Out of Aces (3 page)

I tore into my takeout. I didn’t really feel like texting anyone else my
news.

CHAPTER THREE

I
sat in my car, tilted my head back, and tried to breathe. I wiped my hands on my pants. It was a quarter to ten. I’d already been sitting in the lot fifteen minutes, waiting until it was just the right amount of early to walk in. Long enough to think,
What the hell am I doing?
about five thousand times. It wasn’t the police I was worried about. It wasn’t even Lars. He seemed kind of goofy. It was Nick and his little sound bite:
Don’t fuck it up
. And his killer
face.

Even if they never found out my lie, would I be any good at this job? What had Lars meant by
dress fun and retro
?
He’d said,
Be creative
.
Go shopping
. Well, I did. I went to Salvation Army, because I had almost zero dollars left, and it smelled like wet dogs and mothballs in there. I’d gone through every rack, and all I could find were plaid grandpa vests and tight suits from twenty years ago. And this insane thing I was wea
ring.

I looked down at my clothes and felt sick to my stomach. If I kept sitting there, I’d drive myself crazy with worry. I jumped out of the car, locked up, and walked fast across the lot. Hush looked like a black box from the outside. The only clue that it was a nightclub was a line of neon blue around the door and a caged box, like a phone booth with bars, where the cashier usually stood. But inside, it was anything but boring. I’d been there twice to p
arty.

I reached for the door and tried to pull it open, but it was locked. I shook it, panic roaring through me. I’d be late, and Lars would fire me, and
. . .

“Hang on, I’ll let you in,” said a woman’s voice. “The employee door is on the other side of the c
age.”

I whipped around, feeling spooked. The voice came from the cashier’s box. I hadn’t realized someone was inside. And now whoever it was had gone, I guess to get the door for me. I stepped around the cage to see where this “employee door” could be. It was almost invisible unless you were looking for it, just a rectangular crack in the black
wall.

I didn’t have to wait long. There was a click, and the door swung open—and there was Mar
ilyn.

I swallowed. She had on a silver dress that hung on her like a sheet of moving water. Her skin was pure cream. I knew there were plenty of Marilyns floating around Vegas, but she had to be the
best.

“You’re the new bartender?” she said, looking me
over.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m G
abe.”

“I’m Marilyn.” She smiled. “At least, that’s what you’re supposed to call me. Nick wants people to feel like they’re in fifties Hollywood. My name is Ap
ril.”

“Hi,” I said again, like an i
diot.

“Lars is in there, waiting for you. Go on in. I have to get my cage ready.” She stepped aside to let me by and swished through another black door into the cage. Her dress made a glowing outline of her cu
rves.

I walked down the short hall and entered the club, feeling dazed. The lights were low and a gleaming wood bar stretched along one wall. On the other wall were plush red VIP booths, roped off from the dance floor. There were old-school slot machines in the corners, and gold-framed pictures of movie stars on the walls. Showgirl costumes dangled from the ceiling, sparkling in the li
ghts.

The place was usually packed with bodies, the VIP booths spilling over. But now there was only Lars counting cash behind the bar and an old man sweeping. As I walked in, Lars looked up. His eyes swept over me and he chuckled so
ftly.

“Hey, Lars,” I said, heat rising in my face.
He thinks I look st
upid.

Lars came out from behind the bar. He was doing it up Steven Tyler–style: tight white pants, shiny blue shirt open to his belly button, silver necklace resting on his pale chest. He shook his head. “We’re going to have to work on your look. What are you, a frat boy at a seventies pa
rty?”

I looked down and grimaced. I knew I’d gotten it wrong. I was wearing jeans and a brown polyester shirt with peach-colored ladies on it. “You said retro,” I said la
mely.

“The pants are fine, but not the shirt. You can borrow one of mine.” Lars jerked his head. “Get to know the bar while I find you something.” He disappeared into the back of the
club.

I went behind the bar—my bar—and slid my hand across the wood. There had to be an inch of varnish on there. Everything was neat and clean, ready for action. Upside-down glasses, stacks of napkins, hoses, liquors, jiggers, strainers, speed rack, well full of fresh ice. The fruit tray was open, and there was a cutting board with a knife and a couple limes ready to
go.

When Lars came back out, I was prepping fruit. He tossed something shiny and white over the bar. “Try this
on.”

I wiped my hands and grabbed it. “Oh, man, Lars.” It looked like it would fit a five-year-old girl. It had blue
stars
on
it.

He sat on a barstool. “Let me explain a little about this pl
ace.”

“It’s cool, I’ll wear
it.”

He held up a hand. “I know you will. I just want you to understand the vibe we’re trying to create here.” He pushed his straggly blond hair off his forehead. His eyes were wide and bright, kind of whacked-looking. Under the bar lights, I could see wrinkles across his forehead. “You know why this place is doing so well? We’re not just selling drinks. We’re selling what Las Vegans
n
eed
.”

“What do they need?” I set down the shirt, wor
ried.

“An identity. Vegas people are insecure about that.” Lars leaned forward, and for a second he looked exactly like the crazy guy in that kid movie
Willy Wonka
. “So at Hush we give them a sense of history, a sense of class. And, of course, a good t
ime.”

“Oh,” I
said.

He pointed at a slot machine in the corner. “
There’s
history. That’s from the original MGM.” He pointed at a glass case on the wall. “That’s one of the bullets that killed Bugsy Siegel.” He pointed up. “Original showgirl costu
mes.”

“So this is like a museum,” I said caref
ully.

“Exactly. Full of history that could only have happened in Vegas.” Lars held up a finger. “Then
class
. We fake that with a high cover and retro drink names. Then
a good time
. That’s where our staff comes in. It’s a crime to take yourself too seriously in this city.” He tugged at his blue shirt. “From now on . . . think Liberace meets Frank Sina
tra.”

“W
hat?”

He waved his hand. “You get the po
int.”

I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I’d have to do some searching online l
ater.

“Remember this. If you want to make money, you have to sell what people need.” Lars tapped his
head.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll
try.”

He winked. “Hey, thinner on the slices. People don’t want half a lime in their drinks.” The front door opened, and we looked over. A couple of cocktail waitresses trickled in, wearing old-school glittery dresses slit up the s
ides.

Lars stood up. “We open in half an hour. I’ll get Rob to show you how to handle the register when he gets here. Why don’t you go and cha
nge?”

I picked up the shiny toddler T-shirt and disappeared into the bath
room.

By 2:00 a.m., Hush was packed. I was drenched in sweat, the T-shirt sticking to my skin like a wetsuit, the bar mats soaked and squishing under my feet. Lars was slicing through the crowd around the bar, whispering into girls’ ears, shaking guys’ hands. Nick was nowhere to be
seen.

“Make it strong, o
kay?”

If I heard that one more time, I was going to need a drink myself. But I nodded at the cute blonde and a five dropped into the tip jar. Rob, the other bartender, touched my shoulder. “Beh
ind.”

I leaned forward to let him by. We both had our own ends of the bar, but he made it look easy and I was sweating like a pig just trying to keep up with the orders. He came over to help when he could. He was a six-foot-five, red-haired house with Celtic tats, the kind of guy who keeps the peace just by raising his eyeb
rows.

A couple pushed up to the bar and the girl managed to get a seat just as someone was leaving. I looked—and then I looked again. Big brown eyes, caramel skin, shiny black hair. Latina hotness. She was wearing this red thing that looked like a popped balloon stretched over her curves. Her stomach was
bare.

“Two Manhattans,” the guy said over her shoulder. He was older, slick-looking, tan—straight SoCal. I’d only been working three hours and already I could spot the dudes from LA. Their gloss was a little harder than the Vegas guys’. I sighed and started mixing the drinks. Strain, pour, drop in cherries. On the plasma screen in the corner, the Dunes was imploding. The next one over showed a Tyson-Holyfield match from the nineties. But the soundtrack was strictly twenty-first century, and people were getting crazy on the dance f
loor.

I served the drinks and Mr. LA pushed a fifty at me. “Keep the cha
nge.”

“Thanks.” I rang it up and stuffed the extra in the tip jar. All I saw when I looked in there was a plate of pancakes, bacon, and
eggs.

“Gabe, bottle service!” Lars called from the end of the bar. I hurried over. He was standing with two of the hottest women I’d seen in my life, one blonde and one redhead. “Louis Thirteen and four glasses. Have a waitress bring it to Nick’s office,” Lars said coolly. He steered the women toward the
hall.

Freaking Lars.
I found his bottle on the top shelf and handed it to a waitress. When I turned around, half the bar was waving cash at me. “Three martinis, one extra dry, one smoky, one Gibson.” “A cosmo and a Smurf on acid.”
They didn’t teach me half this stuff in bartending school,
I thought wildly. I was an octopus, one hand on the juice hose, one hand shoveling ice, one hand reaching for the top shelf, one hand shaking drinks . . . I bent low for a chilled glass and as my eyes came bar level, I saw LA’s hand pass over the Latina chick’s d
rink.

It was so fast I wasn’t even sure what I saw. With the other hand, he was pointing at one of the pla
smas.

I stopped moving. The guy picked up his own drink and took a
sip.

“Maker’s Mark on the rocks!” “Appletini and cosmo, please.” “Bartender!” Snap, snap.
“Barten
der!”

“Whoever snapped is getting served last,” I said, and that got a laugh. But my pulse was going.
Did I see what I thought I
saw?

The girl reached for her drink, and that did it. I grabbed it, too. Our hands touched and she looked at me, surprised. “I think he put something in your drink,” I said, and dumped it out. “I’ll make you a new one.” She looked at the guy, her eyes
huge.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. But his face was turning bright red, and I knew I was r
ight.

“I saw you,” I said. The people around him were starting to s
tare.

“Fucking liar,” the guy spit out. He backed away, turned, and pushed through the c
rowd.

“What’s going on?” Rob asked behind
me.

I told him what happened. “I’m not positive,” I finished, “but look at him.” The guy was moving fast, headed for the
door.

Rob’s eyes went down like shades. “Be right b
ack.”

I turned to the girl, who was sitting there with her mouth open. “You want a fresh
one?”

She shook her head. “No, that’s o
kay.”

She seemed kind of shaky, so I left her alone and went back to work, trying to keep up with people’s insane ability to down alcohol. My arms were getting sore, mostly in the wrists and el
bows.

“Four espresso martinis chilled
very
well, and please make sure there are no grou
nds.”

“Can I get some extra olives? Like a glass full? Here, I’ll just take th
ese.”

“Make me something good. Anything. I don’t c
are.”

I was a robot, but I was getting
paid
. I couldn’t wait to count that jar. Vegas locals know how to tip. Finally there was a break in the orders, and I wiped the sweat off my forehead and chugged a bottled w
ater.

“Can I get a Coke?” asked the girl who’d dodged a bu
llet.

“Sure.” I could feel her watching me as I poured her d
rink.

“Thank you for what you did.” She really was beautiful. Her eyes drooped at the edges and she had that little bit of sexy extra weight that some girls stupidly tried to starve
away.