Chapter 2
Corey
P ricks like Gary Park are the reason I avoid Vegas. I usually avoid the main casino floor because I get recognized easily; high limit rooms usually offer more anonymity, but it’s never perfect. Case in point, tonight.
I love the Bravado casino. My good friend, Aaron Blackwood, is one of the co-owners. He and his cousin, Drew, took a gamble buying the outdated, crumbling Starlight casino a few years ago. It took millions of dollars and a lot of negotiations with the city before they got approval to bulldoze the old place and start fresh. The Bravado is years in the making, but it’s earned its shiny title as the sexiest, most sophisticated new casino on the Strip in over twenty years.
You could say I’m a bit protective of it, to that extent, and walking into the high limit room to the scene with Gary-fucking-Park pissed me the fuck off. I barely had a moment to glance at the server as I passed her, but I immediately noted the blush on her cheeks and the thickness of her all over. I would have come to the defense of anyone I caught Gary leering at, but damn, this woman is stunning.
She seemed rattled, so I told her to take a break before bringing me back a drink. Turning my focus back to the table, I nod toward the couple that sat down. From their expressions, I can tell they recognized me. I just hope they are discreet.
After a few hands, the woman is practically drooling with every unnecessary glance my way. I guess that’s the hazard of being a world-famous notorious adult film actor. Most people leave off the whole producer/director title, because who gives a shit about them in a porno?
“Are you… really him?” the woman finally asks.
She seems nice enough, but the thought always crosses my mind when someone recognizes me, like she’s probably gotten off to thoughts of me or my movies before.
I give a short nod, and she giggles. “Wow, my friends will never believe I played blackjack with the Frank Moro in Vegas!”
This woman is an easy read: she’s easily impressed by status, and she’s in the high limit room at the swankiest casino on the Strip. She’s not fooling me—she’s either new money or she just lacks plain awareness. The guy next to her grabs her by the elbow, shushing her, directing her back to the cards on the table .
Back to what I was thinking earlier—there’s a reason I don’t usually come to Vegas, let alone the Strip. But I want to show Aaron and Drew my support, so here I am.
“Maker’s, on the rocks,” a smooth, svelte voice comes from over my shoulder. She extends her arm, setting the drink down next to fucking Gary’s expired scotches. “Shit, let me grab those,” she says, angling forward to grab the two full glasses of scotch.
“No, let me,” I say, grabbing the glass closest to us, and turning to place it on her tray. She’s suddenly eye to eye with me, since she leaned in, and I can see her brilliant emerald eyes right up close.
She bites her lip and says softly, “Thank you.”
Jesus, I hate and love when women do that… I love it because it’s so sexy and hate it because women have no idea how sexy it actually is and how it can instantly make a man hard. And this woman, she’s got natural beauty. It’s so easy to see the difference between her and most of the women in my industry. She’s got laugh lines around her eyes, a soft roundness to her face, and those lips that aren’t popping off her face with filler. She’s a natural fucking knockout.
I nod and smile at her, in a way that I hope is reassuring. That guy was an asshole, I’m nice, you’re safe here, kind of way. She gasps, and for a moment, I think she recognizes me. She steps back, both scotches now on her tray, and tips her head toward me.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr…” she pauses for a moment before saying, “Sir?”
I know she’s saying “sir” to be polite, but fuck if that alone doesn’t get me hard. I grin at her and crook my finger, urging her closer so I can whisper, “You can call me Corey.”
Her eyes line up with mine, and I’m captivated by her deep green gaze, which somehow also has specks of gold littered throughout. She nods softly and says, “Corey… sure. Yes. Let me know.”
I wink at her as she steps back, and I’m concerned for a moment she might tip over. She looks slightly disoriented, but she shakes her head and winks back at me before heading to the next table. Well, okay, Ms. Cocktail Server, I think. We’re about to have some fun tonight .
The next hour passes in a blur. Money wise, I’m even at the table, and while I usually would hate not being up, I’m feeling completely fine. Maybe it has to do with a certain curvy brunette who keeps making the rounds. Each time she passes, I notice something different—her shy smile, the curve of her lips, that thick ass—and pretty soon, I’m noticing my cock twitch each time she comes around. Every time she refills my drink, I’m passing her a hundred-dollar chip for a tip—even after I switched to water.
Fuck, I don’t even know her name, and she’s getting me hard. Having spent the last twenty years of my life in front of or behind camera in adult films, you’d think I’d have a better handle on this kind of shit. But for once, I don’t, and I’m not sure what that means, but I really fucking like it.
It’s getting close to midnight, and when she passes by, I jerk my head, motioning her over. The room is packed, with guests waiting behind busy tables for a seat to open up.
“How are you doing, sugar?” I ask softly, noticing the blush in her cheeks at the nickname. Shit, I need to know her name.
She gives me a smile. “I’m good, sir, thank you. Got about another hour and then I’m off the clock.” She bites her lip again, and I swear to God, she must be able to read my mind, knows what that’s doing to me .
“Mmm,” I all but moan before giving her a nod. “I’ll take some more water, sweetheart.”
She takes a look at the table, then back to me before nodding. “Yes, sir.”
I reach out and softly grasp her elbow as she turns to leave; she gasps and I wish my lips were on hers so I could swallow it. “Please,” I murmur. “Call me Corey.”
“Yes… Corey,” she whispers, before slipping away and around the other side of the tables.
“Sir, your bet?” The dealer calls me to attention, and I shove some chips toward the center. Whatever. I’m playing another game right now, and it feels like it’s worth more than whatever I have on this table.
When she comes back around with my water, she sets the bottle down gently next to me and collects my empty glass. She pauses, and I lean back slightly, pressing against her where she hovers behind me.
I glance up at her as the dealer lays out the cards on the table; I have an ace showing.
“Good luck on that ace,” she whispers.
I glance back up at her, and the desire in her eyes is unmistakable. Looking back at the dealer, I cock my head. He flips the second card down—it’s an ace.
Looking at her, she has a grin on her face. “Good luck on those… aces?” she says playfully.
Turning toward the dealer, I slide a second stack of chips toward my other stack, indicating I want to split these. “Down, please,” I say, as he deals out the second cards, sliding mine face down next to my aces.
She leans in closer, and it takes everything in me to not turn my head; she’s so close. If I looked at her, our lips might actually touch. And that might turn me into a goddamn animal here at this table .
I can feel her breath as the dealer flips his second card. He had a king of spades showing and flipped a three. Could be good, should be good, but he flips out another card. A five of spades–fuck.
The dealer tilts his head toward me. He can’t pull any more cards, and I have to hope I’ve got more than a seven under each of these hands.
He reaches out, flipping the first, then the second.
Both are queens of hearts.
Despite a multiple deck shuffle, I almost laugh at the coincidence. The stranger at my table nods in my direction, a clear “congrats” without words. I turn toward her, and… She’s gone. I spin around and look around the room; she’s not there.
It’s a weird sting for her to not be there when she wished me luck and waited for the cards to flip. As the dealer—his name is Emerson, according to his name tag—swipes up my cards and slides me my winnings. I lean forward.
“The server,” I ask, quietly. “What’s her name?”
He stares at me, then takes a sweep of the room. “Honestly, sir, I am not sure. She’s filling in tonight. She’s not usually in the high limit room.”
I frown, and for a moment, I consider pushing back from the table and slipping my phone out of my pocket to text Aaron or Drew. They must know who she is? Or know someone who knows who she is?
Shaking my head, I try to snap back into the game. The dealer is starting a new shoe and–fresh off a big table win–two newcomers approach our table and sit down.
Blackjack is pretty damn enjoyable for me. I love being able to sit down and narrow my focus to two things—my hand and the dealer’s hand. Calculating the odds between my hands and theirs. Yes, you play at a table, but I play against the dealer. It gives me focus and a certain level of peace and calm.
But not now. Not now that I’ve seen her, felt her next to me, her breath next to me, wishing me luck.
Emerson deals, and he’s got a five showing, while I have a ten and a three. I should stay, I know I should. In Vegas, they have this thing called “the book” aka the thing you should statistically follow if you want to win against the dealer. “The book” would tell me to hit, but something in me hesitates. Emerson looks at me and tilts his head. “Sir? Stay? Hit?”
He’s patient, and I appreciate that. I am in no way intoxicated, even though I have had two bourbons. Searching the room one more time, I look for her and see her coming around to the table. I wait for her to slide next to me, like she has the last few times.
Cocking my head back, I mumble, “What do you think?”
Her eyes flash, looking toward Emerson, then back to me. “I can’t—” she starts, but I stop her.
“I’m not asking you to tell me what to do,” I whisper. Reaching out, I wrap an arm gently around her and place my palm against the curve of her hip. “Pretend you’re me,” I say softly. “What would…” I trail off, looking over at her. “What’s your name?”
She flicks her tongue out across her ruby red lips, and my cock twitches. Jesus .
“Rebecca,” she whispers. “But please, call me Bex.”
I tug her a bit closer. Her hip collides with my leg and she giggles. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard… a fucking lot, given my profession and experience. My hand wraps closer against her hip, and I whisper to her, “Is this okay?”
Look, I may be an adult film star, producer, director, whatever… but consent is a big fucking thing for me. It’s a big fucking thing in my industry, and whether everyone acknowledges it, it’s always important to me, and I will always– always– ask.
Bex looks at me quickly, nodding, but she glances across the entire high limit room afterward, her gaze lingering on the pit boss.
I might have her consent, but her boss might have other ideas.
Glancing down at the table, I take a quick inventory of my chips. I’m up now, probably by $5,000, which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t that much. Emerson is shuffling another shoe, and I squeeze Bex’s hip a bit.
Turning toward her, I whisper, “What time did you say you’re off again?”
She bites her lip— this fucking woman and her plump, ruby red lips, fuck —and dips her head before saying, “I’m off at 1.”
I lift my left wrist and glance at my watch—it’s 12:45 am. Turning back to her, giving her another squeeze, I say, “Wait for me?”
Her eyes flash toward me, that emerald gaze, and I can see her swallow. Hard . Look, if you’ve been in my industry, you know when someone is swallowing, and to what extent. My cock goes from twitching to rock-fucking-hard in my jeans.
“Okay,” she whispers. That smile, those lips… those thighs… I want to get between all of it. I pause for a moment, trying to think from her point of view. She doesn’t even know who I am beyond my first name. But I want to get to know her, and I want her to know me, too.
“We can… go somewhere else,” I whisper. “For a drink. Get to know each other.” She. Bites. That. Lip. And I swear. Fuuuuuuck.
“Sir?” Emerson prompts me, and I snap my attention back to the table, shooting daggers in his direction. Bex slips away from my side as the dealer shrugs at me. I’m sure he’s used to this kind of distraction at his table .
Taking inventory of my hand and the dealer’s once more, I wave my hand to stay. The other guy at the table groans, like I’ve made the worst choice in the world. And, honestly, in the high limit room, maybe I did. Maybe I just lost myself ten grand. But, glancing across the room, where Bex is slipping her little portfolio of tables and orders toward another server, I realize I don’t give a fuck that I fucked myself or the entire table in this hand. Not a fucking bit.
I wait for Emerson to collect the table’s losses before sliding all of my chips toward him. “Color me up, please.”
The pit boss slides over, nodding toward my chips. “Mr. Brooks, would you like us to cash you out right here, sir?”
I consider it, but it seems too pretentious to be cashed out directly at a table, especially when these other folks will need to visit the cage for their cash. I shake my head. “Not a problem, just give me the smallest amount of chips possible, please.”
“Of course, sir,” the pit boss says, nodding, as Emerson consolidates my chips to just a few. I’m walking away from this table with more money than I sat down with, which usually would have me thrilled. Now? I slide the reduced number of chips into my pocket, glancing around for Bex. My only focus right now is her.
Maybe she’s not out because she’s clocking out? I shake my head as I walk toward the front of the room. Honestly, I’ve never waited for a server before, and I have no idea where she’ll pop out.
I stand up by the host station for a few minutes, glancing at my phone to see I have several missed texts and calls from various industry friends who are in town, but I’m not interested.
“Frank!” a woman calls out as she slips past the heavy red velvet curtain separating the high limit room from the main floor .
Ugh, it’s Caroline. Fucking Caroline. We dated, years ago… we met when she was an actress on one of my sets, long before I got into producing, but she is still under some impression that her pussy has me whipped.
I’m not an asshole, although some of my films might portray me as such. “Car!” I exclaim, meeting her hug halfway.
We’ve barely separated from the hug, as she says, “God, I’ve missed that thick dick of yours!”
I step back, mentally rolling my eyes, but catch a glimpse of a short skirt and brunette waves bouncing away across the main floor.
Fuck. See you later, Caroline.