ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boys (8 page)

A
fter leaving Kit’s Gym
, I'm hot, sweaty, and horny. The day has disappeared; it's already five o'clock. I park my Mercedes S63 in my garage, and take an elevator up to the casino floor.

While I need to get to my penthouse to change out of these workout clothes, I want to stop to see if by chance Emmy is working. My chest is still pounding from the sparring with McQueen, from the conversation with Mark. Grotto has gotten under my skin and I need Emmy on top of me to make the world right again.

I'm standing next to some blackjack table when I realize I actually have no fucking clue who the manager for the cocktail waitresses is. This is below my pay grade.

I pull out my phone to text my assistant, Denise.

Just as start typing a text, I see her.

Emmy Rose is headed to the long buffet line in a tight-ass pair of white jeans, a V-neck top that reveals just enough cleavage. As much as I wish there was more skin shown, I also see the guys around me give her a greedy once-over.

It's obvious that every man here wants want I had last night. What I'm going to get again.

“Emmy,” I call to her. She's with two women, giving hugs.

She turns, hearing her name, sees me. Her eyes grow wide. I swear she shakes her head as I cross toward her.

“Emmy,” I say again. Her name on my lips is so fucking sweet. This woman has completely melted me. If earlier I thought I was a pussy, right now I'm a fucking puddle.

“Ace,” she says, glancing at her friends who are completely confounded.

“Ace, as in Ace Royalle?” one of the woman with her asks. She's a platinum blonde, petite and curvy. Not my type, because my type is right next to her. Emmy Rose.

“And you are?” I take the blonde’s hand and then kiss it suavely. I want Emmy's friends to like me, and I know they will.

“I'm Claire. I work here. And this is Tess, she does too.”

The other girl gives a squeak—I kid you not—and a small wave. “Hi! I just love what you've done to the place!”

Tess has perfectly styled hair, pink nails, pink lips. Standing next to Emmy, who is effortless and currently looking everywhere but at me, Tess looks like an eager beaver. I don't have the heart to tell her she's barking up the wrong tree.

Instead, I take a more direct approach.

“Emmy, I need to speak with you about something,” I say.

“Oh, I'm actually not working today.” She shrugs, and it makes my cock twitch. “You can find me tomorrow when I'm on the clock.”

“It can't wait.”

“I didn't know you oversee the cocktail waitresses,” Claire says, looking at me pointedly.

Okay, so, this blonde isn't charmed with the fact I'm the fucking boss. Who does she think she is?

“I oversee Emmy.” I speak coolly, but what I want to do is take Emmy by the hand and pull her away from the fucking buffet. I've got a different kind of all you can eat on my mind.

Emmy gives a snort and my eyes land on hers.

“What?” she asks, feigning innocence.

“Now.”

“Okay, okay.” Turning to her friends, she says, “Save me a seat, I'll just be a sec. Oh, and see if you can get me some of that spicy tuna before it's all gone.”

“Okay….” Claire says, watching closely as I grab Emmy by the elbow and lead her off the floor.

“What the hell, Ace? I'm having dinner.”

“At the fucking buffet?” I shake my head, surprised she would eat here on her day off.

“What? Is that too low class for you?” she asks, as I pull her toward the bank of elevators. “Claire got a two for one coupon from Davey—can't beat that.”

I press the
up
button.

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Davey? Coupons?”

“Yeah, well we didn't all grow up privileged,” she says. “And we don't all own fucking hotels. Davey is your employee and so is Tess. And so is Claire.”

“Like I’m going to work on memorizing the names of the hundreds of people who work here.”

An elevator door opens. I take her hand and pull her inside. She steps in the doorway, feet planted on the marble floor.

“I thought you needed to talk about something. We can do that down here,” she says. The doors start to close on her and she raises an arm to stop them.

“Get in here,” I tell her.

“No, I don't know what you think this is … but it isn't.”

“You’re in new clothes. Where'd you get those?” I ask.

“Low blow, for one. And two, I'm wearing these because they’re fucking cute, not because they’re from you. You can't buy me. I'm not your whore.”

Just then the elevator across the way opens and a short, balding man steps out with three female escorts: faux fur coats, fishnets, and minidresses, their cleavage spilling out. Surely he ordered them from the directory next to his bed.

“I didn't say you were a whore.” My voice drops, and all I want is her in here with me. I want the doors to close on us. I want my sweaty body pressed against hers.

She isn't a whore. She's mine.

“Well, don't treat me like one then.”

Her eyes are on mine, and I feel the electricity pulse between us. She may say she doesn't want to be treated like a whore, but I can tell by the way her lips quiver, the way her perfect tits rise and fall, the way she arches her back hungrily—that she wants to be fucked like one.

“I'll treat you like you want to be treated,” I tell her.

“Then let me go.” Her voice is soft, as if she's scared. Scared of what she wants. Needs.

“You don't want that.”

I tug on her arm, the final shove she needs to give in to what she is thinking about. In one fell swoop she steps inside, the doors close, and my mouth is on hers.

* * *

Oh fuck.

One second I'm all strong, resolved, and determined to tell Ace that in no shape or form am I his thing, a fuckable, disposable woman … and the next second I'm literally licking his neck.

My hands are on his ass, pawing him as if I haven't touched a man in years. When he and I both know that is far from the fucking truth.

His tongue grazes my ear, causing the heat between my legs to spread, making me squirm in his arms.

He isn't dressed to kill right now, far from it. He's in workout clothes and smells like a man—all sweat and strength—and this low-key look turns me on.

My fingers inch along the elastic waistband of his athletic shorts and I know a simple tug would reveal a hard, thick cock. The one I held last night. The one I rode in the early morning hours. The one that tempts me now.

“I have to meet my friends. We have plans tonight.” I tell him, pushing away.

“Plans with me tonight, right?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I can't do this.”

“Yes, yes you can.”

“I'm not going to a hotel room with you again. Not doing this whole whore-dance. That's not me.”

“We don't have to go to my room, then.” He unbuttons my pants.

I'm still in my heels, still trying to figure out if I'm seriously going to do this again. My brain screams
no
, my pussy begs
yes
.

I eye the elevator door, knowing it might open any moment. As if reading my mind, he bangs against the security button with his elbow, calling on an intercom.

“This is Ace Royalle. I need you to lock the doors on this elevator until I say so.”

“Roger that, boss,” a muffled voice replies over a speaker as the elevator stops.

“You fuck everyone this way?” I ask, shaking my head at this man's power.

“Not everyone,” he says. He pulls the skintight pants down to my knees. Eyeing me hungrily—I’m in that tiny little thong he got for me—he pushes the lace down, too. “But enough that the operator knows what to do when told.”

I reflexively kick off my heels, knowing that this thing between Ace and I can't go on, but also knowing no way in hell am I stopping this elevator fuck-train. I want to ride this car until I come.

“And you, do you do what you’re told?” I ask Ace, pulling down his shorts and boxer briefs. I moan, taking in his massive cock, stepping out of my pants, pulling my top over my head.

“I'm never told what to do.” He pushes me against the elevator wall, lifts me by my ass cheeks, presses his mouth on the full rise of my breasts.

Pulling down the lace cups, he twirls his tongue around my hard nipple, sucking on my tits hard.

“I do what I want, Emmy. And right now, I want you.”

“I can see that,” I say, panting, as my entrance bobs against his rod. He is a fucking pussy tease, holding me over him, not setting me down on himself.

“You're fucking gorgeous.”

“Don't talk if you're just gonna say I'm pretty.”

“You don't like men to tell you how hot you are?” He holds my back with one hand, our noses touching. Our breath hot, heavy. His cock grazing my opening.

I laugh, my mouth parting as I kiss him, my tongue meeting with his. I pull my lips away.

“I like it when men see me as a person, not a piece of meat.”

“So you're saying you want to go on a date?” Ace smiles. “With me?”

“I didn't say that. I said keep your mouth shut and fuck me if you only want to complement me on the way my body looks.”

“So, Emmy is a feminist?”

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

“Depends.”

“On what?” I look at him, my entire body pulsing with desire. His is, too. His stiff cock is hungry, his eyes beating with desire.

“On if you are coming to Stacked tonight.”

“You won't fuck me unless I promise to do what you want?”

“Exactly.”

“Then fuck you, Ace.” I push him away. “I don't fuck unless it is mutually beneficial. You may think I'm a sweet flower, who’ll give into your every whim so long as you water me, put me in a fucking vase. But that isn't me at all. I'm not that girl. You can't pick me and think I'm yours, just like that.”

I grab my panties, pants, pull them up. Tug on my blouse. Slip on my shoes. I'm so fucking pissed.

Once dressed I look at Ace. He's fuming, also fucking pissed. He's pulled his clothing on, but I know me pulling back from him must hurt like a motherfucker. That cock is not used to being denied.

Not that I care.

I am not interested in a man who gives me ultimatums. In a man who thinks he can buy me, or tease me, a man who can demand that I come in an elevator when what I really wanted was dinner with my girlfriends.

“Open the doors, Ace.”

His jaw is clenched. But he does as I ask. He uses the intercom to the operator to open the doors.

The elevator glides down to the casino floor. I swallow, suddenly nervous, suddenly overwhelmed that I let my emotion rise out of me so fast, so furiously.

The doors open. I step out, stand in the hall, look in at Ace who is now all alone.

He doesn't speak, he just punches the wall, his fists flying as the doors shut.

I did that.

And it feels like shit.

I
stop in the bathroom
, douse my face with water. My hands tremble. My face is on fire.

I know I was the one who just walked away, but I have never felt so terrible about walking away from someone.

I hadn’t felt terrible about walking away when I was getting dressed in the elevator. It was when I looked in Ace’s eyes and saw that he didn’t want me to go. There was a sliver of desire in his eyes that was about more than
just
sex.

Ace's words, all intense and heated and demanding, rubbed me the wrong way. Brought up too many memories of asshole boyfriends who treated me like shit. Growing up, I lost my virginity at fifteen. Dated older guys, basically anyone who was bad news. After Mom and Dad died, and I left for college—which was a fucking miracle in and of itself—I could never shake the drunks, the jobless losers, the men who saw me as a thing they could use for their own benefit.

Not as a person.

And yeah, being in that elevator was electrifying. No doubt about it—Ace and his dark green eyes and strong arms and rough voice make me forget everything I know.

But then he made that comment about me making promises in exchange for sex … and the words sliced through the fog that was him and me. His words reminded me of all the guys before him.

I am tired of being used. I'm working way too hard at making life work to be a doormat at the end of the day.

I want to be special. And not for the entire world, or even all of Las Vegas … but if I am going to give myself to a guy more than once, I want it to be for something real. Something mine.

I use a paper towel and blot my face dry, feeling like a fucking roller coaster that’s gone off the tracks. I was okay with him screwing me every which way last night … but that was before the designer clothes and the demands.

That was before I looked at him and saw myself.

There’s no denying the truth: the way my body responds to Ace scares me. I know that eventually he’ll hurt me, like all the guys before him.

Nothing about him is safe, and right now, that is what I need, what I crave. I just want someone to take care of me.

* * *

My knuckles are bleeding, and as I exit the elevator to my penthouse I walk straight to the kitchen for ice. Wrapping my hand, I scream, so fucking pissed.

One look at Emmy Rose and all I want is her. I want to take her hand, run the fuck away. Or run up here—pull her into bed. Get room service for the rest of our goddamned life and stay in some fucking cocoon where it’s just her and me, and my cock and her pussy.

She has issues—ain't that the fucking truth—but I know I have plenty of issues of my own. But when I was with her in the elevator it felt like all my problems were gone. When we were alone, everything felt right.

And then she fucking walked away.

What the hell?

I know she wanted it. Wanted me. She groaned and I hadn't even pressed myself inside her.

She moaned and I hadn't even made her come. Her nipples were hard at the mere thought of fucking me.

And then she left.

She says she doesn't want to be my property? My piece of ass? She's wrong and she knows it.

She wants to be mine. She's just fucking scared.

In my bathroom I turn the water to cold, step inside and wash off the sweat and blood, and get my cock to calm the fuck down.

She wants to walk away like a child? Play a game of hide and seek? She wants to play pin the tail on the fucking donkey? Well, I can play games too.

X marks the spot and I'm no monkey in the middle.

She wants to play chase?

Fine.

I don't own this casino because I like to lose.

I win. Every fucking time.

* * *

“Everything okay?” Claire asks, eyes wide, as I sit at the table.

Tess and Claire have gone to town on the buffet. Plates are everywhere—pasta, meatloaf, crab cakes. Suddenly all I want is some serious chow.

“I'm fine. I'm just hungry. I don't think I've eaten all day.”

I grab a tray and head to the buffet line.

I fill my plates with lasagna and lobster tail and the spicy tuna rolls I've been dying to eat. The breadsticks have my name on them, and I bypass the salad bar altogether—because, really, who would I be kidding?—and instead add a slice of key lime pie with several dollops of whipped cream to my tray.

Sitting down with my friends, I can see them give me raised eyebrows. I'm always a cautious eater, concerned with not being able to squeeze into my uniform. But right now? Screw calorie counting.

Davey is my personal super hero at the moment for getting us these coupons.

Dipping my lobster in melted butter, I shrug as if it’s no big thing to be eating this way–because I don’t want to explain the reason behind this sudden onset of eating-my-emotions.

“Um, okay….” Tess starts. “So, what was the deal with Ace Royalle needing to speak with you? It seemed like he knew you.”

“I worked his poker game last night.” Looking at Claire, I say, “That's the gig you turned down so you could go out with that bowler. I got a three grand tip. And all I had to do was serve rum and Cokes all night to a group of men who think they're hot stuff.”

“Ohmigod. Ace's private poker game?” Tess asks. “Those guys he plays with are the Vegas elite. Was Jack Harris there? I hear they’re, like, best friends.”

Claire snorts. “Sure you didn't do anything else to get a tip like that?”

I throw a breadstick at her, suppressing a smile, because of course she went
there
immediately. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, though, Emmy—what did he want to talk to you about?” Tess asks.

“It doesn't matter. It was a work thing.” I shove a forkful of lasagna in my mouth, trying to swallow everything that took place in the elevator. Trying to swallow my wrecked emotions, my ruined pride.

“Okay, I'm not trying to annoy you.” Tess sighs loudly. “But I have more questions.”

I immediately raise my hands in annoyance.

“No,” she says. “Not about Ace. About that amazing outfit you’re wearing. Because, um, no offense, but you usually sport clothing from the Target clearance rack.”

Blushing, I look down at myself. She's right; this designer outfit is not helping me keep a low profile amongst my friends.

Before I can formulate some sort of answer that isn't too vague or insane, or, you know, truthful—a woman in her forties appears at our table. She’s wearing a tan blazer, has a short bob, and basically looks as regular as regular can be.

“Excuse me, Tess and Claire?” she asks, looking at my friends across the table.

“Who's asking?” Claire asks, always on the offensive.

“I'm Denise, the personal assistant to Ace Royalle.”

I pull in a sharp breath. What the hell is this about?

“What's this about?” Tess asks, as if reading my mind. She leans in so she doesn't miss a beat.

“He wanted to make sure you knew you’re on the guest list for his private table at Stacked for this evening. He said to tell you it was a pleasure to meet you, and he hopes you will be able to join him.”

“Are you fucking for reals?” Claire asks, mouth agape. Getting into Stacked is no small feat—having the cash for the cover charge doesn't even matter, because the tables are impossible to get unless you have a bank roll. Or are willing to basically do anything to get a man to bring you with.

And we aren't the kind of girls who hang around players, anyways. Mostly because we are employees, not club-going girls who have trust funds and platinum Visas.

We're working for tips and have bad credit and have never been to the Vegas hotel spas these girls live in.

We’re regular. Probably an awful lot like Denise.

Tess is beyond gone. She gives a whisper-shriek and I've literally never seen a twenty-two-year-old so happy. She's like a six-year-old at Disneyland.

“I’m for reals,” Denise says, smiling.

“What about Emmy, can she come?” Claire asks.

“Of course; she’s aware that she's already been included on the guest list per Mr. Royalle's request.”

“You knew that and didn't tell us?” Tess asks, her eyes wide.

“Okay, thanks, Denise, we got it.” I smile tightly, wanting Denise to leave. I don't want to tread on this murky territory. Ace. Me. Clubs. All of it.

My friends will start asking way too many questions.

Denise raises her eyebrows, but smiles at us before giving a noncommittal nod. “He’s looking forward to this evening, ladies.”

And then she turns away.

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Claire asks as Denise exits the buffet.

“Uh, that was Denise, apparently.” I shrug, trying to dismiss the whole thing. Does Ace seriously think he can force me to go to that club tonight? Tell his PA to sweet-talk my girlfriends like that?

“We’re going to Stacked!” Tess shrieks, no longer whispering—she’s in full-on hyperventilation mode.

“No we aren't,” I say, grabbing a breadstick and snapping it in half before shoving in my face.

“Oh hell yes, we are,” Claire says, surprising me. “When do we ever get to have fun?”

“Uh, last night?” I shake my head. “On your date?”

“My date with Carl?” Claire brushes me off. “That guy is golden, sure, but he is no Ace. And he wants to get serious. Like serious-serious. And I'm not ready for that. And whatever bullshit thing you aren't telling us, Emmy—your fancy clothes, and your earlier inquisition with Ace, and then to top it off, this Denise woman coming down to the buffet line to make sure we'd be at Stacked, whatever—that is your drama. But I, for one, am going to Stacked tonight. I'm going to have some fun.”

“Me too!” Tess says, grinning wildly. “What should we wear?”

I'm glad the inquisition is over, but I do not want to go to Stacked. I want to go home, crawl into bed, and wake up the same time my sister does.

“I'm gonna go home. I'm not up for this.” I take a bite of pie, wishing everything in life was as sweet as this key lime.

“No way, baby cakes,” Claire says. “First of all, you’re the reason we were invited tonight and, two, you need a night free of stress, a night where you can let loose, more than any of us … unless you've already had that night off and you just aren't telling us?”

I smirk at Claire, knowing that girl is trouble—she sees my weakness. Knows I don't want to talk about whatever this Ace-thing is … but she isn't letting me off the hook.

“You have to come, Emmy,” Tess begs.

I start to shake my head again, and Claire cuts me off.

“Here's the thing, toots: you come out with us tonight and we won't ask you another thing about those Jimmy Choos and nine-hundred-dollar jeans, or you spill the beans and we won't force you to join us at the most exclusive club we've ever been invited to.”

“You are ruthless,” I say. “Ruthless.”

“So you're in?” Tess asks. When I don't immediately shut her down she squeals. “Ohmigod, what are we gonna wear?!”

I don't tell them about the bags in my run-down Honda civic of the clothes Ace had delivered this morning … they will see that for themselves soon enough. But Claire promised no questions—and I know she won't break her word.

“I have a feeling I'm gonna need a second serving of everything to get through this night.”

I grab my tray, and begin to reload.

I'm gonna need some serious chicken piccata to get through this night.