night, I was irresistible to a man more handsome than I've ever seen.

And maybe this is cheesy, but I take the red rose, too, and push it through the bun on the nape of my neck.

It makes me smile, knowing that even though Ace is a player—a player who played me—he remembered my name.

I
find
McQueen where he’s working out, at Kit’s Gym. He visits this place like a Catholic schoolgirl going to church. He fucking prays to that punching bag, offers Hail Marys to the practice ring.

McQueen has a pretty face, but that doesn’t keep him from the ring. He trains here everyday.

“Hey, man, what's up?” He pulls off his boxing gloves and gives me a once-over. “You seem way too tense for a man who had that waitress all night. She was fucking hot.”

“She's not a waitress. Her name is Emmy.” I don't want him talking about her like she's a piece of fucking meat.

My pocket vibrates and I pull out my phone. I recognize the number as Trenton, the PI. I left him a message on my way over, but I let it go to voicemail. Right now I need to fucking let off some steam.

“Whoa, boss-man has his dick up somebody's ass.”

“Fuck you, McQueen.” I run my hands through my hair. I'm in a collared shirt, slacks, dress shoes—I look like a fucking businessman. Not like myself at all.

And right now I want to feel alive.

I don't often have this need to remember where I come from—most of the time I want to block that shit from my mind. But the way Mark Denzel told me to stop going after what I want—that property—it has me fucking fired up.

I want to hit something, punch something. I grew up getting in fights, pushing people around until I got what I wanted—but ever since I moved to Vegas, I’ve played by the rules of this city.

A nice suit gets you a meeting. A pimped-out watch gets you an investor. I wanted
those
things more than I wanted to fight.

So I did everything Mark Denzel told me to do—cut my hair, found a tailor. And it's worked. The only time I act like I did back when I was a Genova is when I’m with women.

With women, I can still be the man I've always been. The man I was bred to be. In control. Dominating. Taking what I fucking want.

Mostly, warm pussy for my cock.

“What are you doing here?” McQueen asks.

“I need to pound something till it bleeds.”

“Not my face,” McQueen says, shielding his cheeks.

“I don't fucking care what.” I pull off my tie, shrug off my suit coat. “I'm pissed, bro. And I need to fight.”

“You know I’m not gonna fight you. We can spar, that’s all.” McQueen laughs. “But you gotta play nice. I have a show tonight.”

I head to the locker room with the gym clothes I brought, and quickly change into work out gear.

I grab a pair of gloves and headgear from a trainer. McQueen joins me in the ring and one of the trainers is in the corner, leading the charge.

We shadowbox in the ring, warming up before we start throwing controlled jabs. We don't go easy on one another, but we aren't complete assholes either. The goal right now, for me, is to fucking get out this rage so I don't go hunt down Grotto and beat him to a pulp.

I remember doing that enough times, the dirty work for my father.

I don't play that way anymore. I'm a man, not a wild beast.

But right now, in the ring, I want to let loose. Lose control.

I throw a punch, a sharp uppercut, connecting with McQueen's cheek with much more force than intended. He’s not expecting it.

“Fuck you,” he yells, pushing away. “Play nice.”

I pull back from McQueen, not trusting myself. I tear off the gloves, raise my hands in surrender.

“Sorry, bro. Not cool.” I swallow, knowing my mind is fucking all over the place.

Grotto. Mark Denzel. Emmy.

Emmy.

That’s what I want right now. What I need. I don't
need
to fight—I let that part of my life go. I should never have stepped foot in this gym.

But a woman offers a different release. I can lose control without beating up my best friend.

I can lose control while a woman fucks me.

Maybe two women.

That's what I really need right now. Maybe Emmy would be up for threesome…. She seemed pretty wild last night. Telling me how she finger-fucked herself in the ladies room.

Oh man, it gets me horny just thinking about it.

I need to find her.

Fuck her.

“I gotta go,” I tell McQueen, leaving the ring.

“You're an ass you know that? You come here, punch my fucking face, and then go before I can get you back?”

“I'll make it up to you tonight, at Stacked.”

“You better deliver, fucker.” He walks over, gives me a fist bump, and I know we're cool.

And tonight, he'll forget all about this. I've already told Denise to deliver a dozen women to our table. I'll text her and let her know I only want women with double D's. No panties. Women who don't mind fucking strangers. Who don't mind swallowing. Women who like it dirty, hard. Fast.

There are plenty of them to go around. I've never had trouble finding them before.

Not that I'll want them tonight.

Because right now I'm gonna find Emmy and have her give it to me early.

I'll have her give it to me now.

* * *

“So the lead?” I ask Detective Clark, sitting his office at the police station.

Papers are piled everywhere and the lighting is bad, crackling fluorescent bulbs, and the smell of stale coffee lingers in places it shouldn't. It's like a crime movie from the 1940s up in here.

He offers me a lazy smile, like he always does. There’s nothing presumptuous or off-putting about Clark. I just wish he was a little better at his job.

“Right,” he says, fumbling with a stack of papers for no apparent reason. “It's not a lead exactly….”

He's probably only a few years older than me, and not exactly qualified. Last time we met, I was the one reminding him the details of my sister’s case.

“You called me down here for nothing?” I rub the base of my neck with my hand, brushing against the petals of the rose tucked in my hair. The sweet scent wafts around me, and once again I think about Ace.

For, like, the millionth time today.

So for, like, the millionth time, I mentally kick myself in the ass for being such a complete idiot.
Move on, Emmy … remember, he thought he could buy you tonight with a few shopping bags of to-die-for clothing?

I can't be bought.

“Not nothing,” Clark says, his eyes brightening. “Your sister's cell phone has been recovered, and I just got it back from surveillance. The calls were made to an unknown number, but the texts are traceable.”

“Who was she talking too?” I ask, my heart beating fast.

I know literally zero about Janie's life here in Vegas, even though I've gone through her crap apartment a thousand times.

She'd asked me to send her birth certificate to her apartment a few months before the accident, so I at least knew where she lived. The hospital gave me her keys when I proved our relationship. I hoped I'd find clues about her life when I looked around, but her apartment was a sterile as our relationship.

The thing is, it feels so shitty to have a sister who I know nothing about. Aren't sisters supposed to have some internal connection? Some bond? We never had any, but I want one with her. Fiercely. Desperately.

Though, in truth, at this point I'd be happy to have a bond with anyone. I’m tired of running around on my own. Surviving without any support.

“We don't know who she was texting, but we are hoping when we figure that out, we will have a lead.”

“That's it? I mean, what are the texts? Maybe we can figure something out from them?”

“Uhhh….” Clark coughs awkwardly into his hand. “It was mostly … sexting.”

“Sexting?” Ugh. Typical Janie. That girl has always had boundary issues. But honestly, it could be worse. I have a growing suspicion she must have been wrapped up in a bad scene down here.

No job had called wondering where she was. No friends had come looking for her. Hell, even the landlord, when I spoke to him, knew nothing about my sister.

Which makes me wonder what she’d been doing down here to make money. Her closet was full of clothes—albeit pretty trashy ones—and her bills were paid in full, and she had a modest apartment with furniture in all the right places.

“The only clue … besides the fact she liked to umm….” Clark shifts in his chair, the tops of his ears bright red. “Well, never mind. She kept referring to a man named Bullet. And she asked him to pick her up at nine. The crash happened at 9:15. Your guess is as good as mine.”

I pull my purse higher on my shoulder, ready to go. My head hurts from this conversation, and, mostly, I need a nap. “I just wish she'd wake up. It would make everything a lot easier.”

“Sure would, Emmy.”

“Thanks, though,” I tell Clark, meaning it. At least he followed through and kept me in the loop.

* * *

A
s I walk
though the corridor of the hospital, my new heels click-clack against the floor. I think it sounds sexy, and I blush remembering why I have these on my feet at all.

Knowing Claire probably thinks I'm the flakiest friend ever, I send her a quick text.

Me:
Sorry for bailing on brunch. I have a good excuse.

Claire:
Prove it. Meet me for dinner? I'm off at 5.

Looking at the time, I see it's 3:00. Perfect.

Me:
Sure. Where?

Claire:
Here. Davey gave me a 2 for 1 at the buffet.

I smile, knowing how Claire loves the Spades Royalle buffet. No way would I be able to talk her out of it. That girl loves food like nobody’s business.

Me:
I think Davey is in love with you.

Claire:
We don't date players, remember?

Davey works hotel security and clearly has a thing for Claire. I wouldn't say she's a dick tease, but she definitely hasn't put the kibosh on his attempts.

Me:
See you at the buffet line, chica.

Pocketing my phone, I'm once again grateful for her friendship. It lessens the sting of not having any family.

Back in Washington, where I was born and raised, I worked my ass through school. My life always felt complicated and stressful, friendships were always on the back burner. But then when I moved here, got this job, and met Claire—we just clicked. Tess, too, but she's a bit too innocent to take in large doses.

Though she probably really needs girls like Claire and I in her corner—that girl is gonna get herself in trouble one of these days.

Thinking of her, I send a quick text inviting her to meet us at the buffet. She immediately replies with a string of emojis letting me know she is in.

I shake my head. That girl has a never-ending reserve of energy.

Stopping at the nurse’s station, I offer them a smile and write my name on the check-in sheet.

“Any progress?” I ask Amy, the head nurse.

“I wish, sweet pea. But nothing to note. The doctor stopped by earlier; you missed him by an hour.”

“Oh, really? I was hoping to catch him.” My heart falls, feeling like I can't catch a break today. Tears prick my eyes, and I quickly wipe them away, wanting to remain positive and brave. I know that’s what Janie needs more than anything. “I just feel like she's never gonna wake up.”

“I know it feels that way, but there's still hope. Her latest CT scan was positive, remember that. No blood clots, no swelling. But the doctor did say he wanted to speak with you.”

“Well, I'll try and catch him tomorrow.” I know that most coma patients recover after two to four weeks—and we’re going on eight. “I'll just go talk with her. Okay?”

“Okay, Emmy. Chin up, okay?”

I smile at her, but it's a phony one. I wish I had unlimited positive mojo to dish out, but I don't. At the end of the day, I'm kind of a mess.

Sitting with Janie in her sterile hospital room, I hold her hand. In the quiet space I'm able to confess how lonely I am. Admit what I did last night.

I figure, why the hell not? Maybe hearing about my escapades will jerk her out of her current state.

It doesn't work.

After sitting there for ninety minutes, watching crappy daytime television, and crossing and uncrossing my legs anxiously, I kiss her forehead and leave. Maybe tomorrow a miracle will happen.

Maybe she'll wake up and tell us who Bullet is.