Deep Blue (2 page)

Now
I remember why I chose the dealer position. I’m an absolute wuss when it comes to the cold—I used to dress like an Eskimo during Tahoe winters. Having grown up around the casinos, I know a thing or two about the air conditioning and the cocktail uniforms. I didn’t want to freeze my nipples off every day.

I cover my smile with my hand. “It’s pretty,” I mumble through my fingers.

The look she gives me … appalled, peeved. She’s seriously pissed. I don’t know why, but seeing her like this always makes me want to laugh. It’s like watching an angry kitten or a furious fluffy bunny. It’s so out of character.

I squeeze my lips together and bend over, holding in a snicker.

Gen leans down, her mouth to my ear. “You. Suck. You did this on purpose!”

I straighten. “How could I do this on purpose? You picked your job position.”

Aside from the freeze-your-nipples-off factor, I wouldn’t have minded the cocktail uniform. I hadn’t warned Gen, because I didn’t think it was a big deal. She needs to loosen up, and I couldn’t have arranged a more perfect outfit to attract guys to my reserved best friend.

Gen’s hands shake as she crushes the small piece of black, shiny fabric in the shape of hot pants and the blue-and-black-sequined bustier to her chest. She stomps away.

“Good luck tonight,” I call out, a smile in my voice.

Without looking back, she holds her hand above her head and flips me off.

I laugh out loud.

We’ve worked all week and tonight is my first actual night on the casino floor at one of the blackjack tables. I’ve been trapped in conference rooms, learning how to deal cards. So far, I haven’t botched my addition, and my riffle shuffle rocks.

The customer in front of me swigs his diluted complimentary drink. He’s in a red floral Hawaiian shirt that stretches over a massive beer belly. I’m ignoring the coarse black hair poking through the gaps between his buttons so I won’t be forced to gouge my eyes out later. He picks up all but one chip—my tip, bless him—and walks away, and as he does, Gen signals to me from her elevated perch in the Blue open lounge.

I’m not supposed to chat with anyone but my customers. I glance at the pit boss. He’s handing out complimentary drink tokens and what appears to be a coupon for a free night’s stay to a woman with a blond bob haircut and a designer bag slung over her shoulder. The pyramid of chips in front of her is worth about twenty grand, and while my pit boss distracts her with a room comp, a new dealer replaces the old.

Pit bosses switch dealers when a customer gets too lucky. I have no idea why, but somehow that can break a winning streak.

Sneaky casino bastards.

The pit boss is busy orchestrating the woman’s downfall, and I have no customers for the moment. I wave Gen over. Her job is more social and fluid. As long as she slings drinks, she can talk to anyone, though she does have to be careful about approaching tables outside of her section, even if it’s just to gossip with a friend. Higher-stakes gaming goes to the veteran waitresses who’ve been around five years or more, and those bitches are territorial as hell. And catty. As far as I can tell, they’ve hazed Gen for no other reason than that she’s young and beautiful.

Gen skips the three steps down from the lounge and crosses the wide lane separating us. Every guy she passes rakes his gaze over her, or does a sly double take. Her nearly black hair, hazel eyes, and pale skin are a striking combination. With my strawberry-blond mop, we’re like a giant checkerboard walking down the street.

Poor Gen. The universe put a reserved female in the body of a knockout. Her pretty oval face and five-foot-ten, slender figure in the skimpy cocktail uniform make her the focus of attention at the casino and she hates it. Even now, she’s avoiding eye contact and speed-walking to my table. We’ll have to work on that. Guys tend to think you’re not interested if you don’t look at them.

She plops her round serving tray on the armrest of my blackjack table, eyes flittering to the side as if she’s nervous.

The casino floor is obnoxiously loud, with whistles chiming and bells blaring. I’ve gotten used to elevating my voice just enough to hold a conversation without announcing myself to the room. “What’s up?”

“Don’t look now,” she says through stiff lips, “but the bartender at the East Bar invited us to drinks with him and his friends tonight.”

I stretch my neck like a flamingo and search him out.

“I said, don’t look!”

“Why not?”

“Because he might think I like him.”

“Do you?” I glance at the guy again and waggle my brows. Medium brown hair, a dimple that flashes whenever he smiles at his female customers—I couldn’t have picked a better prospect. “He’s cute, Gen.”

She fumbles with her cash caddy. “I don’t know Mason that well, but he seems nice …” Her mouth twists and then softens. “It’d be good to make new friends.”

I nod soberly. “I support this endeavor.” Project Gen Hook-up moving ahead of schedule!

A few hours later, Gen and I pass through the sliding doors at Harrah’s and the air conditioning suctions me inside, my ears popping from the pressure.

“Wow,” Gen says, eyeing a nearby cocktail waitress serving a slots customer. “It’s a good thing you had a contact at Blue and not one at Harrah’s, or my ass cheeks would be on display beneath Cherokee nylons.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. She’s been bitching all week about her uniform.

She responds with a meek smile.

We walk to the center of the casino and Gen points out Bartender Mason in the lounge. He’s swapped the white and black casino uniform for a pair of jeans and a dark button-down. Broad shoulders fill out the shirt to hot-guy perfection. I nudge her in the ribs a couple of times, signaling my approval.

She swats my elbow and glares. If we weren’t close to her new friend, she’d tell me I’m behaving like a twelve-year-old, which is why I do it now, when I can get away with it.

Mason stands, a wide smile spreading across his face as he glances at me and takes a leisurely look at Gen in her short denim skirt, T-shirt, and sandals. Neither of us anticipated going out after work when we dressed this morning, so we’re both on the casual side, only I’m in skinny jeans and a tank top. A couple of guys sit at Mason’s table, along with a girl.

“This is Adam—” He gestures to a dark-haired pretty boy with pressed dress sleeves evenly rolled to his elbows.

Adam smiles and does a not-so-sly perusal of our bodies, lingering on my chest. I’d like to say it’s because I have a large rack, but really, it’s because I displayed my boobs nicely.

“—and Jaeger.”

Jaeger?
As in Mick Jagger, but with a long
a
? That name sounds familiar, but I don’t recognize the guy.

Jaeger is a head taller than Adam, wearing a casual T-shirt and worn blue jeans, and his arms are as long as a basketball player’s. His light brown hair is cut close to his head, and though there’s something familiar about his face, I can’t place him. He’s cute, though, with a strong jawline and symmetrical features that are too classically handsome to lump him in with the meatheads; his brows don’t protrude enough. He’s more genetically big than steroid-inflated.

Jaeger gives Gen a cursory glance, then looks at me. His gaze falters, remains a second too long, eyes gleaming down my body and back to my face. He half nods in acknowledgement and returns his attention to his friends.

He hesitated when he looked at me. A sign I’m right about us knowing each other? I can’t tell for sure, nor can I ask him about it, because Adam is talking to him.

I study Jaeger some more and my gaze catches on full lips, trailing down to a very broad chest, muscled shoulders and arms, and—large hands. The guy has strong, well-formed hands. A shiver racks my body.

I have a weakness for men’s hands … and I’ve veered off course. I’m checking out men for
Gen,
not me. But the only thing I’d complain about on Eric’s body is his long, thin hands. The rest of the package is so good, however, that I happily overlook it.

This is beyond annoying. I swear I know this guy. Did we go to high school together?

I wonder if Gen has noticed how amazing Jaeger’s hands are. If Mason doesn’t work out, Jaeger should be put at the top of Gen’s list of prospects.

“—we worked at Heavenly together,” Mason says, and I tune back in to the conversation.

I take a seat beside Adam and Jaeger, leaving Gen the chair between Jaeger and Mason.

Gen and Mason strike up a conversation about one of the supervising waitresses from work, and I listen in as Adam continues what must have been the conversation Gen and I interrupted when we arrived.

“I don’t know what he was thinking.” Adam shakes his head in disbelief. “Why would he cheat with prostitutes? Groupies, maybe—but prostitutes? Germs, man. Disease.” He mocks a shiver. “Just not right, even for a celebrity.”

Gen and I are entertainment news junkies. I run through my mental Rolodex to ascertain which trashy celeb Adam’s referring to. The pop star? Or the athlete whose prior reputation was as a virgin former choirboy? It’s a tough call. I lean closer to catch details.

Jaeger eases back in his chair, his shoulder inches away. His body heat crosses the space between us, a pleasant whiff of shaving cream filling my senses, making my heart beat faster. He runs his knuckles down firm thighs, and a ripple of attraction shoots through my belly.

What the hell?
I sit up, eyes trained on Adam. I haven’t noticed another guy since before Eric, and here I am, checking out and feeling
things
for one of Gen’s prospects, like he’s for me. Suddenly, I’m on edge.

My gaze darts to Jaeger’s face and I wonder again how I know this guy. The more I look, the more familiar he appears.

Jaeger nods as if he’s listening to Adam, but he doesn’t contribute to the conversation. Almost as though he knows Adam will continue without input from others. Adam’s overly chatty. That’s annoying. It’s a good thing Mason introduced the girl Breanna beside Adam as his girlfriend, and I already struck him from the list.

Gen and Mason’s conversation dies down and Mason looks up. He pushes a spear of olives from one side of his martini glass to the other. “Why bother getting married? He should have stayed single.” He lifts the glass and takes a swallow. Mason has obviously been paying attention to his friends’ conversation while he chatted up Gen.

Gotta be the athlete. The pop star isn’t married. “You’re talking about that basketball player, right?” I say.

Mason nods.

“He’s a bastard.”

A low rumble escapes from Jaeger. I glance up and catch a faint smile.

“His wife and kids will make out, no matter what he did.” With his thumb and forefinger, Adam picks a loose thread from the back of Breanna’s blouse and flicks it to the floor.

She doesn’t seem to notice his anal-retentive grooming of her. “
Adam,
money isn’t everything.”

“I agree. I wouldn’t consider that a good lot in life,” Gen says, gripping the glass the waitress placed before her. “The wife has a husband she can’t trust and small children to raise—probably by herself.”

Ugh-h-h. Don’t go there, Gen. You’re wearing your heartache on your sleeve!

Mason shoots her a sweet smile. Good. He doesn’t seem put off.

The conversation slowly turns to the lighter topics of skiing and snowboarding.

Mason’s head notches up, his attention on Adam. “Remember when you thought you saw Gisele on the slopes a few years ago?”

Adam raises his hands for emphasis. “Man, it was her, I swear!”

Jaeger’s shoulder dips closer to me. “How have you been, Cali?” His deep voice turns my spine limp and spongy. I could melt from the sound of it and happily live as a sticky puddle on the lounge floor.

We
do
know each other. “I’m sorry—you’re familiar, but I can’t remember how.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, head angled toward me without directly looking. “Tyler.”

Tyler’s my older brother.

It all makes sense now.

Images cross my mind of a tall, slender guy with blond, shaggy hair who used to hang out with Tyler during my freshman year in high school. My gaze rakes Jaeger’s hard, well-defined, heavily muscled body. Is it possible for a guy to add sixty pounds of muscle and a couple extra inches of height between the ages of eighteen and—? I mentally calculate. He’s gotta be my brother’s age, about twenty-three—no, Tyler skipped a grade—Jaeger must be twenty-four.

His hair is darker, but it was longer and probably sun-bleached when we were in high school. The guy I remember also had an unusual name, though I couldn’t say for sure that it was Jaeger. His family was originally from another country. He was quiet, like this guy, and now that I look closer, the face is similar. This must be the same person, and if it is, he’s filled out. A lot.

He was also a skiing champion and had a long-term girlfriend.

I never thought he noticed me.

“—you ran over a family of four and almost killed yourself on a low-hanging branch to chase her.” The corners of Mason’s mouth turn up as if merrily reliving the memory of Adam pursuing Gisele like a jackass.

I glance at Jaeger. He’s looking at Mason, a small smile curving his lips. It’s the cutest guy smile I think I’ve ever seen, and it transforms him from large, enigmatic male into something more approachable and appealing. He’s definitely going on Gen’s list.

“It would have been worth it,” Adam mumbles. “If I could have talked to Gisele, I know I could have gotten her digits.”

Mason laughs and Jaeger shifts in his seat. His mouth morphs into a full grin, and his gaze strays to mine, hovering. His smile reduces to something sultry and curious. Heat rises from my girl parts to my chest. I lose the ability to breathe.

Holy shit.

Jaeger hasn’t looked at me dead-on since we arrived, and the impact tumbles my brain. His eyes are dark green along the edges of the iris, like the center of a pine needle, growing lighter toward the middle. Abruptly, he looks down at his hands, before observing his friends again.

I slump in my seat. This might be Tyler’s high school friend, but he’s changed.