Chapter 5 Vaughn
VAUGHN
Owning a casino should mean making decisions, not sitting through tedious meetings. That’s what I paid people for. As someone droned on about profit margins, I made a note on my phone. Hire someone to sit in meetings.
“Mr. Eastman? Is there a problem?” asked Eric Cunningham, one of the old-school managers around here.
He and Dad were contemporaries, and I’d gotten a feeling more than once in the eighteen months since taking over ownership that he considered himself an extension of my father like he would keep the ship afloat in Dad’s honor.
Hence, the paternal look of disapproval he was wearing.
As if I couldn’t fire him in a heartbeat.
For the time being, I pasted on a smile.
“Absolutely not, Eric. Why do you ask?” My smile widened, becoming more sincere when he returned his attention to the agenda, his face flushing.
That’s right. Toss the ball back into his court, let him figure out what to do with it.
He wanted to call me out in front of my employees?
Fine by me. Two could play that game, motherfucker.
In other words, by the time my Wednesday morning meeting rolled around, I was in no fucking mood to sit around and review figures, stats, all of the cerebral shit I had never taken an interest in.
One more thing Dad had never held back from criticizing.
“This is the lifeblood of the business, son, and you can’t afford to ignore it.
” Never mind the times I’d very astutely reminded him we had teams of people to handle things like that for us.
He needed to have his finger in every pot.
The thing was, I understood the rationale behind that.
I didn’t like leaving things up to others.
There was no one I trusted more than myself.
At the same time, wouldn’t my talents, time, and skill be better used elsewhere?
Eric scheduled these weekly meetings because things had always been done that way.
Forget the fact that Zoom existed, email, text messages, Slack chats.
The meeting was almost over, anyway, with the handful of agenda items having already been covered.
“Thank you all for your time,” I announced before standing and leaving another note for myself in my phone.
Review current policy regarding meetings.
It was time to become a little more efficient around here.
We all had better things to do than eating a continental breakfast while reviewing spreadsheets.
Rather than return to my office down the hall, I instead turned to the elevator.
Sitting behind my desk wouldn’t do me any favors, not the way I was feeling—out of sorts like an animal pacing in a cage.
I was no good at sitting at the end of a conference table. That wasn’t where my strengths resided.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing to me a veritable playground.
Bells chimed, music played, coins dropped into metal trays mounted to vintage slot machines.
People flocked to those machines every day, some of them practically camping out with false hope and a glazed look in their eyes.
There was no art to what they did, no strategy necessary.
They simply inserted their card or cash and pulled the lever over and over for hours on end, rarely looking away from the machine in front of them.
How they did it, I would never understand, but then I didn’t need to.
My job was to make them comfortable, to keep them hydrated, and to make sure they knew they would be welcomed back.
I observed them from a distance, walking through the section devoted to the enormous, old-fashioned machines.
The other side of the floor held newer models—touchscreens—but I never felt the same rush of warm nostalgia for them as I did for the one-armed bandits currently in use by countless visitors.
Every pull of those arms represented more money in my pockets.
There was something satisfying about it that simply could not be achieved by tapping a screen, nor was it nearly as rewarding to receive a printed voucher after a win.
I had grown up hearing the rush of coins, the musical sound of them clinking together.
That meant something. It represented a jackpot, and who didn’t want to hit the big jackpot?
I was starting to sound like Eric Cunningham—stuck in the past. There was nothing wrong with walking the line between appreciating what worked and wanting to abandon what was no longer necessary.
It had to do with understanding human nature, as well.
Sitting in long meetings was demoralizing and bad for productivity.
Keeping the old-fashioned machines on the casino floor meant acknowledging nostalgia, understanding the psychology behind what made the process satisfying.
It was one of the things Dad and I had been able to agree on—one of the few things toward the end.
“Mr. Eastman.” A blonde waitress in a short skirt offered a smile that was a little more than friendly as she passed with a tray of drinks.
I was roughly half a second from turning my head to check out her ass before I remembered who I was and why it was probably not a good idea to openly ogle my employees, no matter how cute and flirtatious they were or how nice they were to look at.
My role no longer allowed for a little innocent fun.
Considering the boring morning I’d suffered through, though, I deserved a little fun.
It didn’t help that I hadn’t been able to get in touch with my so-called wife since we parted ways on Sunday morning.
The longer it took for her to get back to me, the more convinced I was there was something wrong with the whole situation.
There had to be. No way would she drag her feet on making arrangements for the annulment unless she had no intention of granting it.
I didn’t want to believe people resorted to such pathetic, childish tactics in this day and age, especially since her father was supposed to be a tough guy, slick, probably dangerous.
Somebody it would be best not to cross for any reason.
The more I dug into his background while reflecting on the stories I’d overheard in the past, the greater my hurry to untangle myself from his daughter.
After touring the floor, I was reenergized, focused enough to return to my office and have my lunch before putting in a full day of work.
I waited in front of the elevator, already planning to set up a lunch meeting with Eric tomorrow before reaching out again to Nova.
Little Miss Oxford University. Full of herself, too busy looking down her nose at the rest of the world to bother with common courtesy.
The girl I had stupidly, drunkenly married.
That same girl with long, inky black hair was standing directly in front of me when the doors opened, revealing her in the center of the elevator car.
I blinked rapidly, almost sure I was seeing things, but her image didn’t budge.
That was not a bad thing, considering how devastating she looked in a pale yellow sundress with a wide leather belt that accentuated her tiny waist. She was softer than she’d been on Sunday, at least on the outside—lighter makeup with layered tendrils framing her face that made her look even younger than twenty-four.
She was just as surprised to see me as I was to see her, falling back half a step before catching herself and gliding out of the car. “Oh. There you are,” she said, her look of surprise shifting to one of impatience that etched itself across her forehead.
So much for warm greetings. “Here I am. Congratulations. You found me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to get out of a meeting for the past thirty minutes.” Checking her phone, she amended, “Actually, thirty-five.”
“Wait a second. You’re blaming me for being at work? Did you call in advance? Set up an appointment?”
Thick lashes fluttered over her dark eyes before a flush painted her cheeks. “You know what? I thought I did.” I watched as she opened her message app and pulled up the thread of texts I’d sent. “Something I do sometimes. I’ve been distracted,” she mumbled.
Sure enough, she had typed out a message that still sat, waiting to be sent.
I have time Wednesday, late morning. I’ll stop in.
Leaning in to read it meant being dangerously close, so close I could have counted the faint freckles that lightly dotted her nose if I wasn’t so enthralled by the floral scent of her hair.
While I clenched my fists to keep my hands to myself, she explained, “When you didn’t get back to me, I figured that was your way of agreeing.
” Her head lifted, and with it, her gaze, dark eyes grazing my face, her lips parting to release a long, soft breath.
How easy it would have been to kiss her, especially when she swayed a little closer. Inviting me.
“So long as we can agree you’re at fault,” I murmured, staring at her tempting mouth.
It was supposed to be a joke—a way of lightening the mood.
Either her sense of humor sucked, or she wouldn’t be so easily won over.
“Anyway, I wanted to drop by so we could discuss how to proceed,” she explained in a dry, flat voice while inching away from me.
“I’m not sure of the first steps we need to take. ”
“Neither am I,” I admitted, making sure there was no one standing too close before adding, “This is my first drunken wedding too.” Her face barely twitched in response.
The woman was bound and determined to freeze me to death with that attitude of hers.
What a shame since I could imagine enjoying our time together otherwise.
She was very nice to look at, and the sweet scent of vanilla and some familiar-yet-unidentified flower hovered around her in a faint, enticing cloud.
I had to fight the desire to lean down and figure out which flower clung to her hair.