Hard Luck (The Vegas Obsession Series, #1)

The Vegas Billionaire Obsession Series Book 1

Chloe Grey

Title Page

Copyright Page

Also By Chloe Grey

Dedication

Hard Luck (The Vegas Obsession Series, #1)

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

To Be Continued

Also By Chloe Grey

“Her numbers were up, and it was time to choose.”

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Hard Luck!

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L
eslie listens to the painful message for the hundredth time.

“Hey...I been thinking about this for a while, but didn’t know how to bring it up. Um, I think we should take a break for a while, Les. I’m gonna give you a call in a few days so we can meet and talk. Sorry. See ya.”

It’s her boyfriend Brad; ex-boyfriend now. Tear stains mark her face as his phone dump message sinks in again. He says it in the most matter-of-fact tone that ever departed his lips. It’s like she doesn’t matter enough to say it in person; like he’s calling in late for work or something equally unimportant.

Worst of all, he never calls back. Two weeks has already passed and she doesn’t hear a word from him. The first few days, she makes excuses for him. He must be busy at his dead-end bartender job, or he must not have time after working out at the gym. But now that it hits the two-week mark, she’s just confused.
How could someone be so callous?

“Because I’m a doormat,” she says at the phone. “An uninteresting, unremarkable, meh-looking girl with a boring life, a mediocre body and a job that leaves so much to be desired.”

Taking in a long sigh, she puts the phone down and crawls into bed for an early night. Before turning off the light, the phone rings and her heart skips a beat. She looks at the phone. It’s not Brad. It’s her best friend Monica.

“Hey,” she answers.

“Get your ass dressed,” Monica orders. “We’re going out.”

“I don’t feel like...”

“That’s exactly why we’re going out,” she says. “Put on that red slinky number you have. We’re painting the town in it. When I get there I’m doing your makeup and that up-do you like. I’ll be there in forty five minutes.”

Leslie groans when her friend hangs up. Partying is not something she enjoys, but she knows Monica won’t let it down until she sees her back to her old self again. It’s better not to delay the inevitable. She drags herself out of bed and heads to the bathroom to have a shower.

***

W
ith Monica at Leslie’s side, they own the night. Being a TV personality – and a hot one at that – has its perks. No line-ups, drinks from the house, and a pick of almost every man on the dance floor.

They make it to the center of the dance floor with drinks in hand and the crowd is now
their
crowd.
Their
people.
Their
tribe. With the beat pumping through her veins, Leslie feels powerful and alive again. Who doesn’t love to dance like no one’s watching? The energy of the crowd surges through the air and her limbs and hips get lost in the moment. Brad? What Brad? He is soon forgotten –for the moment, anyway – and all that remains is that hot beat.

She sees two sexy guys checking them out from the across the room and points them out to Monica.

“Which one do you want!” Monica screams to match the music.

“Whoever doesn’t fight the other one for you!” Leslie replies.

Monica’s been her friend long enough for her to know where she stands. Monica’s the princess and she’s the friend who’s tagging along. She’s tall, pretty, the focal point of every room she occupies, and is so hot to most guys, she never has to worry about what to do on the weekend.

Leslie didn’t see herself as a dog, but she was definitely more of the average garden variety female. Tonight, with her makeup and up-do, she’s a definite seven and a half. Eight maybe. And with the bass pounding to her core, and some tequila in her belly, she could stand her own and manage quite nicely.

As they’re looking at the guys, someone taps on Leslie’s shoulder. She turns. It’s a strapping hunk of a man, dressed in one of those stretchy muscle shirts, with the cutest face and a sleeve of sexy tattoos down his left arm. She looks him up and down and then tilts her head to hear what he wants.

He motions with his arms that he wants to dance with her. She holds up her index finger, downs the rest of her drink, and grabs his arm. She takes him to a spot to put down her glass and proceeds to grind on this convenient man-god. Soon her hips are undulating and her ass is rubbing on his crotch. It’s the alcohol and the power of the strobe lights that combine and take over her free will.

Bodies writhe around them and they get deeper into the moment. She lets his large, strong hands roam freely and he is not shy.

He screams in her ear, “Are you single?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“What’s your name?”

“Leslie.”

“Can I get you another drink?”

“Sure! But I’ll come with you,” she shouts.

At a place like this, she can’t take any chances. The hunk of a man-god can be a sexual predator who spikes women’s drinks. He takes her hand and leads her to the nearest bar. Leslie looks around, and through the crowd of sweaty bodies, she sees that Monica is dancing between the two guys who were checking them out.
Nice double score
, she thinks.

“What are you having?” he asks.

She realizes she didn’t ask him his name.

“Mini margarita. Double shot,” she shouts in reply.

She keeps a sharp eye on the bartender as he prepares the drink and hands it to her. It looks good, and she’s taken the precaution, so she downs it in one gulp like it’s water.
There’s nothing like alcohol to chase the blues away
, she thinks.

“So true,” he replies, and she realizes that she said it aloud.

Giggling, she takes his hand and guides him back so they’re closer to the Monica sandwich at the center of the dance floor. They’re officially letting loose and all her cares are checked at the door. The drinking and the dancing do not stop for hours, and soon, the crowd is at capacity and their men for the night are plastered all over them. Tonight is not supposed to be about guys, but they’re part of the ambiance, so she lets tattoo hunk have his way while she dives into the beat.

There’s a changeover in DJs and the crowd goes wild. Arms up in the air all cheering for him and pulling her into his addictive trance. Monica’s idea to come out has hit the spot and now Leslie can’t get enough of the gyrating bodies, sweat and the man-god behind her. Monica moves in beside her and they fake toast and bust a move with their hands intertwined. Soon there are about twelve men circling around like vultures, ready to step on one another’s neck to get a turn dancing on their asses. It’s addictive. Leslie’s eyes close, and in what feels like a minute, Monica’s tapping on her arm, signaling that she wants to leave.

“You got me out here and I’m having too much fun to go!”

“Come on Les, let’s go!” she screams through the noise.

Leslie begrudgingly follows her off the floor and they head down the stairs to the nearest exit.

“What gives?” Leslie probes. “I was having a fucking good time.”

“You’ve had enough to drink, missy,” she answers.

“What are you talking about? I’m just getting started.”

“Les, look at your top.”

She looks down and it’s only then she notices that her strapless slinky red dress is now a slinky red skirt and all she’s got on top is a black lacy bra, which shows off her nipples.

“Um... I don’t know how
that
happened,” she laughs.

“That tattoo guy practically molested you and if we hadn’t left, I’d have to pull you off his dick. Come on, we’re taking a cab to your place.”

“But I’m still having fun, Monica. There’s no hot guys at my place.”

“And that’s the point,” she answers after hailing a cab. “Get in, party animal.”

“Where are we going?” Leslie asks, noticing the slur in her own voice. “Vegas? Come one let’s go straight to Vegas! I feel so fucking lucky tonight, Monica! Cabbie, take us to Vegas.”

“Let’s hope you feel that way in the morning, Les.”

Leslie rests her head back as her neck doesn’t seem to have the ability to hold it up anymore. Before she knows it, she’s snoring like a banshee.

Leslie

“T
his is Leslie Adams reporting on Dallas News. Have a wonderful night.”

“What are you doing?”

I turned so fast, I nearly dropped the brush I was holding. Monica peered over my cubicle, a smile plastered on her face. As usual, my involuntary blushing took over. I could already see in my cubicle mirror that my face flooded with color, a bright pink spreading down my neck at lightning speed. 

“Uh... nothing,” I lied to her, hiding the make-shift microphone behind my back.

Monica laughed. “It looked like you were pretending to be a news anchor again,” she said, giving me her signature triple-blink; something she did whenever she mocked me. “Am I wrong?”

I sighed. It was true. I was caught with hairbrush in hand. I longed for the day I could be in front of the camera, instead of stuck behind a desk looking for news. All I ever wanted was to report the news, not chase after it. Deflated, I sank down in my chair and shrugged.

“Sometimes, I feel like I’m getting nowhere in life. I’m twenty-four years old and all I do is shuffle papers and Google the internet all day.”

“It’s a very important job,” Monica replied, her standard go-to line whenever I found myself in this slump. “Besides, being in front of the camera isn’t always as always glamorous...”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted her with a laugh. “Hours in make-up, wrinkle worries, critics, blah blah blah.” Letting out a breath, I had the urge to stomp my foot like a child. I was so tired of the lecture. “I guess I just want the chance to see what it’s like.”

Monica’s face fell in sympathy, her beautiful eyes shining with compassion. I knew she sympathized with me, but it wasn’t like there was anything Monica could do about it. It was just the luck of the draw.

“You’re on in five minutes!” One of the producers called out to Monica from the set and I plastered a fake smile on my face.

Monica knew what I was feeling, but shot me an apologetic look. “I better go, but I’ll see ya around.” She left the cubicle and headed toward the stage. I stood staring after her and couldn’t help but admire her perfection.

Monica looked like she worked out for hours every day, but to my knowledge the most she worked out was during the two minute walk from her car to the television station’s front door and then back at the end of the day. She had long flowing blonde hair that seemed to shine in the right light. Her small nose accentuated her facial features. Monica could easily pass as a model.

Dammit, why can’t I look like her
? I thought for the hundredth time and turned to see the scowl that grew in my cubicle mirror. My hair was a drab brownish red. My eyes were this pale watery blue. My mouth was too small and my nose too curved.
Rat face. Rat face.
It was hard to forget the sing-song voices of my childhood tormenters. They had taken up residence in my mind and didn’t need to be present to be felt, even after all those years.

“Next up is Rat Face, with news at eleven,” I muttered under my breath. Yep, this was exactly why the execs kept me on the other side of the camera.

Disgusted with the negative thoughts hovering around my mind today, I took a walk away from my cluttered desk and headed down the stretch of hallway toward the stage. As always, I took my perch at the back, so I wasn’t in the way, and watched Monica flawlessly say her lines. Envy or not, I was proud of her.