TIMBER: The Bad Boy's Baby (16 page)

I
drop
the tray on the counter in the kitchen where we refill our drink orders. Ugh. Sometimes I have my shit together, and other times, I am just a complete wreck.

There is nothing I wanted more than to allow that hallway stranger to take me to a hotel room and have his way with me … because I am just plain tired of running at this speed. Work. Hospital. Bills. Work. The hamster wheel is spinning so fast, I just want to crawl into bed.

With that guy.

Well, honestly, any guy—but, after being stopped by that man, my sights are a little higher than normal. He was so fucking hot.

“Hey, you okay,
chica
?” Claire asks, coming up behind me, surprising me. “You seem all flustered.”

“I thought you would’ve left already for your date?” I sigh, sort of jealous that she’s going out on the town while I’m working. Even if it is a supposedly high-end gig tonight. “Where is your date taking you?”

Claire pulls out a compact and applies bright red lipstick. It looks great with her platinum hair. She’s a total Marilyn Monroe: light skin, lighter hair. She even has a perfect upper lip beauty mark. In her white mini-dress she’s a dream.

She’s one of the rare Vegas women who are never fazed by money or fame. Her date tonight is a local guy, a modest employee at a car dealership who bowls. At like, a bowling alley.

“I know. I’m late. We’re going off the strip, obviously. We’re getting pizza at Tommy G’s.”

“Yum,” I say, nearly drooling, thinking a thick slice of pepperoni pizza sounds amazing right about now. Since getting this job, I’ve been conservative with my calorie intake in a way I’ve never been before. There is no room for a pizza-belly in this one piece.

But Claire can pull it off. She can pull anything off.

“Thanks again for covering me tonight,” she says, squeezing my bare arms. “I know Carla is all intense about it, but don’t let it bother you.”

Carla’s the lady in charge of this gig. She’s intense about everything, so Claire’s advice is solid. “No pressure,” I say, thinking for the ten thousandth time in the past five minutes how I
actually
want to get the pressure off.

“Hey, before I go, did you hear back from the detective?” Claire asks. “Any news?”

She’s asking about my sister’s case. We still don’t know who was driving the car she was in the night of the crash. The night she went into the coma. She was a passenger, and the driver fled the scene. I’ve been waiting two months for some sort of lead.

Of course, it would be easier if she was awake.

“Nope, but what’s new? He’s been such a flake. I just wish I had real money to hire someone who could take care of things for me. I’m so over my head.”

“Okay, well, keep me posted. Text me tomorrow—we both have the day off, right? We could do brunch?”

“Yeah, I have tomorrow off. I’m going to the hospital, but I’ll text you and we can meet up.” I smile at Claire, grateful I’ve met someone in this town who isn’t trying use me. I have an ugly history with guys who aren’t so nice … right now I only have time for friends who have my back. “And Claire, thanks for asking about my sister. It means a lot to have someone in my corner.”

“Hey, that’s what we girls gotta do.” Claire kisses my cheek, and I’m sure she’s left a bright red lip mark. “Oops,” she says, pulling away and grimacing. “You should probably wash that off before you go to the poker room. Carla says this party is as high-stakes as it gets.”

“I hope I don’t trip in these fucking heels,” I say. “I need a foot masseuse like nobody’s business. I don’t know how you’ve worked here for four years. Four weeks, and my body is begging me to get hired as a receptionist.”

“It gets easier, and the money is better here than an office job,” she says. “Anyways, about this gig, apparently the game happens once a month. Carla was pretty private and hush-hush about the players, and she’s gonna be pissed I’m not there … but no worries. Act confident and don’t let her intimidate you, okay?”

“Why do I feel like you are setting me up to fail?”

“I’m not. I know there will be big tips tonight, and you need the money more than any of us girls here.”

“Thanks, Claire.”

“Anytime, sweet cheeks.” She slaps my fish-netted booty and leaves the kitchen.

I’m touched by her thoughtfulness, by her knowing what the extra money means to me right now.

Looking at the clock on the wall, I know I won’t have time to refill those drinks before this job.

Tess, another one of the waitresses, comes in the back, and I beg her in the nicest way possible to help me out. She agrees, because she’s from the South and never thought a bad thing in her life.

Okay, it’s a stereotype, but her sweet-tea smile makes my teeth hurt. She’s too innocent for this town. She is the opposite of Claire, who is no-nonsense, no-frills.

Tess came to this town looking for fame, some sort of fortune. More than once, I’ve seen her sitting at a slot machine during her lunch break, biting her lip, hoping for a payday.

I hand her my list of drinks and direct her to the tables I’d been working. I’d been over at blackjack and know there are better tips in that area than the slots she’s been working all night.

“You’re a life saver,” I tell her.

“Thanks, Emmy,” she says. “I am so sick of those blinking lights.

“Sure thing.”

I know it’s Vegas, all steamy sex and scantily clad women—but I don’t actually hate this job. I like the girls I work with. There’s a sense of camaraderie I’ve never had before. I know it’s a far cry from my life in middle-of-nowhere, Washington, but as stressful as things have been with my sister, I’m grateful to be able to come here to work and feel like the women around me genuinely have my back.

Leaving the kitchen, I head to the break room to grab my purse and coat, because I’ll be in the private suite all night and will take my breaks up there, too.

But before I can ride the elevator to the suite, I need to wash the lipstick off my face.

As I step down the corridor on the way to the bathroom, I see the hallway guy from earlier, the one who made me heat up with desire.

He doesn’t notice me though; he’s talking to another man, a man even more intense than he is. And this other guy is nowhere near as put together. He looks like he stepped out of a mafia movie, all old-school gangster, like he belongs in an Italian restaurant in NYC, or at least in downtown Las Vegas, on the old strip.

Everyone knows the owner of Spades Royalle has past ties with the mafia, but I’ve never glimpsed any dark dealings here. Granted I haven’t worked here very long. And I promised myself that if Spades Royalle ended up being a seedy establishment, I’d get the hell out.

I don’t need any drama; I’ve spent my life fighting against a shady past.

Spades Royalle was the first place I was hired when I moved here, and I needed money. Bad. And since the girls who worked here were nice I figured, worst-case scenario, it would be a temporary position. Everyone says this place is more exclusive than other casinos, and it has a boutique-y feel that I like.

But while it may be smaller in size, the Spades makes up for that with the big-name guests. Spades has become the go-to swanky, sex-pot locale for the rich and famous coming to Vegas.

Still, it
is
Vegas. Near-naked women are everywhere—hell, I’m one of them. There are strip poles in every hotel room at the Spades, and while prostitution isn’t legal
per se
, there’s a phone directory beside each bed, listing women you can call if you want to be “tucked in.”

And after a childhood with a father who never put women first, I know the best thing to do is stay far away from the owner of this hotel. Keep my head down, show up to work when I’m told, and cash my paycheck.

Because even if some people say the owner has changed, that his dirty past doesn’t follow him, I know the signs of shady dealings—and from where I’m standing now, watching these two men, I don’t like the exchange I’m witnessing.

And while this guy I’m staring at may be shady —he has still gotten me downright hot. His eyes are full of suppressed emotion, his jawline square—and everything about him screams
I’m a mother-fucking man.

Pausing at the doorway to the women’s break room, I can’t help but feel a shiver run down my back as I look back at that hallway stranger. His broad shoulders and strong jaw dominate the space between himself and the other man. I can tell this other guy is pissed, but I can’t hear what they’re discussing.

Whatever it is, it’s not good. There’s a hell of a lot of sneering taking place.

But hot damn, just looking at that man, I feel myself get wet
down there.
Which is not good in my barely-there uniform. Obviously it’s been way too long since a man has had his way with me.

Oh man, this is bad.

I head into the restroom and don’t even pause to wipe off the lipstick stain. Fuck, I just want to release some of my pent-up … everything. It’s much too easy to imagine that stranger giving me what I want, and I swear if I didn’t have this job to go to in like, ten minutes—and you know, if I wasn’t on the effing clock—I would go back out to the hallway and ask him to pleasure me the way my body craves.

But ain’t nobody got time for that, I think, laughing to myself as I shake my head. It’s not that I usually get it on with strangers, but right now, a nameless quickie feels like the gift I deserve.

Instead, I lock the stall door, pull down my leotard, my bra-less breasts tumbling out, my nipples hard just thinking about the mouth of the hallway guy.

Those lips. Just thinking about the way I want him on his knees, running his tongue over my opening, I can’t help but rub my nipples. My breath is hot in an instant.

Sure, I haven’t been with a guy in forever, but I have no problem taking care of myself. And fuck the clock—right now my clit is screaming for a steady flicking. Obviously, my first choice would have been that stranger, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Using my finger, I rub my pussy hard, steadying myself against the door with my other hand. I know this isn’t the sexiest place in the world to rub one out, but fuck, that man made me wet.

Oh. And it feels good. I moan softly, not even caring if anyone else is here. I imagine his rough stubble pressing against my thighs, his hands grabbing my ass as he covers my opening with his mouth. My wetness seeps out, and I sigh in release.

I lean my forehead against the stall door, catching my breath.

Then I grab some tissue and wipe myself, before pulling up my stockings and my uniform. After adjusting my breasts, nipples still erect, I swing open the door.

I wash my hands and face, bite my lip, and my thoughts linger on the hallway guy. Then I hurry to work the shift Claire has gotten me.

You know, employee of the fucking month.

“Damn, Ace, the show was off the hook tonight,” McQueen says, walking into the private suite on the fortieth floor of the hotel.

I just got here myself, after having a “conversation” in the hall with the world’s biggest asshole. I fucking hate Frank Grotto. And now he thinks he’s going to buy up property off the strip—the property I’ve wanted to get my hands on for months.

Property that is going to make me even richer, make a name for myself beyond casino owner. I have plans with that property, and Grotto isn’t going to fuck with them.

Grotto thinks he can threaten me and force me to back off. He says he’s gonna use my family against me.

Little does he know family means nothing to me. Not anymore.

I’ve worked hard to keep my trail clean. I broke ties with my family and their underhanded dealings when my Pops died. More like, got shot. I skipped town, brought my money to Vegas, and worked my way to the top.

Sure, I grew up the son of a mafia boss. Money laundering was the cleanest work my father did, and he taught me his ways. For years, I went along with the family business.

But not anymore.

Now the only place I get dirty is with a woman. I tighten my jaw remembering the waitress who just fucking turned me down. Who the hell does Emmy Rose think she is? Besides being the sexiest, most unassuming piece of ass I’d seen in a long fucking time.

McQueen is still talking about his latest conquest, that son of a bitch.

“Tonight, women were basically spreading their legs every time I flexed.” He grins. Clearly he just got laid—I’m guessing more than twice. He’s a male dancer in the Spades Royalle show, Spank You, and he never has to ask to get fucked.

Unlike me, apparently. My ego is taking a fucking dive tonight.

“You ready to lose tonight?” I ask him. I notice my private dealer, Carla, is already here preparing our table for the poker game.

The suite is set up for a night with the guys—something we all make sure to add to our tight schedules because down time is not something we usually get.

This monthly meeting is untouchable. A safe zone. A paparazzi-free, girlfriend-free zone.

McQueen shakes his head, not even giving my question the dignity of a response. He wants to win as bad as any of us. Not that he’s any good, and he knows it.

Sure, we take the poker game seriously, but not as seriously as our friendship. You need to keep your friends close in this town.

I’ve known McQueen, Jack, and Landon for five years, ever since we showed up in Vegas as kids with big dreams. We were a motley crew, the four of us, and this town knew us for the bad boys we were.

Landon and I were the only ones with real money. Me, a washed-out kid from New York, with deep pockets and a chip on my shoulder. Landon, the bad seed son of a diamond tycoon, was in a whole other league than me.

McQueen and Jack had their own talents … they worked harder than Landon and I, because they started with nothing. But we all found our way, and somehow, stuck together.

Taking a swig of whiskey, I try to focus on the game ahead, knowing I need a night off now more than ever. I still feel tense from the unprecedented rejection I just received in the hallway. And, you know, that asshole Grotto.