ACE: Las Vegas Bad Boys Read Online Free Page B

waiting for Janie to wake up.
    “I’ll take a scotch, neat,” says a man in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I recognize him immediately as Jack Harris, the resident DJ at Stacked. Holy shit.
    Claire said I was going to be in the highest-rolling room at this casino, but hell, this is a room I have no business being in.
    Tess, my Southern co-worker, has shown me Jack Harris’s picture on her phone in the break room plenty of times. She’s always snapping pictures of him when he walks through the casino. She’s a bit obsessed, actually. Seeing him up close, I can see why.
    He’s confident but chill, has a man-bun, and has tattoos across his forearms. The good, sexy kind of hipster. Not my type, but I can see the appeal.
    “Got it, Jack,” I say, pleased with myself for not asking for his autograph.
    The guy next to him orders a rum and coke. He’s in work out clothes, and is seriously ripped. Like, a head-to-toe muscle machine. He has a dimpled face and is giving Channing Tatum a run for his money.
    “And what was your name?” I ask, wanting to be as courteous as possible for the rest of the evening. My bank account is counting on these tips.
    “McQueen,” he says, offering me a smirk and wink.
    I know. He seriously sminked at me. Does that work on women? Any woman, ever? He may be sexier than Magic Mike, but McQueen knows it. Which, for me, is a turn off.
    I’ve always liked guys who have a layer of insecurity, a healthy layer of doubt. Maybe it’s because I’ve always liked to take care of people … like I’m doing right now for my sister. A sister who’s never been there for me … yet here I am, putting my life on hold for her.
    I glance around the table, wanting to focus on this moment, on these men. As if reading my mind, the table gives McQueen a hard time for his lame-ass game and I smile, put at ease by their familiarity.
    “And for you, sir?” I ask the last man at the table.
    “I’ll take an Old Fashioned, please,” he says with an English accent.
    “Perfect, and what was your name? Just want to get it right tonight,” I say, looking over at Carla, who I know is pissed about me being late.
    Surprisingly, she gives me a small smile, and a nearly imperceptible nod, and I know I’m doing okay.
    Fine, even. I don’t need to be nervous. Everyone here is above-par, there’s nothing skeevy about this poker game, and I appreciate being around men who aren’t taking themselves too seriously.
    “I am Landon, milady” he says, finding my hand and kissing the top of it. Okay, he’s a pretty adorable Englishman. “And your name, dear?” he asks.
    “Emmy,” I say, looking around the table of men who are just straight-up worthy of the cover of GQ. “Emmy Rose.”
    “You’re not going to ask for my name?” the mysterious hallway guy asks.
    “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” I say, flushed just by hearing his voice. “What was your name, sir?”
    “Tonight, you can call me boss,” he says, confidently.

    * * *
ACE
    I can’t help it.
    I love to watch her squirm in that skin-tight, fuck-me-now leotard. The one that can’t help but show off her perfectly erect nipples.
    Her nipples are on display, as if they’re tiny little gemstones just begging to be polished. Oh, hell yeah, I’m ready to spit-shine those cock-fuckers.
    And when I finally look up from that goddamn perfect pair of tits, I see her face. Usually I’m all sorts of crass, all sorts of don’t-care-about-her-smile, so as long as she has a nice shape, good curves—but fuck.
    Emmy Rose is something else entirely.
    I want her in a way I never want a woman. In a way that feels dangerously close to losing whatever edge I have left.
    This girl turns me warm inside, soft in ways I’m not.
    Well, not entirely soft. My fucking cock is on fire.
    I need this woman.
    How the hell am I going to sit through a night with my boys when all I want is an evening with her?

    * * *
EMMY
    Okay. So I did