9. Nine
NINE
R onan’s first day in the high rollers lounge was a catastrophe. I didn’t even know he was being moved until I arrived for my shift … and there he was.
I glared at him. He glared right back. What did he have to be mad about?
Sure, I’d accidentally outed him. Nothing had come of that, though.
In fact, if anything, he was better off.
He’d been moved to the high rollers lounge, for crying out loud.
His tips were going to double—if not triple—and his workload would likely go down in the process. He was coming out ahead.
So why did I feel so guilty?
I wrapped my apron around my waist, logged in to the system, and then headed out to take orders.
It was early in the day—before noon—so the lounge wasn’t busy.
It didn’t start filling up until close to three.
Once I delivered the first round of drinks, despite my internal warning alarm going off, I sidled over to the Texas Hold’Em table.
Ronan looked to be familiarizing himself with the setup.
“Do you need me to explain how to play that?” I was going for levity. He did not smile in return.
“I think I’ve got it,” he said dryly. That was all he said. Nothing else. I thought maybe he would volunteer what he was doing here. Per usual, he was playing his cards—pun intended—close to the vest.
“So … did you put in for this transfer?” I asked finally.
The look he shot me was scathing. “Do you think you’re funny?”
The challenge caught me off guard. “No, I was just making conversation.”
“Well, I don’t think we need to make conversation.”
It shouldn’t have bothered me—it wasn’t as if we were friends—but agitation crawled through my belly anyway. “If this is about me telling Zach who you are?—”
He cut me off with a feral glare. “I was not hiding who I am.”
“Okay, but they thought your last name was Jones.”
“That was an error on their part. I filled out all my paperwork correctly. I didn’t lie on it, no matter what you might think.”
“Okay.” I held up my hands in supplication. His attitude was grating. “I just… I didn’t know if you were angry about that. It just sort of slipped out.”
“Why would I be angry?” His tone was purposely haughty. “I’m not an angry person.”
Was he suggesting I was an angry person? He had ghosted me on prom night. If anybody had a reason to be angry, it was me. I had magnanimously risen above that situation, however. He should be grateful that I wasn’t holding a grudge.
“I just came over to offer help if you need any,” I bit out. He was officially on my last nerve. “You obviously know everything, though, so you won’t need my help.”
“No, I won’t need your help,” he agreed.
“Great.”
“It is great.”
We glared at each other, the hatred of a thousand suns burning between us.
“Is everything ready?” Kyla asked, appearing on my right. She had her tablet out and seemed to be checking for reservations. She was not interested in whatever was brewing between us.
“It’s fine,” I replied, snapping back to reality.
Kyla had been cold ever since the incident with Olivia days before.
If she was finally thawing, I wasn’t about to make things worse by beefing with Ronan in front of her.
“Everything is great. I was just telling Ronan to ask for help if he needs anything.”
Kyla slowly lifted her chin. “I’m sure he knows that.” She turned to the man in question. “You know that, correct?”
“I do,” Ronan confirmed. “I’m looking forward to whatever comes today. It should be fun.”
“Work is not fun,” Kyla replied, not missing a beat. “Also, today is likely going to be a chore. Edward Baskins is bringing a group through in about an hour.”
I frowned, trying to place the name.
“The owner of the Las Vegas Slots?” Ronan asked, his brow furrowing.
The Las Vegas Slots? They were a group of exotic dancers who bounced from casino to casino. They had a huge following and were considered the tackiest stripper troupe on the Strip. I had nothing against strippers—everybody had to make a living—but I was surprised the owner was considered a bigwig.
Kyla nodded. “Yes. Baskins is tight with quite a few professional sports team owners.” Her distaste was obvious, her upper lip curving.
“I believe he’s going to have twenty people total in his group.
We’re to keep them fed, liquored up, and happy at the tables.
” Her words were pointed. “Do you think you can handle that?”
“Of course,” Ronan said quickly. “I’m ready.”
Kyla’s gaze slid to me. “Are you okay with it, or do you want to bring your little friend down to handle it for you?”
I didn’t have to ask who she was referring to. As anticipated, when Olivia had intervened on my behalf, things had gone even further sideways between Kyla and me.
“I didn’t purposely bring her down here,” I protested. “Olivia took it upon herself to visit.”
“Mrs. Stone,” Kyla corrected pointedly. “She’s the wife of a majority owner. That means she’s to be referred to in a respectful manner.”
I managed to refrain from scowling, although it took effort. “Of course,” I said automatically, trying not to picture Olivia’s face if I referred to her as Mrs. Stone, even if it was in a professional capacity. “I always try to be respectful.”
Kyla snorted. “Right.” She rolled her eyes until they landed on Ronan. “My understanding is that the Baskins group wants to play Texas Hold’Em. If they would prefer to split and play multiple games, however, please let me know. I’ll get a second dealer in here for the early evening shift.”
“No problem.” Ronan’s smile was of the charming variety. “I’m sure everything will go smoothly.”
Kyla’s dark glare landed on me. “Here’s hoping there’s not a snafu we need to worry about.” She turned on her heel and walked away, her disdain lingering.
“Well, she seems to really like you,” Ronan said on a wide grin. “I think this is going to be all sorts of fun.”
He would think that.
EDWARD BASKINS WAS EXACTLY WHAT I expected. He was big—as in width, not height—and he liked to hear himself talk. The second he walked into the lounge, he tried to act like a big shot.
“This isn’t nearly as large as I thought it would be.” He wrinkled his nose. “It’s like an airport lounge.”
That was a ridiculous thing to say. The lounge was nothing like what you might find in an airport. The couches were lush. The tables were metal and had an industrial feel. The televisions were top-end, and the liquor was top-shelf. Everything about the lounge screamed opulence.
Baskins wanted to be seen as an important man, however. That was simply who he was at his core.
“Is there something I can do to make your stay more comfortable?” I asked, greeting him with my best smile.
He cast me a sidelong look, his eyes roaming my body, pausing at my chest for an uncomfortable beat before finally meeting my gaze. “I sincerely doubt it.” With that, he strode past me and headed for the couches.
I swallowed hard as the line of men filed past. They all looked me up and down like I was a piece of meat.
I felt like an invisible statue in an opulent garden.
When I looked up, I found Ronan frowning in my direction.
Did he blame me for this? Well, screw him.
It wasn’t as if I’d decorated the lounge. This wasn’t on me.
I collected the drink orders for everybody in the party. They spread out—some at the bar, some at the Texas Hold’Em table, and some in front of the televisions—and kept me busy for a solid hour.
Unlike how he was with me, Baskins was charming with Ronan.
They struck up a strong rapport right from the start.
Whenever Baskins won a hand, he high-fived Ronan.
As for the dealer, he kept the jokes coming fast and furious.
He was the hit of the lounge. It was impossible to miss the big tips being thrown his way.
Of course they tipped me, too, but nowhere near as much as he was getting. And didn’t that make me salty?
I had to make regular trips past the table to see if anybody needed a drink. Lionel Durbin, the owner of the Seattle hockey team, was always on the lookout for me. He liked to leer, and his eyes were on my cleavage—even in my new top—more than the game or the cocktail list.
“You’re a pretty one,” he said to me when I returned with his third whiskey. “Like … really pretty. Do they grow them pretty out here in Vegas?”
I smiled because it was expected. “We grow them on trees,” I replied, not missing a beat. “We have his and hers orchards.”
Durbin laughed like a donkey. “Oh, you’re quick on your feet too.” His index finger ran up and down my arm as I leaned past him to put down a cocktail napkin and his glass. “I like it when they’re smart.”
Before I could figure out a diplomatic way to get him to stop touching me, the gentleman to his right decided to add his two cents to the conversation. His name was Rick Hoffs, and he was the owner of the Colorado basketball team.
“Not me,” he said, vehemently shaking his head. “I don’t like them smart. I prefer them dumb.” He sent me a pointed look. “The smart ones are too uppity.” He looked at Ronan for confirmation. “Am I right?”
Ronan looked shocked to have the question addressed to him. “I’ve never associated intelligence with being uppity,” he replied. He seemed to be grasping for the right thing to say. “I actually like a smart woman. Being bossed around is fun.”
Durbin raised his hand to high-five Ronan, who amiably acquiesced. Hoffs, however, wasn’t having it.
“You’re one of those , huh?” Hoffs made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Do you want to know what the problem is with younger people today?”
“Oh, here we go,” Durbin lamented, rolling his eyes.
Hoffs ignored him. “It’s the truth.” He took a long drink of his martini. “This country has a real problem because it’s turning all the men into women.” He said it to me, as if I was his target audience.