Even Money

  ULV had a few shortcomings, but statistics professors who knew how to fuck wasn’t one of them. Dr. Ian Clarke swore, running his long fingers down my inner thigh and in between my legs, rubbing them along the sensitive area. I opened my thighs, propping myself up on an elbow and watching him. “Stop teasing me.”

  “Tell me about linear regression.” He growled out the order as he leaned forward and kissed me. “And pull up your shirt and show me those sweet nipples.”

  “I can’t think about linear regression right now.” I yanked up my tank top, bringing it over my breasts, his eyes focusing on them, and I stretched down the lace cups of my bra, letting my breasts fall loose atop them. He dove in, running his tongue over my right nipple and sucking on it gently before kissing his way over to the left, his two fingers sliding in and out, a steady rhythm that caused my bottom lip to hang, my eyes beginning to close.

  “Are you going to fuck me, Dr. Clarke?” I arched my back and pressed against his hand, his thumb taking the hint and rubbing a gentle circle around my clit. He bit carefully down on my breast, and I moaned in protest.

  “Not yet. First, I’m going to make you come all over my fingers, and then I’m going to send you into class. I want to spend the next hour thinking about bending you over my desk as soon as the bell rings.”

  I laughed. “We don’t have bells.”

  “Shh…You’re ruining the fantasy.” He withdrew his fingers and slapped my ass hard enough to make me yelp. Straightening, he braced one hand on the desk and looked down on me.

  “Lay flat. Close your eyes. You’re about to drip that sweet little pussy all over my papers.”

  I obeyed, letting my legs open wider, his fingers talented in their smooth dip, in and out of me, a slick friction that increased in speed as he applied careful and deliberate attention to my clit. First his hand, then his tongue, the hot and wet sensation causing me to thrash against the desk, my thighs trembling, my hands clawing for a handhold before I bucked off his desk and came.

  He lifted me off his desk, pulling me against his body and letting me feel the hard ridge of his arousal. “I’m not going to be able to move from behind the podium today. I’m going to be hard as a rock for the next hour, thinking about your perfect pussy wrapped around my cock. Stay in the room after class.”

  “Yes, Dr. Clarke.” I bit my bottom lip and slid my teeth over it, letting it pop free and enjoying the way his eyes darkened as a result.

  He smiled, his hand tightening on my ass. “God, you’re perfect.”

  “Not yet.” I pulled away from him and fixed my skirt, gathering my hair and twisting it into a loose ponytail. “But I plan to be soon.” I bent at the waist and reached for my bag, letting him get an eyeful before I straightened.

  His lips twitched into a smile, and he ran a hand over his mouth, nodding to the door of his office. “Get to class before you drive me mad.”

  I turned to leave, grinning as I opened his office door and stepped into the hall. He was filthy in the best way possible. God didn’t put a man like that in front of twenty thousand coeds and expect him to behave. Just like he didn’t put Ian in front of me, have him invite me to office hours, and expect me to keep my clothes on.

  Granted, that first tutoring session we didn’t do anything. Ian sat on his side of the desk, I sat on mine, and we discussed binomial and normal distributions like two perfectly responsible adults. But on the way out, he walked me to the door, his hand on the small of my back, his fingers drifting a hair lower than was proper, the gentle caress before release telling me all I needed to know.

  The next session, he suggested we block out an hour instead of thirty minutes. We got through confidence intervals before he told me to sit on his desk, that he wanted to taste me before he went fucking insane.

  In fifteen minutes, I learned that the statistical probability of an orgasm from his mouth was one hundred gazillion percent.

  And Mom said college wouldn’t teach me anything.

  Three

  I woke up to an orgy. I blinked, fuzzy images coming into focus. Two men on one girl. Two different girls, on their knees. There was some whipped cream action and an old guy with nipple rings. I closed my eyes. “Can’t you watch that somewhere else?”

  I heard a loud snap of gum and pictured it, bright pink and showing with every smack of Meredith’s jaws.

  “The Wi-Fi isn’t working in my room. I keep telling you guys, we need to move the router to the kitchen.”

  I rolled over on the couch and folded the pillow in half, stuffing it under my head. “I thought porn came on DVDs.”

  “Are you kidding? Nobody does that anymore.” The sounds of fuckery paused as she fast-forwarded the scene, then pressed play. I watched as the old guy moved toward a cluster of plaid-skirted blondes. Meredith mumbled something about production value, and I snorted out a laugh.

  “I’m almost done. I got one more video after this.”

  I closed my eyes and groped around for an extra pillow, pulling it over my head. “Turn it down a little.”

  “Fine.”

  The sounds diminished, and I kicked a foot free of the blanket and tried to fall back asleep. Maybe it was time for me to move into my own place. One free of roommates, especially ones whose class projects involved the analysis of the adult film industry and its moral evolution.

  She poked my foot. “Look at this guy really quick, B. He’s got a freaking hose.”

  I growled and considered getting up and moving to my bedroom. It was my own fault. That’s what I got for bingeing on reality TV and falling asleep on the couch. Gangbangs for breakfast.

  I squeezed the pillow tighter and managed, despite the moans and slaps, to fall back asleep.

  I was scrubbing vomit off the toe of my heels when Britni burst in.

  “Dario Fucking Capece is here.”

  It was an announcement that caught all of our attention, Lance and Rick slowly easing upright, our gazes moving from Britni to the monitors.

  “Where?” Lance asked.

  “Outside. I saw him getting out of his car when I was out for a smoke.”

  Rick scowled at the activity, but let it slide, his interest more focused on the city’s biggest whale, one we’d never had. He turned to Lance. “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

  Lance shrugged. “Maybe he’s playing.”

  “He doesn’t play. Everyone knows that.”

  Lance caught my eye. “Bell. Go out and welcome him. Find out what’s what.”

  I looked down at my shoe, the gold silk ruined, thanks to a mixture of liquor and what looked like fettuccine alfredo. I worked it onto my foot and winced at the ugly result. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

  He nodded, leaning forward in his seat, the urgency clear in the air. Britni let out an annoyed huff, moving aside when I passed. I ignored her bullshit performance. This particular job was one neither of us wanted. Vegas was full of sharks, but Dario Capece was a killer whale, the kind you only saw right before you got eaten. Britni didn’t want anything more to do with him than I did.

  Lance looked up from the monitors. “Hurry. He’s almost through security.”

  I stepped out the door and onto the floor, moving quickly toward the entry.

  The entry space was our most boring room, one decked out with industrial gray carpet, a metal detector, a bank of lockboxes, and the main attractions—Tim and Jim. Those weren’t their real names, but they refused to make small talk with anyone, so that’s what we had coined them. Where Lloyd was the friendly big guy, they were the ex-Special Forces assholes everyone hated. I stepped into the room, nodded to the closest one, then turned to Dario Capece with a smile.

  I should have checked the monitors first. Peeked through the security window. Done something to give me more warning.

  I’d expected a dozen things. A suit. A scowl. A bodyguard. An expensive watch. Closed lips and wandering eyes. A sexist remark or friendly hands.

  I hadn’t been expecting something in me
to yank when our eyes met, a pull of need that occurred before his mouth even opened. He paused, and the wary look in his eyes matched everything I was feeling.

  He was handsome, but it wasn’t even his looks. There was something between us, and I stepped back in hopes it would fade. It didn’t.

  “Mr. Capece.” I managed the greeting with a calm and professional tone. “Welcome to The House.”

  His mouth curled into a smile, but his eyes didn’t. He glanced at Tim. “Watch your fucking hands.”

  Tim moved carefully, patting down his legs, then his arms. He nodded to the metal detector, and Mr. Capece walked through, then collected his phone and wallet.

  “Will your men be playing also?” I rested a hand on the door, wondering if we should wait for them to be checked.

  “No.” His first word to me, and it was muttered as he looked over his shoulder to his security. “Wait in the car.”

  There was a small and silent battle, one where they questioned his decision with a subtle tilt of their heads. He turned back to me, and the battle ended. I pressed on the door, and we entered the hall.

  “We have blackjack and poker on the floor.”

  I walked slightly ahead of him, the hallway too narrow to allow anything else. He was tall, my shoulders the height of his chest, and I lifted my chin to make sure he heard me as we entered the main room.

  “There are only six slot machines, but they are all high limit. The cage allows markers of up to a million dollars, but exceptions are common. Depending on the night, we have different specialty games, and craps on the weekend.”

  I motioned toward the cage. “Should I have chips pulled for you?”

  He let his eyes move over the room, and I followed his lead, wondering what his impression was of the space. The House was a converted warehouse with floor-to-ceiling curtains around its perimeter, crystal chandeliers hanging from its faux ceiling, marble floors, and enough opulence to hold its own with any high-roller room in town, his included. Granted, we didn’t have the largest hotel in Vegas behind it, or his fifty thousand square feet of tables, but we had bigger names in this room than anywhere.

  “There’s a bar in the next room if you are just here to socialize. It’s an invitation-only space.”

  There was no need to mention his standing invite. Dario Capece, the poor kid from Louisiana, had been given the keys to the city when he’d married Gwen Hawk, the heiress to the The Majestic casino. He’d turned those city keys into golden handcuffs when he’d transformed the struggling Majestic into the hottest address on the Strip. Now Vegas was his playground, his kingdom, his supermarket. In the ten years since he’d married into money, he’d bought three more casinos, and his legend had grown legs and done the tango.

  “I’d like to speak to your boss.” His words were quiet, but I knew they were being picked up by the hidden mics, set into every seam of this building. He turned to me, and in the direct eye contact, I felt unstable, a scrap of paper loose in a hurricane.

  Did everyone feel this way? Was this how he’d captured our city so easily, how he’d filled thousands of hotel rooms and seduced the best talent into his workforce? I reached out, resting my hand on the railing and forced myself not to grip it for dear life. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The owners aren’t here tonight.”

  “Ah.” He nodded and stepped closer. I forced myself not to move. This close to him, I could smell his cologne. I could feel the edge of his pants as they brushed against my bare legs.

  “I don’t believe you,” he said quietly.

  I lifted one shoulder in the most casual way I could and shrugged. “Sometimes people don’t.”

  It was a risky move, and I thought of all the stories I’d heard, men who had lost body parts or disappeared, all for playing the wrong way, counting the wrong cards, or saying the wrong things. I met his eyes, tightened my gut, and prepared for the worst.

  Then, he laughed, turning back to the floor, his hands resting on the railing, the edge of a grin visible on that handsome face. He was beautiful, in a fierce, wild way. Short dark hair, littered with silver. Big, strong features, a once-broken nose, but handsome lines. He looked like a pretty boy who grew into a man and beat the shit out of the kid he’d once been. He looked like a night full of filthy, delicious sex, and a string of orgasms that would leave you panting and delirious. He looked untouchable.

  He looked back at me, and the hint of a smile still touched his lips. “Ballsy. I like that.”

  There was a soft touch at my elbow, and I turned and saw Lance, his hoodie and workout shorts replaced with dress slacks and a button-up shirt. I raised my eyebrows, and he leaned forward, kissing me on the cheek.

  “I’ll take it from here, B.”

  “Nice outfit,” I said quietly before he pulled away. I gave him a small smile and stepped away from the railing, nodding to the visitor. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “A Coke, if you have it,” Dario responded.

  “Certainly.”

  I turned from them, moving down the steps and to the main floor, bee-lining for the bar, and shaking my head when Britni shot me a quizzical look. I grabbed a tumbler and fixed Lance’s usual, then grabbed a glass and filled it with ice, opening one of the small bottles of Coke and pouring it in.

  I glanced up at the entrance balcony where I’d left the men. Dario Capece rested his forearms on the railing. They looked friendly, and I wondered what they were discussing. His gaze connected with mine and I turned away, stacking the items on the tray and adding the dark purple House napkins. I stalled for a moment, taking a steadying breath before I hoisted the tray on my shoulder and headed for the stairs. Delivering drinks wasn’t exactly ground-breaking stuff, something I could do blindfolded and one-handed. I had no reason to be nervous.

  But something about him, something about that short exchange and the way his face had pulled into a smile… I felt unsure and exhilarated, all at the same time—a dangerous combination around a man like him.

  Four

  I knew what to do. I’d served princes and presidents, celebrities and mobsters. I was to deliver drinks and disappear. I didn’t hear anything and I didn’t speak unless spoken to. If flirted with, I politely evaded. If yelled at, I retreated and let security deal with it. The rules weren’t taught to me, but learned from two years in this building, two years of mistakes and lessons, hundred-dollar tips and occasional scorn.

  I’d been proposed to and propositioned. Groped and flipped off. Cursed out and courted. Everyone who had the means to walk in these doors was entitled, and that made for a volatile cocktail, one contained by distractions. Women. Alcohol. Risks. Possibilities.

  I walked toward Lance and Dario Capece and wondered what Capece’s distractions were. Certainly not alcohol, not with the Coca-Cola he’d ordered. Not cards, since he hadn’t stepped toward a table or glanced at a chip stack. Maybe risk. Maybe women. I slowed as I approached, and his gaze slid from Lance to me, his eyes starting at the bottom, at my vomit-stained heels, and moved up my bare legs, lingering across the sequined shorts and the black halter top. The action was so obvious that Lance turned, his eyes darkening as he saw me, the apologetic look in them almost laughable. I reassured him with a smile and took the final steps toward them.

  I served Lance first, then tucked the tray under my arm, passing the glass of soda to Mr. Capece. I didn’t meet his eyes and stepped back to allow them privacy. Escaping down the back stairs, I let out a long breath.

  He had checked me out. Held my gaze longer than necessary. Two things that happened a dozen times a night. That was half of our purpose here, being eye candy. Britni and I got more attractive the more they drank, the more they won. It wasn’t the first time that evening a man had blatantly swept his gaze over me.

  I shouldn’t have been trembling, not just from a brief moment of interaction. And I definitely shouldn’t be smiling. I fought to swallow the expression and wondered what the hell was wrong with me.

  I entered the
control room and shut the door. Rick glanced over and held up a hand for silence.

  “--and that’s how we plan to keep it,” Lance finished.

  I watched the monitor, saw Dario’s mouth move, the sound of his voice a bit delayed. “What do you do when you get hit hard? Too hard?”

  “We have cash reserves to cover up to twenty mill.”

  Dario’s quiet chuckle came over the speaker. “Twenty mill? Come on. That’s one winning streak for these players.”

  “It hasn’t been a problem yet. You know what it’s like. No one walks away on top.”

  “Still...”

  There was a break in conversation as someone walked by, words of greeting exchanged, a restless moment where Rick stretched his legs and I watched the monitors. I needed to get back to my tables, yet I couldn’t move from this spot.

  Quiet fell.