TIMBER: The Bad Boy's Baby (17 page)

What the hell? I haven’t seen that SOB in a few months, and now he shows up in my casino, thinking he’s a boss? He’s a boss of nothing. He got run out of NYC the same time I left.

Our pasts are too tangled for my liking. I want him out of Vegas.

I push him from my mind. I don’t want to think about anything that will add stress tonight. Tonight is about letting loose. About taking the fucking edge off.

But damn, it’s impossible for my mind to not return to Emmy Rose. That one is something else.

First of all, she denied me my singular desire—her pussy. And two, she didn’t know who the hell I was.

Maybe I’m losing my edge?

Carla winks at me as she begins pulling chips from the drawer under the table. She’s been working my game for the past three years, ever since I bought this casino and moved in. She is solid, salt-of-the-earth, and worth her weight in gold in a town like this, where most people come to take advantage of one another.

“You doing okay, boss?” she asks. I hate that she can see that something is off with me tonight. Clearly, my game needs work if even Carla can smell the rejection from across the room.

“Aww, this boy’s good,” McQueen says, punching my arm. “He’s probably just tired from all the ass he’s been getting. Heard you were recently voted Most Eligible Bachelor in Vegas Weekly, bro. There was a photo of you half-naked, looking like a fucking king.”

I shrug off the comment, hating that kind of attention. I prefer spreads in the Las Vegas Times mentioning my real estate investments. That’s what reminds me that I’m something bigger and better than a guy with a ripped torso, from a shady family.

I’m not the son of a Kingpin anymore; I’m a businessman who knows how to fucking take care of himself.

We’re waiting for the other players to show. I only invite my closest friends to my game.

McQueen, of course. Then there’s Jack, the in-house DJ at my nightclub, Stacked, who’s already texted saying he’s running a few minutes behind. Then there’s Landon, who didn’t text, and I’m betting the lucky bastard is busy getting fucked as we speak.

I’ve seen women go wild for him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s the heir of Solitaire, the most exclusive diamond importer in the world.

Luckily for all of us there are plenty of wet lips waiting for us to part them.

A few minutes later, Landon and Jack walk in, and the game can begin. Jack immediately puts his phone in the dock and sets the tone with a playlist, dark electronic music filling the room.

He does a little dance move, cracking his neck as he exhales. Yeah, it’s obvious he needs a night away from the grind of working the club and the media asshats who’ve been following him around.

He just broke up with his on and off again girlfriend—the singer Ashley Quick—so I have no doubt he is ready to decompress.

We bump fists, and I shake Landon’s hand.

“Good to see you, man,” Landon says to me, passing around a box of fine cigars, then lighting one for himself. “And, fuck, your tables have been nice to me this weekend.”

“What are you even doing playing black jack? Don’t you get bored?” I ask him.

“I got bored years ago. I gotta fucking figure my shit out, is what I need to do.”

“You in town long?” Jack asks him. “I got a show tomorrow night that’s gonna be hot.”

“I’ll be here until Monday,” Landon says. “You know I don’t go to clubs much, but I’ll come.” Landon has a private life we don’t see much; he has a darker side that I’ve heard mention of a few times.

He usually has a woman who’s pretty devoted, but the relationships don’t last long. I’m guessing he’s into that BDSM shit, which is probably hot as hell, but I prefer to fuck without the handcuffs.

I’ve rarely had a problem getting a woman right where I want her—I don’t need a lock and key to get a pussy in place.

“I’ll get us a table.” Turning to McQueen I ask, “You working Friday’s show? Or are you free?”

“I’m working, but fuck yeah, I’m in. I’ll come when I get done, maybe midnight or one.”

“Cool, I’ll put you on the list,” I say, happy to hook up my friends. My table at Stacked is prime, and I’ll be sure to tell my personal assistant, Denise, to fill the table with plenty of hot women. Jack will appreciate my forethought when he gets off stage.

“Let’s get you boys some drinks,” I say, looking around for the cocktail waitress. Not seeing anyone, I look at Carla, who holds up one finger, signaling that she’ll go figure out where our waitress is.

I specifically only have one girl working our game, and Carla is the one who picks her out. She has a good pulse on the waitresses working, since she’s been a manager here as long as I’ve owned the place.

The last thing I need is rumors flying about any of us. Discretion is important in my private space, and Carla knows that. Which is why it pisses me off that the person she hired tonight hasn’t shown.

A minute later Carla returns. “She’ll be here in a moment. Sorry about that, boss, I guess the shift got traded.” Carla gives me an apologetic look, and I know she won’t let this happen again.

“This new girl, we can trust her?” I ask, speaking low.

“I think so. She’s new, but seems eager to please, and she’s never been late to work before.” She begins dealing the cards and we take our seats.

“Eager to please, huh?” Landon asks. “I like the sound of that.”

Carla smirks, and we all look down at our hands. We start making bets based on what we’re holding, and I smile, liking the way the deal went.

A moment later the door to the lounge opens and my eyes flick up, remembering those long fish-netted legs from earlier. Remembering the tendrils of brunette hair out of place, remembering how Emmy said she was going to be late if she didn’t hurry.

Late for this poker game.

I wouldn’t have minded her being late if it meant I could have pushed her panties aside and pressed a finger into her wetness.

Not that she’s any wearing panties, not in that skin-tight uniform, the thonged back sliding between her perfect ass cheeks. I chose those cocktail uniforms for that specific reason—I don’t want anything left to the imagination. I want to know exactly what sort of pussy is walking around my casino.

I want to know what sort of pussy is walking into my private suite. And, god—hers is exactly what I want.

She meets my eyes, and I see her take a sharp intake of breath. She wants me too. Earlier, the only reason she walked away was because she didn’t want to get fired.

In her hand, she still holds that damn cocktail tray, and I want to push it aside, wrap those legs around me, and press her into the wall, my cock leading the way.

I don’t like that she denied me, but I think it’s cute how she takes this job seriously. I like that she doesn’t know who I am, because it means she hasn’t heard the rumors that I know circulate about the size of my cock, the way I pound women until they cry out in ecstasy.

I grin, knowing she’ll find out all on her own.

O
h shit
.

The guy from the hallway is here. I try not to look surprised, hoping my flushed cheeks don’t reveal the real reason I was late. You know, because I was busy getting off like a total horn-dog.

Oh my god, I am so over my head with my life.

Standing in the private suite, I know my eyes get wide. Because, oh my word, this place is amazeballs—the carpet is plush and black, the walls are painted a dark purple, and gorgeous sconces hug the walls of the dimly-lit room. It’s a dream in here, nothing like Janie’s crap apartment that I’m using while she’s in the ICU.

But even with all this jaw-dropping interior design work, my eyes can’t help but stay on the hallway guy, can’t help but wonder if his dark green eyes want to undress me as much as my blue ones want to rip off his suit.

Gah. Here I am, at my biggest gig since getting this cocktail job, and I’m thinking about the cock of a legit stranger.

Get a freaking grip, Emmy!

But I have an inkling he’s thinking the exact same thing. He looks me up and down, as if swallowing me whole. Fuck, I want to swallow him whole … and I don’t even know what sort of package he delivers … not that I can’t make a guess by the large, tight bulge I saw in his pants earlier in the hallway.

He waves me over and I take a deep breath, knowing I need to serve the clients without thinking about screwing them.

Claire told me the number one thing to remember about this job tonight was to act professional. No flirting, no wagging my ass for extra tips—I’d get those just by showing up. All that’s required of me is to straight-up take the drink orders and serve the beverages for the private party.

I walk to the table where he sits with three other men, all handsome, all way out of my league. I’m small town through and through, and these boys are city slickers … I have no interest in getting greased up by them.

Well, that isn’t entirely true … the hallway dude is seriously turning me on as he rubs his hand over his jaw, as if debating the next move. I can’t tell if the move is about the poker game or me.

Knock it off, Emmy
—of course he’s thinking about the game. There are easily half a million dollars worth of chips on the table. The truth of that hits me in the gut—that amount of money could change someone’s life. My life. Forever. And for these guys it’s chump change.

Still, it isn’t my business whose money is up for grabs and how often.

I am on the clock.

“What can I get you?” I ask him politely, as if we hadn’t sort-of met earlier. Discretion is important in Vegas.

“You know what I want,” he says, his voice low so only I can hear his words.

Looking down at myself, I see my nipples are standing at attention through this pleather leotard. I lick my lips cautiously, wanting to press myself against him, but also determined not to lose a grip while working tonight. If he gets me too hot and bothered, it will be obvious in this outfit. If I get wet again, like I did in the bathroom, everyone will know.

Besides, sex isn’t going to solve any of my problems … so maybe I should focus on my actual job instead of, you know, this man.

“So, another whiskey?” I ask, taking the empty glass from the coaster on the table, noting that his drink of choice matches mine. Though surely he drinks from a shelf I’ve never been able to reach.

“Perfect. Boys, what can she get you?” he asks the guys at the table, and I look them over more closely.

These men are strong, capable—everyone here is dripping with a cockiness that only a man who is never denied what he wants can claim.

I feel denied everything. Moving here for Janie has been so hard … so lonely. I want to go back to my normal—I want to start grad school, become a social worker so I can help kids who grew up like me. Dirt poor, with shit parents.

I want to return to my job at the bar near campus—only this time I’ll keep my vow of never dating an asshole again. God knows I’ve had more than my fair share. Basically, I’m ready to be a legit grown-up.

The next guy I date is going to take me out to dinner at Olive Garden and watch Netflix with me on the couch. I want what Claire may have found: a boyfriend who works at a car lot and is in a bowling league.

I want a bowling-league relationship, a pitcher of beer guy who wants a picket fence. I’m ready to have a regular life.

It has been so lonely waiting for Janie to wake up.

“I’ll take a scotch, neat,” says a man in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I recognize him immediately as Jack Harris, the resident DJ at Stacked. Holy shit.

Claire said I was going to be in the highest-rolling room at this casino, but hell, this is a room I have no business being in.

Tess, my Southern co-worker, has shown me Jack Harris’s picture on her phone in the break room plenty of times. She’s always snapping pictures of him when he walks through the casino. She’s a bit obsessed, actually. Seeing him up close, I can see why.

He’s confident but chill, has a man-bun, and has tattoos across his forearms. The good, sexy kind of hipster. Not my type, but I can see the appeal.

“Got it, Jack,” I say, pleased with myself for not asking for his autograph.

The guy next to him orders a rum and coke. He’s in work out clothes, and is seriously ripped. Like, a head-to-toe muscle machine. He has a dimpled face and is giving Channing Tatum a run for his money.

“And what was your name?” I ask, wanting to be as courteous as possible for the rest of the evening. My bank account is counting on these tips.

“McQueen,” he says, offering me a smirk and wink.

I know. He seriously
sminked
at me. Does that work on women? Any woman, ever? He may be sexier than Magic Mike, but McQueen knows it. Which, for me, is a turn off.

I’ve always liked guys who have a layer of insecurity, a healthy layer of doubt. Maybe it’s because I’ve always liked to take care of people … like I’m doing right now for my sister. A sister who’s never been there for me … yet here I am, putting my life on hold for her.

I glance around the table, wanting to focus on this moment, on these men. As if reading my mind, the table gives McQueen a hard time for his lame-ass game and I smile, put at ease by their familiarity.

“And for you, sir?” I ask the last man at the table.

“I’ll take an Old Fashioned, please,” he says with an English accent.

“Perfect, and what was your name? Just want to get it right tonight,” I say, looking over at Carla, who I know is pissed about me being late.

Surprisingly, she gives me a small smile, and a nearly imperceptible nod, and I know I’m doing okay.

Fine, even. I don’t need to be nervous. Everyone here is above-par, there’s nothing skeevy about this poker game, and I appreciate being around men who aren’t taking themselves too seriously.

“I am Landon, milady” he says, finding my hand and kissing the top of it. Okay, he’s a pretty adorable Englishman. “And your name, dear?” he asks.

“Emmy,” I say, looking around the table of men who are just straight-up worthy of the cover of GQ. “Emmy Rose.”

“You’re not going to ask for my name?” the mysterious hallway guy asks.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” I say, flushed just by hearing his voice. “What was your name, sir?”

“Tonight, you can call me boss,” he says, confidently.

I can’t help it.

I love to watch her squirm in that skin-tight, fuck-me-now leotard. The one that can’t help but show off her perfectly erect nipples.

Her nipples are on display, as if they’re tiny little gemstones just begging to be polished. Oh, hell yeah, I’m ready to spit-shine those cock-fuckers.

And when I finally look up from that goddamn perfect pair of tits, I see her face. Usually I’m all sorts of crass, all sorts of don’t-care-about-her-smile, so as long as she has a nice shape, good curves—but fuck.

Emmy Rose is something else entirely.

I want her in a way I never want a woman. In a way that feels dangerously close to losing whatever edge I have left.

This girl turns me warm inside, soft in ways I’m not.

Well, not entirely soft. My fucking cock is on fire.

I need this woman.

How the hell am I going to sit through a night with my boys when all I want is an evening with her?

Okay. So I did not see that coming.

I try to regroup, smiling brightly across the dimly lit room, absorbing the fact that the guy who propositioned me in the hallway is also a complete narcissist. It kind of kills the vibe for me, actually.

He wants me to call him fucking
Boss
?

Still, this is the guy I imagined going down on me while I took care of things earlier in the restroom.

And by things, I mean orgasms.

His friends shake their heads, laughing, as if they’re in on a joke I don’t know. Honestly, I’ve been hoping they weren’t the douchebag guys I expected, and for a moment they fooled me into thinking they weren’t completely womanizing asshats.

But I guess I was wrong. They all fist-bump
Boss
from across the table.

Okay, this doesn’t need to be awkward. He has his eyes on me, as if studying every emotion splayed across my face.

“Right-e-o, boss man,” I say to him.

Right-e-o? WTF? Who says that shit? And why me? Now?

I glance over at Carla, embarrassed by my very uncool verbiage. Her eyes have been on the table, on the cards, but now she looks at me with an expression reading,
what the eff is your deal?

She doesn’t know the half of it.

Boss
raises his eyebrows, but thankfully his friends don’t comment. They’re all looking at their cards, placing bets, and here I am staring at him like a freaking weirdo.

“Okay, well, pleased to meet you, sir,” I say, saluting him.

Did I seriously salute him? I shake my head slightly, catching Carla’s eyes once again. She’s a hard-hitting woman at this casino, and no one messes with her. She’s tough as nails, and I want to stay on her good side. I know she’s already annoyed at me for being late.

She eyes me and then looks at the empty bar behind us. Her eyes say,
Go get the drinks and stop acting like you’re in freaking boot camp.

Taking the cue, I excuse myself and make a beeline for the bar in the lounge to pour the orders.

I deliver them seamlessly; thankfully the guys are focused on their game, and I’m focused on not spilling liquor on the pants of any bosses or famous people.

Super chill!

Throughout the night I manage to pour, mix, deliver, and even eavesdrop—even though I know it’s rude. It’s impossible to ignore them. There are only six of us in this suite. And honestly, they are completely entertaining.

It’s cute how
Boss
and his buddies act in here, in this private room. It makes me think maybe the money and glamour around these men is just a facade. Maybe they’re just down to earth dudes with nice clothes. And for a second, I forget the womanizing Boss comment and think maybe Claire was right, maybe this is a good gig.

But then I hear them talk about women again. Sex. MILFs. Threesomes.

Yep, this is a boy’s poker den alright.

“And then I sat on the bed while these two women fucking rode me, one girl on my cock, the other had her ass on my face,” McQueen says, sighing. “Best goddamn night of the week.”

Week? Ugh. I swore he was going to say LIFE.

“See, you need more of that in your life,”
Boss
says, shaking his head at Jack. “That’s why you need to stop letting Ashley hold you by your nut sack. Why’d you break up this last time? She get pissed again when some other woman came on to you?”

“Something like that. She wanted to get serious.” Jack shakes his head. “And by serious, she meant plan a destination wedding to Barbados.”

“Fuck, mate, you aren’t even engaged,” Landon says.

“Exactly,” Jack says, laughing. “And I’m counting on you assholes.” He points at his buddies. “You better never ever let me get back together with her again.”

“You guys are lucky bastards,” Landon says. “My parents are rattling me non-stop to bring a girl home.”

“To the castle?”
Boss
grins. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you to find someone to satisfy your parents who would also be game with an open relationship.”

“I’m not ready for all that mess. I like women on my turf, not my father’s,” Landon says, finishing his Old Fashioned.

Taking the cue, I deliver another round to the men.

“What about you, boss?” Landon asks. “You ever think about settling down?”

McQueen laughs. “Him? Settle down? Never.”

Jack joins in, high-fiving McQueen across the table.

“His idea of settling down is a one night stand … but even that—I’d have to see it to believe it,” Jack says. Then turning to
Boss
, he asks, “Have you ever had a woman stay the night? Like, even one time in your massive penthouse?”

“Not once,”
Boss
says proudly.

I feel his eyes skim over to me, and for some reason my stomach flutters. Which is beyond stupid. He just tried to screw me in a hallway and then is going on about his commitment issues. I do not need that sort of baggage in my life.

I have enough fucking issues of my own. I have ninety-nine problems and a womanizing man isn’t one of them.

By the end of the night my nerves are rattled. It’s been a long day. But the men at the table have left me a pile of chips equaling three thousand dollars.

Seriously? It would take me a few weeks to earn that on the casino floor.

I look at Carla, who’s putting the poker game away.

She shrugs. “It’s the best gig of the month. This will pay for this quarter’s preschool tuition for my daughter.” She flashes me the five thousand dollar chip they gave her.

Best gig
is right.

I look over at the foursome spread out on the couches; they’re still drinking and talking. I have no clue who won the game; I was preoccupied with not fucking up the orders, and making the perfect cocktails.