“It’s about time you waddled your raisin dick in here.”
Graham Larson: spoiled little rich kid, owner of Hotel Paragon, and one of my best friends since I started hustling the tables.
Back when I was still perfecting my game, Graham would watch me, and how the crowd reacted to my “balls to the wall” playing style. He made it his mission to bring me to Hotel Paragon, where I quite literally gave all the high rollers a run for their money. After a dozen wins, ranging from half a million to a million, he invited me into the VIP lounge for a drink where he offered me a job I couldn’t refuse. A job where I’d be paid under the table so I could still gamble at the hotel’s high roller games. A job in the control room, reading the gamblers, making sure they weren’t counting cards or cheating, all the while, being able to compete about once a month in the most expensive games in the country since I’m not “technically” an employee.
Not to mention the free villa in his hotel.
I’ve saved the man millions of dollars from picking out cheaters. As far as I’m concerned, he owes me the name to his first born at this point.
I slap Graham on the back, ignoring his insult and say, “Anything good going on?”
In front of us is a span of screens, displaying hundreds of shots around the hotel, ranging from the casino floor, to the hallways, to the restaurants and club. Every corner of the hotel is covered. Very often the control room is referred to as God, nothing escapes our view.
“Sloppy sex at the bottom of stairwell twelve,” Graham answers, switching one of the screens over to show stairwell twelve.
To my shock, Mr. 409 is trying desperately to pummel his touristy wife up against the wall, still wearing his backpack, with his shorts wrapped around his ankles.
“No shit,” I look closer. “I was just in the elevator with those two. It’s their ten-year anniversary.”
“Damn,” Graham shakes his head. “She’s been with that wrinkly ass for ten years? That’s impressive.” Graham looks me up and down. “Nail that pair of tits you were talking to at the bar?”
I shake my head. “Dude, it’s creepy that you stalk me on the monitors. Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“Someone has to keep track of who gives you a venereal disease. Fuck knows you were a couple shots in and unable to make a clear decision.”
“And you approved of this woman?”
He shrugs his shoulder. “I wanted to know if her boobs were real.”
“They aren’t,” I answer.
“Damn, they never are. So you banged her?”
“No,” I shake my head, wondering if I should tell him the truth about her calling me the wrong name. Knowing Graham, he wouldn’t ever let me live it down. So, instead, I say, “She blew me in the shower and then passed out on the bed. I snuck out before she woke up, which reminds me...”
I pull out my phone and send a text to Gertrude, asking her to shuffle into my place in a half hour to clean it out. She knows how to decipher that, and she never lets me down. I tip her well.
“Damn, I haven’t been blown in the shower in a long time.”
I turn to him, a thoughtful, wistful look on his face. “You realize you are standing in the middle of the control room, surrounded by your employees, right?”
He looks around at all the people sitting at tables, screens in front of them. “I pay them well enough to forgo anything that slips out of my mouth.”
“Lucky them. Who’s playing tonight?” I nod at the high roller lounge.
“Texas, Ramos, Sardinelli, Watson, Bowels, and Carrington.”
“All amateurs.” I walk over to my screen and zoom in on the table that is being prepped for the game. “Davies dealing tonight?”
“She is. Her ranking is growing amongst the players. She’s starting to become the most requested dealer.”
“I don’t doubt it. She’s smooth and has a great pair of tits to stare at when making a decision. She’s also great for players like me because it’s easy to pick up on tells while she’s dealing. A lot of the players use her rack as a place to focus when they’re bluffing. One slip of the eye to the hot air balloons sitting on her chest, and their bluff is given up. Ramos is notorious for it.”
I eat, sleep, and breathe poker. My job allows me to sit and study every single player that rolls through the doors of Hotel Paragon. I know their hands, and I know when they’re bluffing, when they’re nervous, and when they’re unsure. I read them, study each and every one of them, so when it comes to my time to play, I’m able to hustle every one of those assholes.
“Ramos is pathetic,” Graham comments. “If it wasn’t for his money, I would ask him to leave. Did you know he has a trainer with him, every day, teaching him the tricks of the trade? I want to know who the hell has been teaching him and how much he gets paid, because shit, I could do a better job.”
“Dustin Lynch, and he gets paid thirty grand every game Ramos plays.” I’m immersed in the sport, I know everything.
“Thirty grand? Damn, that fucker has it easy.”
“Clearly taking advantage.” I sit down in my seat and ask one of the attendants in the room to bring me a whiskey on the rocks.
“Haven’t I talked to you about drinking on the job?” Graham asks, mirth in his voice.
“Haven’t I told you to shove your pinky up your dick hole? You know I do my best work with a tumbler in my hand. Now leave me the fuck alone so I can get situated.”
“Fine,” he sighs. “Make me some money tonight.”
I ignore his last comment just as a petite figured woman walks on screen. Her wavy brunette hair reaches her shoulders. She’s a cocktail waitress in the high roller room, one I’ve never seen before. She must be fresh meat. She looks nervous, but also irritated at the same time.
With the camera, I zoom in closer to get a better look. Her body is lithe, but also athletic, like she does Pilates every day. Her breasts are pushed up to her collarbone, and she’s wearing the classic cocktail waitress outfit, revealing thighs and tits. I’ve grown accustomed to the outfit, and I’ve torn it off quite a few waitresses as well.
She’s beautiful. Stunning actually.
Waiting for the players to enter the room, she impatiently shifts from side to side, occasionally looking at the thin watch on her wrist. Her arms are crossed at her chest, and she doesn’t look happy, rather, beyond irritated that she has to wait on the best tipping men in America.
She is a drastic change from the typical cocktail waitress I see in the room, a breath of fresh air, and I can’t help but wonder what her story is. For the first time ever, I keep the camera aimed solely on one person, on
her
, studying her every move, her every gesture, her every fake smile until it’s time for the game to start. Even then, I keep turning the camera back on her. She intrigues me. I just need to find out why.
**NELL**
“Fuck my life,” I mutter to myself as I shift my weight to my left foot, praying that the superglue holding the heel of my right shoe together will hold through the night. I check my cheap, store brand watch for probably the hundredth time in a matter of minutes. Of course a bunch of rich, pompous assholes wouldn’t give a shit about being late to their own damn game. It isn’t like any of us have anything better to do.
Fuck you very much, Vegas
, I think to myself. I question my decision to move here on a daily basis. When I packed up and left my Podunk town in backwater, Tennessee, I planned on doing something special with my life. College was a pipe dream for most of us in my poor coal-mining town, and my family wasn’t any different. My mom still waits tables to this day, and my dad has been out of work for the past four years, thanks to an on-the-job injury that broke his spirit at the same time it broke his back.
School was always something I struggled with, never being more than a mediocre student, at best, but the one thing I’ve excelled at all my life is gymnastics. And it was that talent, mixed with too much ambition and a head firmly planted in the clouds, which brought me to this God forsaken city.
At eighteen, I moved away determined to be a star. I was going to be an intricate part of Vegas’ number one show,
La Magie du Cirque
, performing every night to sold-out crowds. Unfortunately, I’ve been here for three years already and haven’t gotten past the goddamn audition process.
Instead of entertaining hundreds of thousands of people with my finely tuned skills as a gymnast, I’ve been waiting on rich, entitled dickheads with grabby hands and fat bellies, and no manners, whatsoever.
My eyes scan the suite again as I tug at my new uniform, trying in vain to cover myself up somehow. I’m used to serving drinks in skirts and heels. I’ve been working the casino floor at Hotel Paragon for over a year now, but the new uniform for the high roller room is freaking ridiculous. If I bend over just a millimeter too far, these bastards are going to know I have a penchant for tiny, lacy panties.
So sue me. Everyone knows nice lingerie makes a woman feel pretty.
But the most uncomfortable thing about the uniform I’m wearing is the stupid padded pushup bra I have to wear to make my modest B-cup look more like an overflowing C. My poor boobs are going to hate me in the morning.
“Will you stop tugging at that damn skirt already?” my friend, Davies chides. “You look hot as shit, babe. Showing all that smooth skin is going to get you crazy tips tonight.”
I shoot her a fake smile as I check my watch again. “Excuse me for feeling awkward. You didn’t tell me I’d be looking like a glorified whore when I took this job.”
She grins back at me as she shuffles the deck of cards expertly with one hand. “This is the thanks I get for helping a friend get a job? Besides, you don’t look like a whore… more like an
extremely
well paid escort. Own it.”
Despite my chronically shitty mood, I can’t help but laugh at Davies. She’s always been able to cheer me up. If it weren’t for her, and my roommate, Page, I probably would have crawled back to Hicksville with my tail tucked between my legs years ago.
“All right, all right. I’ll quit bitching and
own it
. You have any last minute tips for me before these guys get here?”
“Just the usual,” she shrugs as she counts out the chips. “Be careful of their hands. These assholes are twice as grabby as those guys on the floor. Apparently, when you’ve got hundreds of thousands to blow a night in a poker game it gives you the right to try and shove your hand up any skirt in the vicinity.”
“Brilliant,” I murmur sarcastically.
“Play nice with the bartender,” she continues. “Nick’s a pretty decent guy, so you don’t have anything to worry about tonight, but it’s a crap shoot with the others. The players don’t see anything beyond this table, so if a drink tastes like piss, you’re the one that has to deal with their bullshit. Oh, and keep an eye on the plastics they bring in the room with them. If they even
think
their man is looking at you for too long, their claws come out.”
“You’re really selling me on this job, Davies,” I deadpan. “It sounds like an absolute nightmare. What the hell have you gotten me into?”
“Relax,” she laughs. “You’re a tough bitch, you can handle it. Money’s money, right? And trust me, the tips you’ll make here in one night are more than you could make in a month on the casino floor. A few nights serving drinks to the high rollers will make it so you don’t have to work your ass off twenty-four/seven. Maybe now you’ll have more time to audition.”
I suck in a fortifying breath and give myself an internal pep talk. She’s right; I need the free time this job will hopefully secure. And what’s more, I need the money. Every time Page has to spot me on my half of the rent, I feel lower than dirt. She doesn’t care, and has never held it against me, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t weigh heavily on my chest.
“One more thing, babe,” Davies calls, pulling me from my reverie. “Watch out for Ramos. Dude’s slimy as hell. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”
My head tips to the side in curious regard. “What’s wrong with him?”
She shoots me a look that doesn’t mean anything nice. “What’s
not
wrong with him is the question. The guy’s got more money than he knows what to do with and can’t play poker to save his life. Hell, even
you’d
take him to the cleaners. He gets obnoxious when he drinks too much, which is pretty much every time he’s in here, and turns into even more of an asshole than he already is when he starts losing, which is—”
“Pretty much every time he’s in here,” I finish for her.
“Bingo.”
“Wait, how the hell am I supposed to know which one’s Ramos?”
“Trust me, you’ll know. If not, just look for the guy staring at my tits the entire fucking time. Swear to God, it’s like he’s trying to catch his reflection in my nipple. I have to scrub my body with a Brillo pad after dealing with him.”
My lip begins to curl derisively just as the big, wooden double doors of the suite swing open. Wiping my face clean, I paste on a smile and turn to the men entering the room.
“Evening, gentlemen,” I offer in a seductive purr that isn’t too over the top. “I’m Nell and I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Mmm, lucky us,” one man in a ridiculous cowboy hat hums with a lascivious look on his face as he and the rest of the men take their seats around the table. I try my hardest not to cringe at the hungry expression on his pockmarked face and hold my smile, even though I can feel it doesn’t come close to reaching my eyes.
A few of the men have women hanging off their sides, including the acne scarred cowboy, and just like Davies had warned, every one of them glare daggers at me.
They can just fuck right the hell off for all I care. I’m there to do a job. And unlike them,
my
job doesn’t include sucking off some limp-dicked millionaire with a potbelly and shriveled up, old man balls who probably blows more dust than cum down the backs of their throats. If they’re stupid enough to view me as a threat, then they seriously need to reassess their life choices and figure out where the fuck they went wrong.
I mean,
seriously
! Half of these guys look like they need Viagra intravenously, and the other half look like they should be holed up in their mother’s basements jerking off to creepy fetish porn.