Neon Vows

Chapter One

The chips hit the pot with a confident clatter, making the pile topple in a tight burst of sound.

Across from me—some big-time manosphere podcaster who loudly proclaimed when I’d sat down that women shouldn’t be allowed in the poker room—cracked his neck.

He was so full of bravado and misogyny that he didn’t realize it was his tell.

I’d been listening to him run his mouth all night from another table, watching him with the goal of clocking his game style so I could take him for his whole stack of chips.

This was a high roller room.

And he was starting to sweat in his hairline.

I reached for my stack, grabbing the pile of pink chips—each one of them representing five grand—and pushed them into the pot.

“Raise.”

His jaw went slack.

He did a double neck crack.

It would be interesting to see if his ego or his logic won out when it got to him.

“Too rich for my blood,” the man beside me said, laying his cards down and reaching for his scotch instead.

One more man called.

Another folded.

Then it was me and the podcaster.

He had sweat stains under his arms now.

But it was his ego that called again.

“Alright, let’s see ‘em,” the dealer said, trying his best to hold back a smile.

When you did this for a living, you got to know just about every dealer on the strip. This particular one knew I almost never bluffed when the pot was big. If I was upping the ante, I had the winning hand.

Cards kissed the felt.

I kept my gaze on the podcaster as I set mine down.

He had a Full House.

I had a Straight Flush.

“Straight flush—queen-high. Straight Flush takes it.”

The dealer pushed the pot toward me as the man-child across from me flew to his feet so fast he knocked over his chair.

“This is bullshit. She cheated.”

Around the table, a few men shook their heads or rolled their eyes. No one liked a sore loser. Especially in this room. High rollers didn’t sweat the money they lost. They were just here for a good time.

“Layna’s a professional poker player,” an older man at the table—if I wasn’t mistaken, an oil executive with a watch that cost more than the whole pot—said, glancing up at the podcaster. “You were in over your head the second she sat down.”

I finished stacking my chips and passed a toke to the dealer, who was professional enough not to look shocked at the amount.

He had a granddaughter with a lot of health issues and was the kind of grandpa who would use the money to help with the bills.

“See that? She bribed him!”

“Have a little pride, man,” another player said.

Then, from another, “Winners always tip the dealer.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked, leaning back in my chair, looking casual even as I went ahead and rubbed salt in his wounds. “Do you need money for the valet?”

He went a shade of red I’d never seen before.

“Shut up, you stupid bi—”

Security at casinos were silent shadows that moved swiftly when the slightest bit of tension popped off.

The podcaster was grabbed under each arm and led away. He didn’t go quietly, either. I felt secondhand embarrassment watching him being dragged from the room.

“Seat open?” another voice asked as he righted the podcaster’s chair, then waited for a nod from the dealer before sitting down.

Well.

This guy was certainly an improvement from the podcaster bro.

This one at least knew how to dress for the honor of being allowed in the most exclusive high roller room in Vegas.

Where podcast bro had worn a see-through knitted button-up and khakis, this guy was in a full midnight-blue suit, complete with a pocket square, cufflinks, and the air of confidence that said he dressed like this often.

Add in the fact that he was insanely, almost disarmingly, good-looking, and my night was looking up.

Tall, fit, with his dark hair in a long slick back, stormy blue eyes with thick lashes, and all of that in a classically handsome face with a stern brow, a generous mouth, and a strong jaw.

And that stubble on his jaw? Hot. Not so much in a cultured way, but in a ‘I’ve been too busy to shave’ kind of way. Which, obviously, was better.

“Harrison,” the oil exec greeted. “Been a while.”

“Haven’t had much time for leisure.”

“I know that feeling well.”

“Blinds,” the dealer called before the sound of the cards whispering together drifted to my ears.

We each tossed chips into the pot and waited for the cards to be dealt.

I never looked at mine first, preferring to watch everyone else take in their hands.

And since I already played a hand with the others, my gaze settled fully on the Harrison guy.

As close as I watched, though, he gave nothing away.

Damn if that wasn’t hot too.

Especially for someone who clearly wasn’t a professional player. But, I guess, in its own way, big business was a different sort of high-stakes game to play.

My hand was alright. Not something I’d risk five-thousand-dollar chips on, but it was possible to get somewhere decent if the deck was friendly.

Near him, the cocktail waitress made her way to the table, standing there silently in her tight, short black dress and stiletto heels. Her feet must have been killing her. But I saw how these men tipped the waitresses; it was worth the blisters.

She said nothing, as was customary in this room.

But the men who wanted some asked for drinks.

I pointed to my coffee cup, getting a nod from her.

“You never have drinks with us,” one of the other players, Robert, one of the country’s most esteemed neurosurgeons (who, by best estimates, made about two million a year) said.

“And that’s why I keep whipping your ass, Rob,” I said with a friendly smirk that had him laughing.

Across from me, Harrison’s lips tipped up but didn’t quite smile.

When his drink came, he’d ordered…

“You’re drinking… milk?” The question burst out of me before I could stop it.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“I like to win too.”

Okay.

That was hot too.

Suddenly, I didn’t care so much about the cards. I was replaying a conversation I’d just had with my cousin in my head. Mostly about hookups and how they could be fun if you were in the mood for them.

Harrison?

He looked like he might be a lot of fun.

Maybe I could call it an early night despite being on a heater, get a few drinks with a sharply dressed businessman, and invite him back to my room.

Suits weren’t usually my type.

I’d grown up around rough-and-tumble bikers. I tended to like my guys cocky, straight-talking, and unpolished.

But something about this guy told me that once you got him unbuttoned, he would be just as wild as the kind of men I was used to.

“Call,” I said, tossing the chips toward the center of the table.

“So, Layna,” Robert said, shuffling his cards around. “Between tournaments?”

“I had one last night,” I told him.

“Did you win?”

“Leo was there,” I said, getting a grunt.

I was a great poker player. But the reigning champion, I was not. Still, I did just fine. Better. I was extremely comfortable.

“Did he take your shirt?” Robert asked.

“Stop trying to picture me with my top off, there, Rob,” I said, getting a snort from another player. “I was happy with my winnings,” I added. “Then decided to hang back and double it.”

I glanced down at my pile of chips. I had another just-as-big stack sitting in a boot in my hotel room, waiting to be cashed in.

That little act of control was how I managed to beat the accusations of gambling addiction. I didn’t have to spend it all. In fact, I rarely did. I would only let myself lose a few hands before I called it a night.

Poker was my job.

And once I was satisfied with what I’d earned, I headed back across the country to New Jersey to visit my large extended family for a while.

The conversation shifted to talk of other casinos, other poker rooms across the strip. And, eventually, devolved into discussions of strip clubs and escorts.

While I often wasn’t the only woman in a poker room, it was still a hobby dominated by men.

And, well, this kind of thing was all too familiar.

I comforted myself with the knowledge that all the sex workers in town were cleaning up from these men’s wallets and laughing about the clients who thought they were somehow getting one up on the women.

“Let’s see ‘em,” the dealer demanded.

I had Four of a Kind. All eights.

So did Harrison. All tens.

“Four tens wins,” the dealer said, looking at Harrison’s cards.

“Nice,” I said, nodding. I reached for my coffee, finishing it off.

It wasn’t my first loss of the night.

“Beginner’s luck,” he said, stacking his coins.

“Well, I’m out. Enjoy your heater, Harrison,” I said, scooping the chip bag provided by the casino. “Gentlemen,” I said, nodding to the table. “Take that grand baby of yours out to the arcade,” I said, tossing a chip toward the dealer, then making my way out.

Did I maybe put a little more swish in my walk as I exited the room? Sure. And all I could hope was that Harrison was watching.

I was only halfway down the hallway when I heard the soft footfalls on the carpet behind me.

It could have been anyone.

But the swooping in my belly told me exactly who it was.

I didn’t slow my pace, even as heat pooled and my heart fluttered.

I rounded the corner of the hallway toward the elevator bank. Still hearing the footfalls approaching, I stabbed my finger into the call button and listened as it immediately slid up.

My silent prayer was answered when the doors dinged open into an empty car.

I slipped inside and turned just in time to see a hand slip between the doors, making them slide back open.

Then there he was.

Eyes molten.

Pupils blown wide.

A deep intensity on his face.

My stomach somersaulted.

Then he was in the car with me, the doors sliding closed behind him.

His hand rose as he got close, grabbing the back of my neck and hauling my chest against his as his lips crashed down on mine.

Everything about him was as untamed as I hoped.

There was nothing tentative about it—he claimed my mouth like it was his to own.

And in that moment, it was.

I moaned against his lips as desire sizzled down my spine.

Harrison pushed me back against the wall, his hand sliding down to grab the back of my knee and pulling my leg up.

He stepped closer, and his hard length pressed against the core of me.

Harrison’s teeth snagged my lower lip, biting, pulling until a moan escaped me.

Then his lips were slanting over mine again.

Harder.

Hungrier.

Mine responded in kind.

My hands slid up his arms, then sank into his soft hair, even as his twisted in mine and tugged. The pain/pleasure combination coursed across my scalp, making my lips break from his with a moan.

Harrison’s head ducked—lips, tongue, and teeth teasing my neck.

His hips rocked against mine, making his hardness press against me.

“Cameras,” I panted when he reached toward the emergency stop button.

My own hand shot out, hitting the button for my floor before getting lost in him for another moment until the elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

I slipped out from the cage of Harrison’s body, grabbed his tie, and pulled him out into the hall with me.