EMMY

I stop in the bathroom, douse my face with water. My hands tremble. My face is on fire.

I know I was the one who just walked away, but I have never felt so terrible about walking away from someone.

I hadn’t felt terrible about walking away when I was getting dressed in the elevator. It was when I looked in Ace’s eyes and saw that he didn’t want me to go. There was a sliver of desire in his eyes that was about more than just sex.

Ace's words, all intense and heated and demanding, rubbed me the wrong way. Brought up too many memories of asshole boyfriends who treated me like shit. Growing up, I lost my virginity at fifteen. Dated older guys, basically anyone who was bad news. After Mom and Dad died, and I left for college—which was a fucking miracle in and of itself—I could never shake the drunks, the jobless losers, the men who saw me as a thing they could use for their own benefit.

Not as a person.

And yeah, being in that elevator was electrifying. No doubt about it—Ace and his dark green eyes and strong arms and rough voice make me forget everything I know.

But then he made that comment about me making promises in exchange for sex … and the words sliced through the fog that was him and me. His words reminded me of all the guys before him.

I am tired of being used. I'm working way too hard at making life work to be a doormat at the end of the day.

I want to be special. And not for the entire world, or even all of Las Vegas … but if I am going to give myself to a guy more than once, I want it to be for something real. Something mine.

I use a paper towel and blot my face dry, feeling like a fucking roller coaster that’s gone off the tracks. I was okay with him screwing me every which way last night … but that was before the designer clothes and the demands.

That was before I looked at him and saw myself.

There’s no denying the truth: the way my body responds to Ace scares me. I know that eventually he’ll hurt me, like all the guys before him.

Nothing about him is safe, and right now, that is what I need, what I crave. I just want someone to take care of me.

* * *

ACE

My knuckles are bleeding, and as I exit the elevator to my penthouse I walk straight to the kitchen for ice. Wrapping my hand, I scream, so fucking pissed.

One look at Emmy Rose and all I want is her. I want to take her hand, run the fuck away. Or run up here—pull her into bed. Get room service for the rest of our goddamned life and stay in some fucking cocoon where it’s just her and me, and my cock and her pussy.

She has issues—ain't that the fucking truth—but I know I have plenty of issues of my own. But when I was with her in the elevator it felt like all my problems were gone. When we were alone, everything felt right.

And then she fucking walked away.

What the hell?

I know she wanted it. Wanted me. She groaned and I hadn't even pressed myself inside her.

She moaned and I hadn't even made her come. Her nipples were hard at the mere thought of fucking me.

And then she left.

She says she doesn't want to be my property? My piece of ass? She's wrong and she knows it.

She wants to be mine. She's just fucking scared.

In my bathroom I turn the water to cold, step inside and wash off the sweat and blood, and get my cock to calm the fuck down.

She wants to walk away like a child? Play a game of hide and seek? She wants to play pin the tail on the fucking donkey? Well, I can play games too.

X marks the spot and I'm no monkey in the middle.

She wants to play chase?

Fine.

I don't own this casino because I like to lose.

I win. Every fucking time.

* * *

EMMY

“Everything okay?” Claire asks, eyes wide, as I sit at the table.

Tess and Claire have gone to town on the buffet. Plates are everywhere—pasta, meatloaf, crab cakes. Suddenly all I want is some serious chow.

“I'm fine. I'm just hungry. I don't think I've eaten all day.”

I grab a tray and head to the buffet line.

I fill my plates with lasagna and lobster tail and the spicy tuna rolls I've been dying to eat. The breadsticks have my name on them, and I bypass the salad bar altogether—because, really, who would I be kidding?—and instead add a slice of key lime pie with several dollops of whipped cream to my tray.

Sitting down with my friends, I can see them give me raised eyebrows. I'm always a cautious eater, concerned with not being able to squeeze into my uniform. But right now? Screw calorie counting.

Davey is my personal super hero at the moment for getting us these coupons.

Dipping my lobster in melted butter, I shrug as if it’s no big thing to be eating this way–because I don’t want to explain the reason behind this sudden onset of eating-my-emotions.

“Um, okay….” Tess starts. “So, what was the deal with Ace Royalle needing to speak with you? It seemed like he knew you.”

“I worked his poker game last night.” Looking at Claire, I say, “That's the gig you turned down so you could go out with that bowler. I got a three grand tip. And all I had to do was serve rum and Cokes all night to a group of men who think they're hot stuff.”

“Ohmigod. Ace's private poker game?” Tess asks. “Those guys he plays with are the Vegas elite. Was Jack Harris there? I hear they’re, like, best friends.”

Claire snorts. “Sure you didn't do anything else to get a tip like that?”

I throw a breadstick at her, suppressing a smile, because of course she went there immediately. “Shut up.”

“Seriously, though, Emmy—what did he want to talk to you about?” Tess asks.

“It doesn't matter. It was a work thing.” I shove a forkful of lasagna in my mouth, trying to swallow everything that took place in the elevator. Trying to swallow my wrecked emotions, my ruined pride.

“Okay, I'm not trying to annoy you.” Tess sighs loudly. “But I have more questions.”

I immediately raise my hands in annoyance.

“No,” she says. “Not about Ace. About that amazing outfit you’re wearing. Because, um, no offense, but you usually sport clothing from the Target clearance rack.”

Blushing, I look down at myself. She's right; this designer outfit is not helping me keep a low profile amongst my friends.

Before I can formulate some sort of answer that isn't too vague or insane, or, you know, truthful—a woman in her forties appears at our table. She’s wearing a tan blazer, has a short bob, and basically looks as regular as regular can be.

“Excuse me, Tess and Claire?” she asks, looking at my friends across the table.

“Who's asking?” Claire asks, always on the offensive.

“I'm Denise, the personal assistant to Ace Royalle.”

I pull in a sharp breath. What the hell is this about?

“What's this about?” Tess asks, as if reading my mind. She leans in so she doesn't miss a beat.

“He wanted to make sure you knew you’re on the guest list for his private table at Stacked for this evening. He said to tell you it was a pleasure to meet you, and he hopes you will be able to join him.”

“Are you fucking for reals?” Claire asks, mouth agape. Getting into Stacked is no small feat—having the cash for the cover charge doesn't even matter, because the tables are impossible to get unless you have a bank roll. Or are willing to basically do anything to get a man to bring you with.

And we aren't the kind of girls who hang around players, anyways. Mostly because we are employees, not club-going girls who have trust funds and platinum Visas.

We're working for tips and have bad credit and have never been to the Vegas hotel spas these girls live in.

We’re regular. Probably an awful lot like Denise.

Tess is beyond gone. She gives a whisper-shriek and I've literally never seen a twenty-two-year-old so happy. She's like a six-year-old at Disneyland.

“I’m for reals,” Denise says, smiling.

“What about Emmy, can she come?” Claire asks.

“Of course; she’s aware that she's already been included on the guest list per Mr. Royalle's request.”

“You knew that and didn't tell us?” Tess asks, her eyes wide.

“Okay, thanks, Denise, we got it.” I smile tightly, wanting Denise to leave. I don't want to tread on this murky territory. Ace. Me. Clubs. All of it.

My friends will start asking way too many questions.

Denise raises her eyebrows, but smiles at us before giving a noncommittal nod. “He’s looking forward to this evening, ladies.”

And then she turns away.

“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” Claire asks as Denise exits the buffet.

“Uh, that was Denise, apparently.” I shrug, trying to dismiss the whole thing. Does Ace seriously think he can force me to go to that club tonight? Tell his PA to sweet-talk my girlfriends like that?

“We’re going to Stacked!” Tess shrieks, no longer whispering—she’s in full-on hyperventilation mode.

“No we aren't,” I say, grabbing a breadstick and snapping it in half before shoving in my face.

“Oh hell yes, we are,” Claire says, surprising me. “When do we ever get to have fun?”

“Uh, last night?” I shake my head. “On your date?”

“My date with Carl?” Claire brushes me off. “That guy is golden, sure, but he is no Ace. And he wants to get serious. Like serious-serious. And I'm not ready for that. And whatever bullshit thing you aren't telling us, Emmy—your fancy clothes, and your earlier inquisition with Ace, and then to top it off, this Denise woman coming down to the buffet line to make sure we'd be at Stacked, whatever—that is your drama. But I, for one, am going to Stacked tonight. I'm going to have some fun.”

“Me too!” Tess says, grinning wildly. “What should we wear?”

I'm glad the inquisition is over, but I do not want to go to Stacked. I want to go home, crawl into bed, and wake up the same time my sister does.

“I'm gonna go home. I'm not up for this.” I take a bite of pie, wishing everything in life was as sweet as this key lime.

“No way, baby cakes,” Claire says. “First of all, you’re the reason we were invited tonight and, two, you need a night free of stress, a night where you can let loose, more than any of us … unless you've already had that night off and you just aren't telling us?”

I smirk at Claire, knowing that girl is trouble—she sees my weakness. Knows I don't want to talk about whatever this Ace-thing is … but she isn't letting me off the hook.

“You have to come, Emmy,” Tess begs.

I start to shake my head again, and Claire cuts me off.

“Here's the thing, toots: you come out with us tonight and we won't ask you another thing about those Jimmy Choos and nine-hundred-dollar jeans, or you spill the beans and we won't force you to join us at the most exclusive club we've ever been invited to.”

“You are ruthless,” I say. “Ruthless.”

“So you're in?” Tess asks. When I don't immediately shut her down she squeals. “Ohmigod, what are we gonna wear?!”

I don't tell them about the bags in my run-down Honda civic of the clothes Ace had delivered this morning … they will see that for themselves soon enough. But Claire promised no questions—and I know she won't break her word.

“I have a feeling I'm gonna need a second serving of everything to get through this night.”

I grab my tray, and begin to reload.

I'm gonna need some serious chicken piccata to get through this night.