by Leanne Brice
But my twenty-first birthday is coming up and it’s time to celebrate.
This trip is the perfect chance to show her how much she means to me, so I’m getting her a gift too. She’s all I’ve got.
No matter how much I fantasize about reuniting with my mother, or finding a hot, dedicated guy who accepts all of me and wants to marry me, someone like the dude I read about in some book I regret reading—part of a stack someone moving out of an apartment building decided to leave behind—Taylor is all I’ve got, and perhaps all I’ll ever get.
Chapter 2
April
It’s midday as I reach Vegas, and I start wondering where Taylor booked us for the night as I ride to the Strip.
I long to stay in one of the fancier looking places like Aria or Bellagio, but Taylor will get us somewhere cheap and practical, I’m sure. Somewhere inconspicuous.
Inconspicuousness is pretty much always key.
Taylor told me to call her as soon as I got in, but she hasn’t been answering my calls and I hadn’t made plans outside of her. I was going to wait till we talked, then we’d split up or work together, but we were supposed to have a powwow first.
I finally just send her another text then start to wander the Strip like any other sightseeing tourist, knowing I won’t exactly get lost since I’m sticking to the boulevard, and the landmarks on it are pretty glaring.
I mean, can I really forget passing the metallic lion in front of MGM Grand? Can you miss the fake Eiffel Tower of the Paris hotel?
My eyes also scan the crowds out of habit.
So many easy targets here, I hardly know where to start!
A couple of guys with their wallets in stupid places here, a few women who neglected to close their bags all the way there…
I’m ramped up and ready to go in just about every way, and not because of the business cards featuring available women for sexy times just handed to me.
I left my apartment so early in the morning that my roommate was nowhere near getting up, so I left in disguise, and he was none the wiser.
I’m still in my chosen look now—brown wig with headband and bangs, dark brown contacts to cover my light eyes. I even added a few moles and a fake tattoo around one wrist.
L.A. is one of those places where it seems everyone and their dog has a tattoo somewhere so I’ve got a few handy.
Anyway, I look like a completely different person right now.
My roommate and I could have crossed paths as I exited the building and he wouldn’t have recognized me, despite knowing me for a few months.
It’s amazing what a change of hair and eye color can do.
I walk past a restaurant with outside seating and a couple suddenly catches my eye. I know the type—wealthy but casual about it. Between the body language and the small indicators of wealth, I refuse to ignore that nudge in my gut—the one that says, here’s a valuable, easy mark; it’s worth the risk.
Although this is new territory, a plan starts to form immediately.
I’m glad I cooled my heels a bit—if what I have planned works, I can score big instead of a bunch of smaller hits.
I know it’s risky since all I know about Vegas is what I read on the net or watched on YouTube or in bootlegged movies and documentaries, but I think I know enough to pull this particular act off.
Plus I had plenty of time on the six-hour bus ride to figure a few things out. I researched Vegas even more on that ride—I rarely jump into something blind; some degree of casing is always necessary.
My quickie assessment: this older guy has money out the wazoo, a bit arrogant, probably feels he has the right to do whatever the fuck he wants, including having chicks on the side.
The woman with him is his wife, scored big marrying him, resigned to her filthy rich husband doing whatever—or whomever—he wants. No fairy tale kind of love going on here.
I have no doubt this guy takes mistresses, and his wife takes herself shopping often and drinks tons of wine.
She’s a bit more obvious about her status with that purse and that necklace, but even though he’s more plainly attired, he’s the one who really gave them away with that damned watch.
They’re chatting casually, but there’s a hell of a lot going on beneath the surface.
Either way, they are both sufficiently distracted, and it seems they’re almost done with their meal.
The server brings them their check and I whoop on the inside.
I better act fast.
I assess the dress code of the servers and improvise, then sweet-talk my way into using the restaurant’s bathroom.
Then I head for the couple.
“Can I grab this for you?” I offer as I slip up to them, indicating the check and the credit card while hoping my makeshift napkin-apron doesn’t fall off.
I’ve done this part before in L.A.
I walked around certain areas and noticed what the servers were wearing, particularly in the businesses that have an outside seating area.
I knew one well enough to slip inside, my true features disguised, fold a napkin over my all-black attire, just at the waist, and help out the couple I noticed were almost done, distracted a little by the argument they were having and trying to make it appear as if they weren’t having.
People give themselves away in so many ways, verbally, non-verbally—strained faces, folded arms, dirty shoes, expensive-looking watch…
There’s a slight nod as the couple continues talking to each other in deliberately even tones.
“And are you staying at the hotel? I can put this on your player’s card,” I say in my best server voice.
They sort of nod and wave me away.
I notice their ticket has a dessert on it which hasn’t arrived yet, so I know I still have a bit of time.
I take off with the cards, discreetly removing the napkin from my waist as I head to the cashier.
“Can I just pay now? I really have to go,” I say with a bit of whine in my voice, trying to look like I’m being as polite as I can while feeling impatient.
“Certainly,” he says, then runs the card.
I collect the receipts and cards and head straight to the hotel counter as fast as I can.
I pick the shortest line and it’s being headed by a plain girl with dirty blond hair pulled back into a bun.
“We need to add another room,” I tell her quietly, sliding her the cards.
“And some discretion needs to be involved,” I add, lowering my voice and giving her a pointed look. “So perhaps a different floor. Preferably facing the strip. I’m here as a guest of Mr. Bullock. And only Mr. Bullock,” I say with an edge, accenting my words with a slight toss of my hair as if I’m slowly ramping up my girly wiles to use later.
I can tell she’s trying not to look judgmental.
But she’s a professional and I can see her trying to work something out as she fixes her brown eyes on the screen, studying it intensely before relaxing a bit.
She says something reassuring to herself under her breath then looks back at me with a bright smile.
“Here are your cards, and here are the key cards for your room. Right beneath Mr. Bullock’s.”
Is she being a bit snarky? Whatever.
“Thank you,” I say like the unashamed fake mistress I am.
I’m guessing the booking won’t show up anywhere, at least nowhere Mr. Bullock can see, not yet anyway. He won’t know the hotel handed him another suite in time to do anything about it, and I get a free awesome room.
It’s perfect.
I hurry to return the receipts and cards to him before heading to my new room.
At times, I still find myself thinking, I can’t believe that worked.
No matter how much I expect it to, or how many times a tactic worked before, when I take things up a notch in some way and it still works, I end up pretty damn impressed with myself.
I almost laugh like a lunatic when I get a load of the suite I got.
It’s hug
e as fuck—like, thousands of square feet, probably.
A fairly quick exploration reveals two large bedrooms with king-sized beds and flat screen TVs in each one, a full dining room and kitchen with a frickin’ dining table that could seat ten, two and a half bathrooms, hot tubs, a fully stocked bar area, a piano, a fireplace… I mean, what the fuck?
I know I shouldn’t be surprised, but when you actually see this shit up close it’s unbelievable what a different world some people live in.
I’m usually dancing for joy if I happen to rent a motel room where a roach doesn’t make an appearance for the night.
This extravagant bullshit helps to remind me that some of the people I pilfer from—well, they won’t miss what I’ve taken for a second.
I return to the lounge area, surveying the breadth and scope of the suite again.
Happy Birthday to me!
Chances are, if I’m wrong about the old couple and they’re more diligent than I thought, I can pull out my innocent ‘this is all a mixup’ wide-eyed act and fool anyone who checks up long enough to slip away.
I hop on the huge bed and hesitate briefly before figuring what the hell—might as well go for it all.
I order room service.
I kind of want to invite Taylor over, but part of me is enjoying the extended solitude.
Before I start partying it up with Taylor, it’s nice to have a quiet celebration for myself—sipping champagne, laying out on a soft, king-sized bed surrounded by creature comforts and luxuries, lazily flipping through the channels… I actually can’t think of a better birthday present to myself.
All that’s missing is some hottie warming my bed for a bit, someone who can work my body on this king-sized bed that I can kick out the next morning.
Instead, I get to work out a plan for my other goal—to reunite with my mom, whom I tracked down here.
She doesn’t know I’m coming, and I haven’t told Taylor about it, but I’m trying not to make a big deal about the whole thing; I basically just want to say hi.
I figure it’s been almost ten years, and I’m a grown woman now, so she’s free of any responsibilities.
But maybe she wants to know that I turned out okay.
Plus I’d like to refresh my memory of her face, her form, her scent.
I don’t remember when the details started fading away, but without seeing her and no photos of her left with me, she’s disappearing in a way, and I don’t want that to happen.
Abandonment aside, even just the memory of her, the recollection of her pretty blue eyes brings me comfort sometimes.
I know she exists, and she’s still alive, so I’m never totally alone.
I head for the bathroom, trying to decide between hitting the shower or the Jacuzzi first.
As I’m exiting the bathroom with the dumbest smile on my face, wrapped only in a towel with damp hair cascading down my shoulders, I suddenly hear a knock on the door of the suite.
Practiced caution leads me to double check who’s there, and when I look through the peephole, it’s not some guy in a penguin suit with my lobster and shrimp and chocolate cake.
The agitated dude standing there is quite possibly the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.
He’s tall with chiseled features and flashing green eyes, and a mouth hanging open a bit I’d love to cover with mine.
Instinct takes over, and though this hottie doesn’t look the least bit approachable in his grumpy state, unless he’s gay, I can distract him enough for my purposes.
He doesn’t look like he’s with law enforcement, so it’s time to turn that sexy frown upside down. Opportunity is literally knocking.
As far as I’m concerned, the angry hottie’s another surprise birthday gift.
Thank you, universe!
Maybe my mom wasn’t a complete loon about that visualization stuff.
I make sure I look as alluring as possible—not hard considering my attire or lack thereof—then I open the door with my most disarming, innocently seductive look.
Chapter 3
Axel
The party always starts on the plane.
Since it’s a private aircraft, there are no rules to stick to save the ones I make, and the main rule is to have fun. To sit back, relax, and get pampered.
The food is top notch, the seating, plentiful and comfortable, some with massage settings, and the gorgeous stewardesses are available to take care of all my needs and the needs of those I’m traveling with.
Instead of flying to Singapore or Monte Carlo, we’re headed to Vegas, one of our more casual playgrounds, the flight there and back on my dime.
I know it’s kind of petty, but a wave of satisfaction washes over me again as I watch the guys and glance around the interior of my jet.
Here we are, in a spacious cabin with far more couches and lounge chairs than we need, large flat screen TVs playing images we never bother to watch, top alcohol and gorgeous willing girls within easy reach.
I can’t help thinking, I made this possible.
This trip to Vegas isn’t for any special occasion—I got bored and decided to bring some friends with me for a three-day weekend of fun.
Well, ‘friends’ is a pretty generous term—of the three other guys here, I can only call one a friend—my best friend, Nate, whom I’ve known since junior high.
Man, I used to envy Nate—he had a hefty allowance, parents who obviously loved each other, and his college funds were all sorted out before he was born, with a trust fund to boot.
He’s one of those kids who got access to a stable of European sports cars for his sixteenth birthday.
His family had a large house, a pool, lots of yard.
Nate always had a shitload of toys and games, the latest of everything, stuff I could only dream of.
I used to want to be him for years. Young me was able to sense the weight of all the advantages he had as a result of being so rich.
Not only was he rich, but he was good-looking and had the girls eating out of his hands.
I’m not exactly hideous myself, but there’s a different way chicks treat you once they know you’re loaded.
They came after me as a temporary thrill, but chicks flocked to Nate, trying to lock him down and get a piece of that pie so that at any given time, he had his pick who to sleep with.
Now I know firsthand what that feels like; in fact, my access is even greater.
Nate’s still loaded, but there are some women who wouldn’t touch him—those with money themselves looking for guys with even more.
They’re the ones I get that Nate doesn’t.
Nate is chatting with the newest members of our posse—Scott, a tow-headed Aussie billionaire I met at some celebrity party, and Peter, whom I recently met at another exclusive party he managed to crash.
Pete’s a software engineer, but because of his dark-skinned good looks and muscular build, he often gets mistaken for a celebrity of some sort—athletic or otherwise in the entertainment industry—and he just goes with it.
It’s pretty hilarious actually—watching girls actually flock to him because of his looks, and he never sees fit to correct them.
He goes along with their assumptions, pretending to be whatever they think he is.
It’s not his fault, right?
By the time they do research—if ever—he’s long gone.
And they never get his real name.
"Should I bring you another?" my brunette stewardess asks while another—a steaming hot redhead— heads to the other guys with a tray of drinks.
I’m a good host; besides the array of food and drinks offered, I always make sure enough girls fly with us for the guys to choose from.
The interior of the plane is arranged to accommodate all needs.
I offer a decent variety, and they take or leave them.
The girls all know why they were hired—for their hospitality skills, their willingness to serve.
The one staring at me now, waiting for my ans
wer, is extremely sexy.
She’s not particularly pretty—her face is attractive enough and nicely made-up but nothing special. She has a smoking hot body, though.
While they’re always available because of the job requirements, this brunette seems particularly excited about the possibility of sleeping with me.
I like eager chicks, but sometimes, it puts a damper on my desire.
I don’t feel a need to take advantage of every single opportunity, so unless I’m super horny at the moment, at times like this, I’ll pass.
Scott’s heading back to one of the rooms with the redhead, leaving Nate and Pete talking to each other.
I briefly wonder what they’re finding to talk about since they have so little in common. On the surface anyway.
Maybe they’ll run out of things to say or do and grab a girl just to fill the silence.
And now that the redhead’s been claimed, it leaves the curvy blonde and the slim Asian since the brunette with the Bambi eyes looking at me is off the table.
This girl knows not to offer herself to the other guys—not unless I’ve given the okay.
I don’t sleep with anyone the guys have taken to bed, and I hired this girl to take care of my needs, should a carnal one arise.
The guys may or may not indulge—it’s always interesting to see if they take up the offers.
I pay attention to any particular preferences, and so far, I’ve found none. Their dicks all seem to be equal opportunity, though I usually hire safe bets anyway.
My legal team hates all the people I bring in—despite the ironclad paperwork the girls have to sign and the extensive background checks, the more people I introduce, the more likely a leak of one sort or another becomes.
But I have people for that too—folks who silence anyone who might be too talkative.
I don’t have to worry about how; I don’t have to worry about much of anything.
These days, for the past five years, I can just throw money at a problem and solve it.
Mo’ money, mo’ problems? Ha!
Hakuna fucking Matata.
