Chapter 3
Bex
I s this really happening to me? Is this real life? I throw my tray up behind the bar and nod toward the bartender. “Have a good rest of your night!” I call as he shrugs. A fucking wet blanket in the high limit room, geez.
Nodding toward Tara, I say, “You good?”
She nods back. “Yeah, thanks for helping cover tonight. Hopefully not the last,” she says, grinning.
We both did pretty well tonight, in terms of tips. Corey tipped me $100 every time I passed the table, whether he asked for a drink or not. And after the fiasco with Gary, it seemed like the other guests were more generous than usual. I guess there might be a bright side after dealing with an asshole like him, after all .
There’s a box on the wall where I can scan my employee ID, essentially signing me out for the night. I swipe it, and it lights up green, recognizing my shift is over. I turn, realizing I’m away from my usual back room and locker, where I have my bag stored. Hmmmm. Maybe I can slip across the main floor and back before Corey notices.
It’s difficult, slipping across the main floor without being caught—my uniform gives me away–and sometimes I get guests calling out to me, or worse, grabbing at my body, demanding a drink. In this case, I am halfway across the floor and some smartass twenty-one-year-old kid—I can tell by the wristband he has on, something security will do at the entrance if someone is twenty-one but looks underage—grabs me by my elbow and yanks hard, toward his slot machine.
I turn to him, ready to tell him that I’m off the clock and someone else will be coming around to take his order, but I’m cut off, seemingly by my rescuer this evening.
Corey is suddenly behind me, his hand on this guy’s wrist. Corey’s grip is not gentle, if this guy’s face is any indication.
“Shit man,” the guy stutters. “I-I-I-I just wanted a drink.”
“She’s off the clock,” Corey growls, pulling the guy’s hand from my elbow and tossing it away. The guy nearly falls from his slot machine chair.
“I didn’t know!” the guy shouts in an abnormally high pitch, and I shoot a look toward Corey. Frank. I need to get to the bottom of that.
“Relax,” I murmur, patting his arm. “Hazard of the uniform.” I gesture down at the short, tight get-up, and he nods.
“Whatever,” he mumbles. “You shouldn’t have to cross the floor like this if you’re not on the clock. ”
Rolling my eyes, I continue my way across the floor. Judging from the heat behind me, I know he is following. God, I can’t wait to get him somewhere quieter to ask about his name… and who he really is.
As I make my way to the “employees only” door on the far side of the casino floor, I throw Corey a glance over my shoulder. “Wait here,” I call, pushing through the door.
The backroom is quiet—it doesn’t seem like the main floor has been cut yet, so they must still be busy. Which is fine—I don’t want to answer any questions about how the high limit room was, especially not given the Gary fiasco and Corey trailing me.
He wants to take me out for a drink. Me?! I’m no one. And he’s… Well, judging from the response people have to him, he’s someone important. Even judging from his body alone, he’s someone . A celebrity? Someone I don’t know?
Shaking my head, I pull my bag from my locker. There’s nothing exciting in this bag, unfortunately. There’s a pair of leggings, a tank top, and a cozy ripped-up sweatshirt I prefer to wear when the weather in Vegas dips to thirty degrees, like it’s supposed to tonight. This isn’t sexy, but it’s what I have. What I have is basic, and—if I can guess by the amount of cash Corey was throwing down in the high limit room—he’s used to more than basic.
Is he ready for me to roll out of this back room wearing leggings and a sweatshirt? I look at my reflection before spritzing on some perfume, when a wave of insecurity douses my initial excitement. I close my eyes and visualize this man—tall, dark, lean but muscular, a jaw so chiseled it could cut glass. His gravelly voice did things to me, made me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Opening my eyes, I shake my head at myself. I’m overthinking this, a trademark Bex quality. He wants to grab a drink, get to know me better, but I’m… me. No one special. A plus-size cocktail server he got to play white knight for. Maybe that’s his thing?
My whole life, I’ve romanticized even the smallest details, turning things into something when they were really nothing. I’ve been this way since I was younger, when I was the youngest out of my friend group near my childhood home. Dermot Cassidy lived down the block from me. He was thirteen years old, tall for his age, with shaggy blonde hair, and I had the biggest crush on him. One day, he carried me home after I wiped out on my bike and was bleeding badly from my knee. After that gesture, I was convinced he liked me back. I was nine years old and spent the rest of that summer chasing after him like a fool until he finally told me he didn’t like me and he was just trying to be nice. Well, he sort of publicly shouted it at me in front of all the other kids on the block. So, needless to say, it was a traumatic moment for my young heart.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson then, but… nope. There have been many Dermot Cassidy’s in my life, and each time I say to myself “this is not a big deal, be chill”, I am the opposite of chill, and I make every little detail mean something that it doesn’t.
Bracing my hands on the sink and leaning toward my reflection, I whisper, “Don’t be dumb, B. He’s a sexy older dude who’s not interested in anything more than a drink and conversation tonight. Take it for what it is. Leave it at that.”
Tossing my uniform into my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and head out to the main floor.
It’s not difficult to find him; he’s standing in the center of a small group of women, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they are fawning over him. One of them is holding her phone up to snap a selfie with him—a selfie that he’s not posing for because his eyes are scanning… for me. The moment he sees me, he pulls away from the group .
“Thanks, ladies. Have a good night. Be good girls!” he calls. One of them swoons—literally swoons. I’ve read about this in romance books, but I’ve never seen anything like it in real life.
He approaches me, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and he looks a bit bashful. My mouth is still hanging open, confusion etched across my face, especially as two of the women give me the nastiest glares.
“Sorry about that,” he murmurs, stepping in close to me. Now that I have my heels off, he towers over me by at least a foot.
“Um,” I search for the words, but find myself unable to find appropriate ones.
“Are you still good for a drink right now?” He turns, gesturing back toward the cabaret bar in the far corner of the floor. “I was thinking we could get a table over there—”
I shake my head. “Cabaret only has shows Thursday through Sunday,” I say, finally coming out of my trance of shock and surprise. “If it’s all good to you, I’d rather not drink where I work.”
He nods. “Of course, sure. Is there a place you’d be comfortable?”
Tilting my head at him, I grin. “There’s a place the locals like to go. Follow me.”
He flashes me a devilish grin, all straight white teeth and dimples for days, and I realize this man probably gets a lot of whatever he wants—whoever he wants—just with that smile. No wonder my hormones are whacking out around him.
“Lead the way.”
I’m so fucked.
The bar I lead us to is a short walk away, tucked behind the Strip, and therefore often overlooked by the tourist crowd. O’Malley’s is dated, grungy, and full of locals getting off their evening shifts—and some popping in early before their morning shifts. We’re an eclectic bunch, but we don’t judge. It’s probably the most inclusive bar I’ve been to in Vegas since I moved here six years ago.
That being said, when Corey and I walk in just after 1:30am, a lot of people stop and stare—and I know they aren’t looking at my unfashionably sexy leggings and sweatshirt.
To his credit, Corey doesn’t miss a beat; he just takes my hand in his and leads us to two seats at the end of the bar. His hand is so, so much bigger than mine, and it’s warm and soft to the touch. I’m sad when he lets go as we reach our seats, but immediately feel a warm buzz in my chest as he twists the bar chair toward me so I can hop up onto it. A gentleman?
Who is this guy?
Janie, the Tuesday night bartender, pauses in front of us and gives Corey a double take. “What can I getcha both?”
“Stella, draft please,” I say, turning to him.
“Same,” he says, smiling and nodding at Janie, who is still blatantly staring at him.
Once she shuffles off, I turn directly to face him.
“Okay, what the fuck is your name? For real?”
He laughs, and the warm buzzing in my chest feels like a vibration. His laugh is rich and deep, and all I want is to hear it again several times before this night is over.
“My name is Corey,” he says, turning his chair to face me as well.
“And Frank is…? ”
“Hmmm, I guess you could say Frank is my alter ego.” If eyes could actually sparkle in real life, his would totally be sparkling now. And those dimples—damn him!
Janie sets down our beers and hesitates, staring once again at Corey. “We’re good. Thanks, Janie. I’ll holler if we need a refill,” I say, pointedly, but politely, dismissing her.
Grabbing my beer, I turn back to face Corey again. He’s done the same, and he clinks his glass against mine. “To getting to know a new friend,” he toasts.
“If that’s what this is, sure,” I say, as we both sip our beer.
He sets his drink down on the bar and places his hands on his knees. “What else would it be?”
“Honestly? I have no idea. I don’t know a single thing about you except you’re rich, tall, sexy, and clearly well known.” I regret some of those words as soon as they leave my lips.
“Sexy, hmm?”
“Don’t try to distract me. I’m trying to figure out who you are,” I say, taking another sip of beer. But the truth is, he’s effortlessly sexy, and it’s distracting as hell. There’s some heat in his gaze, directed at me, and damn if it doesn’t make my nipples hard.
“Why don’t we play a little game?” he suggests.
“What, like twenty questions?”
“Sure,” he says. He opens his mouth again, but I beat him to the punch.
“I’ll go first,” I say, quickly taking a sip of beer and sitting up straight. “What do you do for a living?”
He chuckles softly and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Before I tell you, why don’t you tell me what you think?” I bite my lip, hesitating. “Come on, sugar, you’ve had those wheels turning in your head all night long. Give me your best guess.”
“Honestly?” He nods, those damn dimples coming out to play again, and I sigh. “I think we’ve already established you’re rich,” I say, hesitating as he shrugs his shoulders and gives a small nod. “Right, and people recognize you, so you’re either famous or… notorious.”
Laughing, he says, “Why can’t it be both?”
This makes me laugh as well. “Okay, well, if it’s both… I’m guessing either model or mafia.” Corey almost slips from his stool as he laughs, slapping his leg with one hand and covering his heart with the other. Some patrons around the bar stare at his outburst, making me blush. “No?” I ask, feigning sweetness. “Not even close?”
Taking a deep breath, he recovers and takes a sip of beer before he responds, “Technically, you’re not wrong. I’ve modeled in the past, yes, and, well, while the mafia claim is a bit of a stretch, I have played a mobster before.”
Played? My face lights up as I open my mouth to guess again, but he holds up a hand.
“Ah ah,” Corey says. “My turn for a question.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s not how the game works,” I grumble.
Corey leans close to me, placing his hands on my knees, and whispers, “You’re cute when you’re bratty.”
At this moment, I forget to breathe. He is so close, the stubble building along his chiseled jaw is begging to be touched and his scent invades my space. I take a deep breath in through my nose—sandalwood and cinnamon. Yes, I realize that is specific as hell, but it almost exactly matches my favorite candle in my apartment, the one I bought earlier this winter because it smelled warm and cozy and comforting. That’s what Corey smells like, and it’s perfect.
He retreats to the space on his stool and gives me a thorough look from head to toe, making my insides squirm under his gaze. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. My arms are still crossed, as though that can protect me from the strength of his gaze, but I know it’s a lost cause when my nipples get impossibly harder.
“How old are you?” he finally asks.
My arms drop as I let out a small laugh. Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t something as easy as this.
“What?” he asks, grinning.
“Nothing, I just expected something a bit more challenging,” I explain, taking another sip of my beer. “I just turned thirty a few months ago.”
“Interesting,” he says, as he runs his tongue along his plump bottom lip. I am so, so fucked.
“Back to my first question, which you still didn’t answer,” I chide.
“Ah, what was the question again?” he asks, smirking.
“You said you’ve modeled and you’ve ‘played a mobster,’” I say, gesturing air quotes. “So, I’m guessing you’re an actor?”
He nods but keeps his mouth shut. He’s really making me work for this.
“Anything I would have seen you in?” I ask, mostly because as sexy as he is, his face and body aren’t ringing any bells for me, and I feel like I would for sure remember if I’d seen him before.
He leans forward into my space again, this time placing a hand on the back of my chair. “Depends,” he says softly, his whisper even more gravelly than his normal tone. “What kinds of things do you like to watch? ”
I know—I am fully aware—that one of my weaknesses is overthinking and imagining subtext that isn’t really there. It’s been my downfall with almost every single gorgeous, funny guy that I’ve met in my adult life and, regardless of how self-aware I claim to be, I keep doing it.
And yet here I am, in a local bar, with a wealthy, sexy man who is leaning in so close to me I can count his damn eyelashes—and my god, are they long and perfect, which is so unfair—imagining that he is flirting with me. Seducing me, even. Me! We aren’t even close to the same level, and yet my mind is foggy from his proximity and that enticing scent of his.
“Those wheels are still turning, hmmm?” he says, softly.
Sexy. Actor. Someone I haven’t seen in movies before. In Las Vegas on a random Tuesday night…
“Wait, are you a porn star?!”