2. Scarlet
SCARLET
“Here you go.” After removing an empty glass from in front of the man sitting at the slot machine, I replaced it with more of what he had just finished.
“Can I get you anything else?” I asked, plastering the same fake, almost brittle smile I wore during every shift.
It was the only way to get tips, plus my ability to pretend incessant flirting didn’t bother me half as much as it did.
Gamblers didn’t want reality. They wanted a fantasy world in which young women naturally fawned over them, impressed with their ability to…
what? Pull the arm on a slot machine and wait to see if they were lucky?
Whatever. All that mattered was giving it to them and hoping they believed in tipping generously.
This one did, shoving a ten-dollar bill at me without looking.
“Thanks, babe. Keep them coming. I’m feeling lucky today.
” I held my tongue rather than remind him he was feeling lucky three days ago too.
I didn’t know his name. There was no reason to learn it, but I recognized him after having seen him around multiple times in the month since I’d started working here.
Primm was a world away from Las Vegas, but certain principles applied in any casino.
It was psychology, plain and simple, and years of working in casinos had basically earned me a PhD in it—getting close enough to my customers that they felt comfortable parting with more of their hard-earned money.
I hurried over to the bar, dropping off the empty glass, looking around to see if anyone else needed a refill.
It was the sort of job that didn’t allow people to rest on their laurels, for sure.
Some people did, but they were the ones who usually complained at the end of a shift that they had made shit in tips.
It was like they never quite got it. I always kept my thoughts to myself, silently commiserating with a frown or a pat on the back while my pockets bulged with cash.
To think there was a time not too long ago when I imagined I would never have to do this again.
Biting the inside of my cheek snapped me out of the reverie threatening to consume me. It was always like that. I had to be vigilant to keep from thinking about him and the life he’d given me a glimpse of. What ease and freedom could feel like, at least financially.
He also taught me that some people demanded other types of freedom in return. He taught me there was no such thing as having all of my prayers answered.
“Hey, gorgeous.” A tall, burly man wearing a trucker cap sauntered to the bar while I helped unload clean glasses from a rack. “You look like just the thing I need to get lucky tonight.”
The longer I worked in casinos, the more I was convinced there was not a single original pick-up line left. Yet every man acted like they invented it.
I forced a smile, arching an eyebrow. “What can I get for you?” I wasn’t the bartender, but I could pour drinks when Richie was busy, as he was now, dealing with a trio of loudmouth senior citizens at the other end of the bar.
There were three others on the casino floor. Why did this jerk have to visit mine?
“You tell me,” he suggested, bellying up to the bar and settling on a stool before practically licking his chops, like the Big Bad Wolf in the old cartoons, not bothering to hide his intentions.
How about a knee to the balls? “I think a man like you likes hard liquor,” I decided because the idea was to make them pay more and thus tip more.
Granted, it didn’t always work that way, but the casino owners certainly enjoyed the profits.
Considering I really needed this job if I was going to save up enough to get away permanently, I had to keep the bosses happy.
“Oh, hard is the name of the game,” he confirmed, which was probably supposed to be a slick double entendre, but it came off rather awkward.
Of course, I pretended otherwise, flashing a bright smile while tossing my dark ponytail over my shoulder.
More than a month after I first dyed it from its natural blonde, there were still moments when the sight of it surprised me.
“How about Jameson 18 Year?” I asked with a wink.
“It’s pretty pricey. Not everybody can handle it. ”
“There’s not much I can’t handle,” he countered, the corner of his mouth tipping upward. All right, it’s time to put an end to this discussion before things went too far. I poured him a drink and slid it his way before noticing several women looking around with empty glasses.
“Good luck to you,” I told the man, picking up my tray, grateful for a reason to leave him behind.
It was always like going through the motions of a strange, delicate dance.
Some guys just couldn’t take a hint. They probably went to strip clubs and believed the dancers were actually into them too.
It was sort of sad and definitely uncomfortable.
Soon, I was busy enough that I forgot about him, hustling back and forth, taking orders, picking up empties, cheering with a few of my customers when they had a winning hand.
The work was easier at the blackjack table, where the only complaints were from players blaming me for the cards they were dealt.
I learned to deal with that over time. Sure, there were flirtatious creeps, too, but mostly, the gamblers were serious.
Focused. And the big winners liked to tip generously.
Like a certain big winner I’d met in Vegas when he had a very good night. For a while after that, I’d considered it a good night for me too. Amazing how things could change.
As the night went on, I noticed Trucker Hat Guy—my nickname for him—trying to get my attention more than once.
I was busy enough that I could easily ignore him, acting like I didn’t notice.
Would he ever take the hint that this was my job and not an excuse to find my next hookup?
He was a good twenty years older than me, for one thing, but then men never seemed to care about that.
They always figured they were the exception to the rule, even if they wouldn’t think of dating an older woman. Double standards were a real bitch.
“Sarah…” I heard the name being called out gently in a singsong voice before I remembered the name I had requested printed on my name tag.
Scarlet was not exactly a common name, and I didn’t need anybody to find me here.
Paranoid? I doubted it. Some men were determined to the point of obsession when it came to getting what they wanted.
Finally, I realized the man crooning the name was talking to me, and the sight of a familiar trucker cap made my stomach lurch when I turned to him standing directly behind me while I waited for a couple of drink orders to be prepared.
He smelled like booze and sweat—not exactly a great combination.
My nose wrinkled in response as I turned, putting on my most professional smile even as I longed to lean away from his stench.
“Hi there. Have you been lucky tonight?”
“You tell me. What are my chances?” He looked me up and down without bothering to hide his thoughts, his dark eyes hard as they assessed me. “You look like something I’d like to take a chance on, but I need to know the odds.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m sure you’ll understand.” Lowering my voice, I explained, “I can’t fraternize with the casino’s guests.”
“Everything okay over here?” Richie was an old-school sort of gentleman, the sort of guy who’d seen everything at least twice after working behind a bar for decades. He looked from Trucker Hat Guy to me. “Can I get you something, sir?” he asked with a tight smile.
The dude could not take a hint. “Yeah, you can get me this one’s phone number.” He jerked a thumb toward me, laughing suggestively. Talk about a surefire way to make a girl’s skin crawl.
I threw Richie a panicked glance he absorbed without his expression shifting. “I’m sorry, that’s not one of the items we offer, but I will be happy to pour you a drink.” I could have kissed him for handling that so smoothly.
With a scowl, the man replied, “I think that’s her decision, don’t you?”
“As I told you…” I gently explained, searching for security from the corner of my eye, “… there’s no fraternization allowed.
” I didn’t bother apologizing because that would give him the wrong idea.
As I hurried away with my tray of drinks, I almost laughed at myself.
There I was, advocating against fraternization, wishing I had maintained that attitude when I met Dominic. If only I had been smarter then.
There was no point in beating myself up, so instead, I delivered my drinks, including a beer I passed to a handsome, quiet man sitting at the end of a row of slot machines.
He had a friendly smile that didn’t demand anything or suggest anything other than gratitude, and I appreciated that after hours spent avoiding a creep who couldn’t take a hint.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and I found myself smiling genuinely for the first time all night once I looked into his deep-set dark eyes and found warmth that made my pulse pick up speed.
His face was perfect—rugged and chiseled, except for a thin scar that ran down from his left temple and traced the curve of his jaw.
It somehow made the perfection stand out in greater detail.
Perfection that made goose bumps pebble on my skin and my teeth sink into my lip.
God, he's gorgeous and sitting here all alone.
He reached a hand up to sweep a few strands of chocolate-brown hair away from his forehead, glancing over my shoulder as he did.
I was almost sorry he broke eye contact, wishing he’d look at me again so I could feel warm all over.
“You might want to be careful about that guy in the trucker hat,” he informed me in a rich, deep voice. “He’s been watching you all night.”