Play Me Wild
Authors: Tracy Wolff
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Women, #New Adult, #Erotica
Play Me #1: Play Me Wild
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the L
OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
eBook ISBN 97808
04177818
Cover design: Georgia Morrissey
Cover photograph: MarishaSha/Shutterstock
v4.0
ep
Aria
L
AS
V
EGAS,
N
EVADA
Whales belong in the ocean, not in a casino. But in my experience, more often than not, that’s exactly where you find them. Cozied up to a poker table or a craps table or a roulette wheel, sucking down Lagavulin and hassling every pretty girl that walks by.
Then again, I live in Vegas and I work at the Atlantis, currently the hottest casino on the Strip. Where the hell else am I going to see a whale other than right here in my own backyard?
Tonight the place is crawling with them, rich men throwing around thousand dollar chips like confetti and tossing back thousands of dollars’ worth of free liquor the same way. I want to say that it’s an unusual occurrence, but the truth is, this is my life. Has been for a while now.
It’s a different view on this side of the casino from your typical Vegas experience, one filled with ten thousand dollar suits and ten million dollar bets. The air fairly crackles with the sound, the scent, the
feel
of money. Which translates into much higher tips than working the regular floor does, tips I desperately need. All I have to do to earn them is ignore the fact that the whales on this side of the velvet ropes have much grabbier hands. And an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.
“I need two fingers of Lagavulin, a Belvedere and cranberry, another Nolet’s Reserve and tonic and a shot of Patron Silver,” I tell Michael, tonight’s bartender, as I pick up a dirty martini and a couple of mojitos made with top shelf booze.
He nods, never breaking rhythm as he shakes a margarita in one hand and squirts Coke on top of rum in another.
And then I’m off again, teetering back toward the high roller tables in the four-inch stilettos my boss insists all the cocktail waitresses wear. I don’t mind them so much—learning to walk in Louboutins and Manolos was pretty much a required course growing up in my house—but after seven hours straight on my feet, even my steel arches are beginning to whimper.
Which is probably why I’m not at my most patient when Whale Number One, a Japanese businessman who just flew in from Tokyo, rubs a suggestive hand over my ass and down my scantily clad thigh.
I turn around and shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up in a pretend gesture of surrender. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask him, keeping my voice sweet and my eyes steady. It’s my experience that guys like this have trouble keeping up the letch act when they’re looking straight into your eyes. It’s a lesson I learned from my mother years ago: rich men will only give you respect if you demand it.
Even if you’re married to them. Or maybe, especially then.
But that’s a different story, a million worlds away from where I am right now. Thank God. These days, the most I have to worry about are guys who like my butt a little too much.
“Another Lagavulin, Aria,” he tells me, his English accented but precise.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be back with it in just a moment.”
This time when I turn away, my ass goes unaccosted.
I drop off the mojitos to Whale Number Two and the idiot blonde about forty years his junior who is currently decorating his arm. He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and I thank him for the tip before bracing myself to deliver the dirty vodka martini. It’s going to Whale Number Three, a Russian billionaire, and he’s a real douche. He’s only been here an hour and already I’ve got more than one bruise on my ass from his unwelcome advances.
“Here’s your dirty martini, three olives,” I tell him with a forced smile as I set the glass down in front of him. I take care to keep my body—and my ass—angled away from him, but somehow the fucker gets a pinch in anyway. I grit my teeth and count backward from ten as I remind myself of all the reasons that punching him is a bad idea. Starting with the fact that I really need this job. “Can I get you anything else?”
I pull the eye contact trick, but this guy is one of the rarest—and the worst—ones. He looks me straight in the eye and fucking gropes me again. I’m seeing red at this point, my hand itching to curl into a fist I can plow into his face. He’d look so much better with a broken nose. And a missing tooth or two.
I, however, wouldn’t look nearly so good living on the streets, and right now, the only thing standing between me and total poverty is this job. Not quite what I imagined for my life when I graduated from Vassar top in my class, but I figured out a long time ago that beggars really can’t be choosers.
Besides, right now it’s this or crawling home to Daddy with my head down and tail between my legs. And since that’s
so
not going to happen, I’ll just have to grin and bear it. I might not be able to control this guy and what he does, but I’m damn sure able to control myself and the life I’m making for myself. And that includes not giving in to my temper, no matter how much I’m provoked.
Besides, my shift is almost over. I can take anything, even the loss of control that comes with this job, as long as the end is in sight. I learned that the hard way a long time ago.
“How about a date tonight?” he says as he slides a warm, slightly sweaty palm up my arm. It’s all I can do not to shudder in disgust.
“The casino frowns on employees dating customers. But I’m happy to bring you another drink, or a menu if you’re hungry.”
“What the casino doesn’t know won’t hurt anybody.” His hand continues its foray up my arm, the backs of his fingers brushing against my breast, my nipple. “When do you get off?” He grins at his own innuendo.
I meet the dealer’s eyes over his head and Jake speeds up his dealing. His face is carefully blank but I can see the look of disgust in his eyes, know that it mimics the one I’m currently doing my best to hide.
“I’ll be working for a while yet,” I tell him, gently extricating myself from his grip. “Just let me know if you need anything else.”
I smile tightly as he flips a chip onto my tray—a twenty dollar one—but I can’t bring myself to say thank you. Instead, I nod in acknowledgment and disappear into the flow of traffic just outside the ropes marking the high roller area. It’s not until I’m several steps away that I allow myself to breathe again.
I take a couple more orders, deliver them to Michael as I pick up my latest round of drinks. And then I’m off, making yet another circle around the tables. Tonight, this half of the high roller circle is much better behaved. As long as you don’t mind a few lingering glances and a pat or two on the ass.
It’s not forever, I remind myself as I ignore the way Mr. Benson slides his hand up the inside of my arm. He takes his Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks and flips a twenty dollar bill onto my tray as a token of his appreciation. I pocket it and thank him nicely.
Next stop is the poker table. Buy-in is fifty grand tonight, and every seat is taken. I drop the Belvedere and cranberry at Mrs. Jenkins’s elbow, the Nolet’s Reserve and tonic next to Mr. Davies and the shot of Patron Silver beside Mr. Cervantes. I back up without waiting for a tip—three hours delivering drinks to him has already taught me to get in and out as quickly as possible.
It’s as I’m heading back to the bar that I notice Whale Number Three—the Russian guy—hassling some casino bunny who’s wandered into the big leagues. She’s dressed up, probably planning on catching herself a high rolling whale, but even from here I can tell the one she’s caught is way out of her league.
Damn.
I hurry back to the bar, pick up my drink order and scoot in that direction. The last thing I want to do is engage in another conversation with this guy, but his hand is wrapped around that girl’s arm and I can tell by the way she’s twisting around—and the grimace on her face—that he’s hurting her.
On my way over, I stop by one of the security guards, nod in their direction. He takes a look, but then shrugs at me, like he has no idea what I expect him to do.
Shit. I am so sick of this rich old boys’ club, the one where men get to do whatever the hell they want as long as they’re ponying up the dough. It’s amazing how much willful blindness and sexual harassment a couple million dollars will buy.
With no other recourse available, I head over to the whale and his unlucky choice for the night.
“Here’s your drink,” I tell him, banging the glass down onto the table a little too forcefully. “Can I get you anything else?”
He doesn’t even look at me as he runs his free hand up the girl’s thigh and under her dress, but she does, her heavily made up eyes pleading with me to do something as she tries to inch herself away from him. For a second, it’s like staring into my own eyes, into the memories of the girl I used to be.
Damn it. I can’t get involved. Not in this—I’m smart enough to know that it won’t end well for me. But at the same time, I can’t leave the poor, dumb kid here, either. Not when she’s so obviously uncomfortable.
I give her a subtle nod, then head back over to the security guard. Manny, I think his name is. “Look, you’re going to have to intervene. That guy is totally out of bounds over there.” I nod toward the Russian.
Manny’s eyes follow where I’m indicating. “She doesn’t look like she’s asking for help.”
“Well, she is. He’s practically assaulting her. You need to get involved.”
“I’ve got strict orders from Mr. Caine. We don’t intervene in those situations unless we’re specifically asked to by a customer.”
“Seriously?” I don’t wait around for his answer—it’s not like he’s got one that will make me happy—and instead take off to deliver the last of my drinks.
I keep my eye on the two of them as I take new orders and continue to deliver drinks. A couple times it looks like she’s trying to brush him off, to escape, but both times he refuses to take the hint. She even gets up to leave at one point, moving to another table, but he follows her, his hand sliding over her ass much like it slid over mine a little while ago.
I grit my teeth, try to tell myself it’s not my business. If she really wanted to, she could just get up and walk out of the casino. At the same time, though, I’m not sure he wouldn’t follow her. And obviously, neither is she. It’s not a stretch to think that she’s safer here, being hassled by him, than she would be trying to walk away on her own. Protection in numbers and all that.
And still I tell myself to stay out of it. That it’s not my problem. That I have enough going on right now without taking this on, too. That I’m set to get off in fifteen minutes and I should just put my head down and ignore it.
But I’m swinging back over to that group of tables anyway and it costs me nothing to stop and ask him if he wants another drink. So I do. And this time I see his hand skimming under the hem of her dress, his finger running along the top seam of her stockings.
I glance at her face then, my brows lifted just a little. She looks at me pleadingly before grabbing his hand and shoving it off her leg. Of course, he’s a creep—and an entitled one at that—so it’s only a matter of seconds before his hand is back, even higher than before.
I turn away, determined to get Manny over here this time—no matter what it takes. But I’ve barely taken a step or two before I hear her shriek. I turn back just in time to see him squeeze her breast.
“Get lost,” he says to me, breathing heavily, and there’s a part of me that knows that’s exactly what I should do if I want to keep this job.
But I can’t do that. Not when Manny’s turned down my plea for assistance twice. And not when I know that leaving her alone with him is only going to lead to a worse assault.
Bending down so that he can’t help but look me in the eye, I tell him, “I’ll get lost when you do. She’s obviously not interested.”
“What do you know?” he sneers at me, his hand tightening on her leg until she yelps again, this time in obvious pain. A couple of the other players look over, and one even looks like he’s going to intervene. But one stone-cold look from the Russian and they’re all suddenly fascinated by their cards again. “Whores like her are always interested.”
I’m seeing red at this point, but I use every ounce of self-control I have to keep my voice even when I say, “Please let her go.”
“Or what?” He glances over at Manny who is looking everywhere but over here, it seems. “You’ll sic your fat-ass security guard on me? That threat doesn’t impress me.”
To prove his point, he slides a finger even higher beneath her dress.
She shudders, starts shoving at his hand.
“Stop it, you little bitch,” he tells her then, viciously squeezing her thigh in retaliation. “You should be glad I’m even bothering with you.”
It’s the last straw. “You’ve got that wrong,” I tell him as I turn my empty drink tray on its side. “You’re not bothering with her, you’re just bothering her.”
“And why’s that your business, you little cunt?”
The insult rolls right off my back. These guys aren’t known for their class after all, at least not when they’re being thwarted. “Because she’s a customer of this casino, too, and you’re making her uncomfortable.”
“I could buy and sell this casino. You’d do well to remember that.”
Of course he could. Why, oh why, do discussions like this always come down to bank balances? I don’t have many good things to say about the life I led before I came here, but at least in my family and among their associates, the size of a man’s dick depends on a lot more than how many zeroes he has after his name.
