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“I have a reputation to uphold,” I tell her. “And The Vantaggio is an exclusive casino.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Her fingers brush mine as she takes my jacket, and my pulse kicks up even more. Another problem with being so busy making deals is that I haven’t touched a woman for way too long.
I need to get laid. And not by her.
The doorman gives us a tight smile, clearly trying to figure out if he should call security or roll out the red carpet. But then Eden grins at him, flashing him the full force of her ‘I’m totally harmless’ charm. It works, of course.
It always does. He opens the door, giving her a friendly nod, before he looks at me.
His expression tells me he thinks this is all my fault. That I’m the dirty old man with a slasher fetish.
My smile back at him tells him,I know.
Then I follow her inside, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck, as I remind myself of one very important thing.
She’s Hudson’s little sister. Too young. Too innocent. Off limits. And I don’t want her anyway.
But I’m almost certain she’ll be the reason I’m going to need a new fucking heart by the end of tonight.
three
EDEN
The Vantaggio is thronging with people. It’s the middle of the night, but you’d never know it from the amount of bodies, and the dizzy glow of slot machines flashing as people feed them like hungry animals.
The gaming floor reeks of desperation, cigarette smoke, and overpriced cologne, layered with the whir of machines and the occasional whoop from someone who thinks they’ve won big.
But as the kid of a gambling addict I know that high is always followed by a fall. And the memory of it makes my stomach tighten.
West has his hand firmly closed around my wrist, guiding me through the crowd like he owns the place and me.
People glance at us as we pass. Some curious, some disapproving, but mostly they’re judgement is aimed at West. It’s not hard to guess what they’re thinking: him in his tailored suit, jaw like a movie star, and me looking like the world’s worst walk of shame.
But he doesn’t flinch at their stares and he doesn’t let go of me.
And for some stupid reason, my skin tingles where he’s touching me. Not because I like it. Obviously.
It’s just… sensory overload. Casinos aren’t exactly my favorite place. They’re a reminder of how much of a mess I made when I was younger.
He keeps a tight hold of me as we weave our way through roulette and blackjack tables to the far end of the huge, glittering floor. Out here, it’s noisy and neon-lit, peppered with the clatter of chips and the cheers of half-drunk tourists who think spending all their money in Vegas is a good idea.
But then we pass beyond a velvet rope, lifted by the security guard who gives West a nod. And everything changes.
In this part of the casino the air feels cooler. Less frantic. The lights are softer, the tables wider.
There are no slot machines. No shouting filled with glee or annoyance.
This is where the whales swim.
The rich men and women with more money than sense. And the professionals who stake their lives on the next turn of a card.
I swallow hard, because I know these people. I know how they think. My dad had been one of them, after all.
He wasn’t a whale. Not a rich man either. But he wanted to be both.
I remember the way he used to play poker like it was a religion. How he'd mutter under his breath about odds and tells and "reading the room". He believed the cards could save him. That if he played them just right – if he stayed in the game long enough – he’d win it all back.
