Neon Nights

Chapter 1

Bex

“ Y ou’ve got a run in your stocking, Bex,” Marla, one of the slightly older servers, says as she comes up behind me at the bar.

“Are you fucking kidding me? These are brand new!” I set my tray down and twist around, trying to find the run.

Marla pokes a spot on the back of my upper right thigh, just below the hem of this tiny uniform skirt. “Yeah, right there. If you need another pair, I might have one in my locker,” she offers.

Sighing, I shake my head. “Thanks, Marla, but you’re tiny, and I’m… squishy,” I say, laughing. It’s true. Marla used to be a dancer back in the day and has kept her body thin and lithe throughout the years. I, meanwhile, have always had big hips, a big tummy, and big tits.“Curves for days,” is what my ex-boyfriend used to say. No chance in hell I’d fit into Marla’s stockings.

“Ay, cutie, it’s that squish that gets you the big tips!” Carlos, the barback, hollers to me.

“Absolutely!” I affirm as I take the beers set next to my ticket and begin refilling my tray.

It’s nearing 10 p.m. on a Tuesday in Las Vegas, and I’m working the late night shift at the Bravado—the newest, most sophisticated casino on the Strip. I transferred to this casino a few months ago and love almost everything about my job. The tips are better here, since the clientele tend to be higher end, the staff are nice, the other servers aren’t bitchy, and the hours are decent. I do, however, have a love/hate relationship with the uniform, but I’m pretty sure that’s par for the course when you’re a Vegas cocktail server—they’re all short skirts, low-cut tops, and made with the smallest amount of material possible.

I know it’s not most girls’ dream to grow up and be a cocktail server. Hell, I wanted to be an archeologist for most of my young life. That’s what happens when you grow up watching Indiana Jones and The Mummy , resulting in massive crushes on Harrison Ford and Brendan Fraser at the delicate age of eight.

Regardless, my life took so many unpredictable twists and turns during my teenage years, and then again in my twenties. It began when I was in high school, with my parents’ divorce. Then I chose a college I wasn’t interested in, just to follow my high school boyfriend, who was on their football team. That asshole cheated on me within months of the first semester starting, so what did I do? I dropped out and traveled to California to stay with some friends. I eventually found my way to Las Vegas a few years ago, and have been happier than I’ve ever been in my life .

Mostly. Sort of. Well… I don’t hate my job, and I’m living with two amazing roommates. The allure of partying every night in Vegas has faded over the years. I recently turned thirty, and it’s wild how quickly the club scene loses its luster.

If there’s anything that gives me a sense of excitement these days, it’s volunteering at the youth center near my apartment. I stumbled across the center a few years ago when they were looking for volunteers to lead efforts for their art program. I’ve considered myself an amateur photographer my entire life—a passion that has only grown as I’ve gotten older. Being out here in the desert, we have access to some pretty amazing national parks, and I spend a lot of my free time out there, wandering and taking photographs.

With the funding for their arts programs recently cut, my conversation with the head of the youth center went easier than I expected. I began volunteering once a week. Due to the lack of funding, I don’t get to take the kids out of the center for field trips or anything, like I wish we could do. We spend an hour each week sharing our art and challenging each other to find art in the everyday places people often overlook.

It may sound boring and, certainly, there are arts programs out there that are more tactical and hands-on than my “beginner photography” session. Most of the kids in my sessions are older teens, and this gives them someplace safe to go for an hour each week. It also challenges them to see the world around them in a unique way, which is more than I can say for most of our society.

“Mama, the boss said you’re needed in the Regency Room when you’re done with this round. Brandy will pick up your section,” Carlos says, sliding a Red Bull over to me and interrupting my thoughts .

My heart flutters at his words, because the Regency Room is Bravado’s high limit poker room. Usually, the most tenured and experienced servers get called to serve there, since that’s where the biggest tippers are.

Marla sighs. “You lucky bitch,” she says with a smile. “Go get ‘em.”

I pop into the employee restroom before heading to the Regency Room. If I’m going to get the best tips, I need to make sure I’m looking my best. My wavy chestnut hair is hanging halfway down my back, curled slightly. I’m wearing my typical work makeup tonight: smokey eyes, defined brows, a dash of blush on my cheeks, and a deep red lipstick that matches the red of my uniform.

“You look sexy as fuck tonight,” I say to myself in the mirror, running my hands over my uniform and smoothing out the front. With the corset style of this uniform, my D-cup breasts perk up without looking like they’ll slap me in the face, and my cleavage has the perfect amount of bounce when I walk the floor.

Growing up as a curvy girl, in a society that impresses that beauty and happiness come with being thin, wasn’t easy. I’d be lying if I said my size hasn’t impacted my confidence throughout the years. Sometimes, I ride the body-positivity wave, buy myself cute new clothes, and rock what I got. Other times, the insecurity gets the best of me, and I get depressed, hop on some diet or fitness fad, and try to shrink myself into what society says women should be.

Now, I’m hovering somewhere in between. Being a woman is a straight up roller coaster of emotions on a good day, and I have plenty of bad days, too. I keep waiting for this magical moment where the bad days go away and I truly love myself—rolls, cellulite, and all—but that has yet to happen.

But damn, if this cocktail server uniform doesn’t make me feel sexy as fuck today. It’s the love/hate relationship at work, but on days like today, when I feel confident, and my hair and makeup look as good as they do, I know I pull it off. I’ve learned to embrace the days when I feel this way, because they can be few and far between.

I smooth out the back of my skirt, my hands brushing over the run in my stocking, right below my ass. “Fuck,” I mumble, shaking my head. I wish I had remembered to toss an extra pair in my work bag, but nope. I can envision them perfectly where I left them… at home, on my dresser, so I wouldn’t forget to grab them and bring them to work. Oh well. I shrug. Nothing I can do about that right now. Let’s just hope the patrons in the Regency Room want to focus more on my tits than my ass tonight.

There’s only one other server in the high roller room tonight, but she’s on break right now, so I’m handling all the tables. It’s not that many, since the room is more exclusive and intimate. There are only three blackjack tables, one roulette table, and one craps table. The vibe is still pretty chill—things don’t tend to heat up on the tables til closer to midnight.

I take my first pass around the room, calling out, “Cocktails?” a few times. Most don’t even glance up at me as I pass, which is fine. It looks like the other server just delivered refills before I came in, so there’s not much for me to do.

As I pass the last blackjack table, the guy at the end does a double take at me. I can feel it from his glance, the way he leers at me—this guy is a creep. He’s got greasy dark blonde hair, and a rumpled sports coat on, like he’s been in this casino all day and has no idea how terrible he actually looks.

“Hey, princess,” he calls, motioning me over. I hold back an eye roll and saunter over to him.

“What can I get you?” Ignoring the nickname, I glance down at the table where he’s already got a full glass of scotch.

“You mean, besides some time alone with you?” He gives me a greasy grin and chuckles at himself.

The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming, but I refrain. This isn’t the first cocky asshole I’ve encountered in this job, and he won’t be the last. Most of the time, these guys are just so into themselves and have had too much to drink that they lose all sense of respect and self control. If I were on the main floor, I would just get him a refill and avoid his area for a while until he left. I’m pretty sure that won’t fly in the high limit room.

“Anything to drink?” I clarify, ignoring his question.

He runs his eyes over my body before saying, “Just a refill on the scotch, honey.”

“Brand?”

He runs his tongue along his lip as he stares directly at my tits. Gross, gross, gross ! “Surprise me.”

He reaches his hand out toward me, but I slip away before he can touch the bottom of my skirt. If a guest gets too handsy, we servers are empowered to report them to security, but… that’s on the main floor. I’m not sure how strict those rules are here in the high limit area, given that these guests are dropping a huge amount of money to play, anywhere from sixty to seventy percent of the total intake on a given night.

The bar window is smaller here, and I’m not familiar with the bartender.

“Hi, I’m Bex,” I say, leaning against the window. “I’m working the room with Tara tonight.”

The bartender just stares at me. Okayyyyy. “What’s the cheapest brand of scotch you’ve got back there?”

I brace myself for him to say there’s nothing cheap behind the bar here, but he raises his brows and glances down. “Johnnie Walker Red.”

“I’ll get a glass of that please, on the rocks.” He looks confused, like why am I ordering cheap scotch for a guest in the high limit room, but he doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t seem to really care about being here at all, for that matter.

Placing the scotch on my tray, I walk around the room, back to the blackjack tables. The greasy creeper is in the middle of throwing a lot down on the table—looks like he’s splitting aces and then had to split again. At a glance, it looks like there’s about $3,000 in chips on the table. I hate it when they’re literally dirty, rich assholes.

I place his drink down on the table, away from his chips and cards, but close enough that he knows it’s for him. Usually I would hover and wait for a tip, but I’m thankful he’s occupied with his hand so I can slip away.

Or so I thought. As I turn to begin another round around the tables, I feel a damp hand slide up my inner thigh, fingers brushing against my panties.

“Hey,” I snap, twisting out of his reach. Heat floods my face as I glare back at him. Who does this fucker think he is?

He leers at me, licking his lips. “Come on, princess. Nothing wrong with a little appreciation for that thick body of yours. ”

I open my mouth to reply, but can’t find the words. I need this job. I need these tips… and this is the high limit room. Is this what I’m willing to allow for those tips? I swallow hard, but before I can respond, a tall figure passes closely on my right, headed straight for the asshole, whose eyes are now wide and wary.

“Frank, man, I heard you were in town—” he stammers, but the guy cuts him off.

Looking directly at the dealer and tossing a thick wad of cash on the table, he says, “Get me in on the next shoe.” The dealer reaches for the cash, but hesitates as he continues. “I don’t play with disrespectful assholes, though.”

The dealer nods and calls over his shoulder to the pit boss. “Escort, please.”

The creep’s eyes have gone from wary to angry. “What the fuck, Frank? Really? Is this your first time here? We can do practically whatever the fuck we want in here.” He throws his hands up. “Look at the money we’re paying!”

The sexy newcomer hasn’t sat down yet. He’s tall, several inches over six feet, and has a lean, muscular frame. When he braces his hands against the table, his broad shoulders flex beneath his shirt. There’s salt and pepper hair at his temples, and scattered in the stubble along his sharp jaw. His hair is dark, a bit longer on the top and shaved shorter on the sides. The long part of his hair hangs down, blocking part of his face as he turns to glare at the creeper.

“Not. Without. Consent,” he growls. Okay, that was fucking hot. A tall, dark, muscular man who is also respectful and self-aware? Is this a hot guy bingo? The creeper goes to respond, but he cuts him off again. “Get the fuck off this table, Gary. Get the fuck out of this room and this casino. ”

“You can’t do this—”

Two security guards approach on my left and stand behind the creeper, Gary’s, chair. “Sir, you need to come with us.”

I cast a nervous glance around the room, but no one seems to be paying attention. If anything, a few are throwing grateful looks at this new guy for getting Gary kicked out. Maybe this is a common occurrence in the high limit room?

Gary finally stands from the table, grabbing his chips and stuffing them in his pockets. “Fuck you, Frank.” He turns and waves off the security guards. “I’m leaving. Don’t fucking touch me.” He passes me as he walks toward the exit. “And fuck you, too, you fat bitch.”

Glaring at him, I raise my free hand and flip him off. Not that he sees it or that he cares, but it makes me feel a bit better.

A throat clearing brings me out of my frozen state. I realize I haven’t moved since I snapped back at Gary. Looking toward the sound, I find myself staring straight up into eyes so dark they seem black—there’s a storm raging there.

“Are you okay?” His voice is low and rough. It sends a delicious chill through my body.

Frank. Who is this guy that he’s able to get a high roller kicked out so easily? I bite my lip and nod, not trusting myself to open my mouth without saying something stupid.

He places a warm hand on my arm. “That guy’s an asshole; don’t listen to him.”

All I can do is nod again; I am in a trance, staring at this gorgeous man. Who are you, Frank?

Frank drops his hand and turns toward the table, where a man and a woman have just sat down. “Why don’t you take a breather? And when you come back… can you bring me a Maker’s on the rocks? ”

I just nod my head again, watching as he sits down and nods politely to the couple at the table. They’re staring at him, eyes wide and impressed—seriously, who is this guy? Is he famous or something?

Shaking myself out of my trance, I glance at the pit boss, who nods at me. I mouth, “Be right back,” and hustle out of the high limit room to get a grip on myself.