by Cassia Leo
“You haven’t been to a board meeting in months,” he replies, his face slack with disappointment. “Your economics degree will only get you so far in the real world. You have to show up and do the work and stop forcing other people to clean up your messes.”
I think of the promise I made to myself the other night after the police officers questioned me and my bodyguards. My promise to protect others from me.
“I know I’ve made mistakes, Dad, but forcing me out is not the solution.”
“Son, you’re a liability to this company.”
“That’s bullshit. I’ve made more money for this company than any of those saggy nut sacs.”
He slams the lid of the laptop shut and shoots out of his chair. “You’re twenty-seven years old, Cash! You’re not in college any more. You’re a grown man! It’s time you start acting like one or you’re cut out—of everything. The company, the estate, the will. Gone. You can take your stock and gamble away every dime for all I care.”
I stare into his gray eyes, my nostrils flared and chest heaving just like his, and I know this is it. I’m finally being given the ultimatum I never thought would come. The threat of being cut out of the family business has been lobbed at me before, but this time it’s different. If my dad is getting pressure from the board, he can’t forgive me the way he always does.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly, gritting my teeth as I realize it’s time for supplication. “What do I need to do…to make this right?”
He shakes his head, his mouth taut with disappointment. “I don’t think there’s anything that can be done.”
“There has to be,” I reply with sudden desperation. “I can go to rehab. Gambler’s anonymous.”
“Again?”
The desperation quickly turns to frustration. “What do you want?” I demand. “Just name it, I’ll do it.”
He narrows his eyes at me, pausing to think about this before he takes a seat in his desk chair again. “Where is this coming from? Why am I supposed to believe this time you’ll finally change?”
I let out a deep sigh and look around the room. My father’s office is flooded with natural light from the wall of French doors to my right and the eight-foot-tall windows behind him. The wall to my left is lined with modern white bookcases that stretch all the way to the fifteen-foot ceiling. But I don’t give a shit about any of this. I don’t care about losing my job because of the money. I’m already a billionaire. In fact, I was born a billionaire.
If I take my trust fund and my stock, I could buy myself a private island and build my own village, with a casino, and still live comfortably for the rest of my life. But, like I said, I don’t give a shit about the money. It’s the project I’ve been working on with Kevin Massey I’m worried about.
I met Kevin at a blackjack table in the high limit room at the Aria hotel. He was wearing a T-shirt with a logo of some beach resort and his hat was on backwards. Looked like a typical Vegas tourist, but I could tell right away that he didn’t belong there. His hand trembled as he placed a single $1,000 chip on the table. All I could think was this guy was either betting his life savings, trying to pay off a debt, or he was only there scope me out.
Now, I’m an attractive guy. In a well-cut suit, I’ve been told I look like a young James Dean — the actor, not the porn star. I’m used to getting hit on by gay men. But this guy didn’t look gay. He looked nervous. So, my next suspicion was the next most common reason I’m approached by men. I thought he was a relative of a jilted lover or someone I’d laid off during the Union Oil budget cuts. That suspicion turned out to be wrong, as well.
Kevin Massey stuttered a bit as he struck up a conversation with me about the crisis of a lack of clean energy in Africa, particularly the country of Chad. But I listened intently and we took the conversation away from the blackjack table.
We had a few drinks in the bar while discussing his project to bring clean, renewable energy to millions of sub-Saharan Africans. He was passionate and smart, two of the three qualities I look for when deciding whether or not to invest in something. The third quality being honesty. I appreciated when Kevin admitted that he came to me because of rumors he’d heard that I was a dissenting voice on the Westbrook Oil board of directors.
For the past seven months, Kevin and I have been working on developing a solid proposal to present to the board. We need at least a $3.1 billion-dollar investment in Collectric, Kevin’s company, to get the project going. But if I’m kicked off the board, all our work will have been for nothing, and all the investors that Kevin turned down over the past seven months may not be too keen to work with him again.
I look my dad in the eye and I know I can’t tell him about the project until we’re ready. He’s never been especially great at seeing the potential in clean energy, especially in foreign countries. But I have to find a way to buy Kevin and me some time.
“You can’t fire me,” I declare, standing up straight.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I’m getting married.”
He laughs. “Son, I don’t have time for jokes.”
“This isn’t a joke. I’m getting married and I planned on bringing her to meet you next month. She’s on vacation in Europe for the next few weeks.”
He shakes his head. “This is not the kind of thing you can lie about just to buy yourself some time.”
“I’m not lying. As soon as she gets back from Europe, we’ll plan a meet and greet.”
He leans back in his chair. “Well, if she’s coming back in a few weeks, you can bring her to the company retreat at Lake Las Vegas. If the board sees you’re ready to settle down, that could make a real impression on them.”
I swallow hard as I try to keep the panic from registering on my face. “Sounds great. We’ll be there.”
I turn on my heel and set off to find myself a wife.
4
Kara
After four days of on-the-job training with a dealer who is known to everyone at the Billionaire Club solely as Dragon, it’s Saturday and it’s time for me to fly solo. Dragon winks one of his slanted eyes at me as I walk across the casino floor toward my table. I nod at him, making sure to keep our interactions serious in front of the customers. But I have to admit that this is difficult when I’m walking through a roomful of billionaires.
There are only four slot machines in this casino: two require a $100 bet per spin, one requires $1,000, and the other has a minimum bet of $10,000. The entire club is shaped like an eight—or maybe more like an infinity symbol—with two separate rooms.
The Blue Pill is the room where you’ll find the four slot machines, a smoking lounge area, two pool tables and dartboards, a lavish bar, a restaurant, a stage for performers where a Marilyn Monroe lookalike is titillating a crowd of wide-eyed men, and about a dozen tables with a minimum bet of $25. In The Blue Pill, the max bet you’ll find at a blackjack table is a $500 purple chip.
The Red Pill is the room where the really high-stakes gambling takes place. And that’s exactly where I’m headed.
All eyes are on me as I make my way through The Blue Pill. Even a couple of men with women by their side sneak a glance in my direction. I’m only the second female dealer to be work in The Red Pill, and Mick has told me that Jessie and I will not work the same shifts. Apparently, Jessie is very competitive and refuses to work with other women. I don’t mind. One less woman in The Red Pill probably means more tips for me.
I follow the curved outer wall until I reach the corridor adjoining the two rooms. The walls of the thirty-foot-wide arched corridor is made to look like a rabbit hole. The rough hewn walls are lined with mirrors and swirling lights, so it actually feels as if I’m falling through the corridor. A laughing couple surpasses me on their way to The Red Pill. The man is wearing a fedora that reminds me of the hat my dad used to wear when he first started getting sick. The hair loss hit his ego pretty hard, until he recently became too sick to care.
My dad
was once as handsome as Frank Sinatra, and he was a notorious ladies man. I remember my mom and dad getting into blowout fights at three in the morning, my mom demanding to know where he’d been and who he was with. He’d always calm her down and win her over somehow. My parents’ dysfunctional marriage is probably why none of my romantic relationships have lasted more than six months.
I enter The Red Pill and I can almost feel the breath being siphoned from my lungs. As if people this rich only exist in a vacuum. The sound of Marilyn Monroe’s singing in The Blue Pill fades away, replaced by a trance-like electronic beat. The steady rhythm of the music is broken up intermittently by sparkling chimes. Each table is lit with a soft reddish spotlight. The spaces between the tables are more dimly lit like a nightclub. In the center of the room, water falls out of the ceiling in a sheet of shimmering liquid that disappears into the floor without a drop of splash. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was champagne falling straight from heaven.
My heart races as I realize I’ve entered a whole other plane of existence. A world of opulence and excess, power and pleasure. A society of hard-nosed businessmen, chic celebrities, and shrewd politicos. And it’s my world for the next six hours.
Colorful lights shimmer inside the waterfall, dazzling me as I walk toward the second-to-last blackjack table at the far end of the room. A movement in the corner of my eye gets my attention. I turn toward it and find a guy in a perfectly cut gray suit watching me. His eyebrow is cocked curiously as his gaze follows me across the room. He looks so familiar. He must be a celebrity.
Suddenly, an image of the cover of a tabloid magazine flashes in my mind. I can’t remember the headline, but I know it had something to do with a girl overdosing in his presence. It’s Cash Westbrook, son of oil tycoon Jacob Westbrook, whose notoriety began when his very famous girlfriend died of a drug overdose on a California beach.
My first instinct is that I have to stay away from him. Then I think about my dad. Union Oil is a subsidiary of Westbrook Oil. Maybe if I’m friendly with Cash, I can expedite my dad’s health insurance claim. That would wipe out at least thirty percent of his medical bills. Is tens of thousands of dollars worth my self-respect?
I shake my head at these crazy thoughts. Even if I could somehow get Cash interested in me—probably by fucking him—I have no doubt I’d fuck it up by getting too emotional the moment I brought up my dad’s insurance claim.
I cast warm smiles at a few more lookie-loos before I arrive at my table. Victor, the pit boss, is waiting with Wyatt, a floorman, and Bert, the outgoing dealer. Bert is ready to hand over the game, which currently consists of two men in polos and navy-blue blazers. This isn’t a yacht club, I almost say aloud as Bert places the shoe—the device that holds the decks of cards—in the center of the table, then claps his hands together and holds them up to clear them with Victor and Wyatt.
I nod at all five men as I take my place behind the table and clap off to clear my hands. Wyatt nods and I pull the shoe back to the edge of the table, where it’s closer to me. The first thing I do is burn a card by taking the top card off the deck and placing it in the discard tray. This isn’t really meant to disrupt the count. Burning the top card is an easy way to get rid of a card that may or may not have been seen by one of the players when Bert cut the deck.
When I questioned Mick about why the club doesn’t use the continuous shuffle machines, opting instead for the old-fashioned shoes, he explained that billionaires don’t like to feel like they can’t be trusted. He also claims the Billionaire Club employs some of the sharpest, most experienced floormen in the country. I guess I’ll find out if that’s true soon enough. It won’t take long for one of these entitled rich boys to try to count cards at the new girl’s table.
Once again, I nod at Victor and Wyatt and they nod as they take a few steps back, giving me some space. But they make no move to leave. Today’s my first official day on the job, so I’m pretty certain they’ll stay close to me all night. Who am I kidding? They’ll probably stay close to me all week or month because of my dad’s reputation. They need to make sure they can trust me before they set me free.
“You’re a pretty one,” says the older player at the table with the salt-and-pepper hair and beige polo. “Are you new here?”
I flash him a friendly smile. “Yes, today is my first day.”
“A virgin?” he replies, his eyes widening with enthusiasm.
The younger guy next to him cringes. “Settle down, Dad. I’m sure”—He narrows his gray eyes at me—“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
I try not to roll my eyes and say “It’s on my name tag, asshole.” Instead, I grin even wider, my smile now teetering on the edge between friendly and insane. “My name is Kara,” I reply, dealing the cards after they place their bets.
“Kara,” the guy says, stretching out the first syllable. “I’m Dustin and this is my father—”
“Reginald,” the older man says, cutting his son off as he reaches his hand out to me for a shake.
I immediately take a step back and hold my hands up at shoulder-height as Victor and Wyatt step forward.
“Please don’t reach across the table, sir.” Victor issues the warning politely, but the look in his eyes says he won’t be so polite if this guy protests or tries that shit again.
Reginald pulls his arm back and holds up both of his hands. “No harm meant, boss.”
Victor nods at me and my heart races as I step forward again to resume play. Somehow, I have a feeling this night is going to be a series of tests.
Thankfully, after losing eighty-seven grand, Dustin and Reginald decide they have better things to do than continually trying to hit on me. At least they have the decency to leave behind a $100 tip for taking my Billionaire Club virginity. I heave a deep sigh as the tension in my muscles uncoils and my bones settle inside me. I glance back at Victor and Wyatt and they both flash me the tiniest of smiles.
Wyatt, who looks more like a professional bodybuilder than a floorman, nods at me. “Not bad.”
“Thanks. Discussing my virginity with an old man isn’t exactly how I wanted this night to begin, but I think that went well, right?”
Victor raises his eyebrows at this comment.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Probably not the first conversation you want to have with me either.”
Victor’s face goes taut as he nods to the side. I guess he’s not a huge talker.
I chuckle. “Are you saying I should discuss my virginity with Wyatt instead?”
Wyatt presses his lips tightly, trying not to laugh as Victor sighs. “Kara, turn around,” Wyatt says.
I whip my head around and my heart drops when I see Cash Westbrook sitting there with a highball glass in one hand and a cocky grin on his face. “Oh, my God. Please tell me you didn’t hear that.”
“You mean the part about losing your virginity to an old man? Nah, didn’t hear a word.”
His easy smile is disarming. The way he leans forward slightly, resting the weight of those broad shoulders on the table, makes me feel as if he’s in my personal space, even though he’s clearly not. It’s just his powerful presence overwhelming me. The man exudes sex appeal from every pore.
Everything about him screams old money. I can imagine him in college, his tanned skin hot and sweaty as he rowed crew and played lacrosse. I instantly find myself wanting to forgive his bad joke just to get on his good side. Then I remember how one of the employees at his company—whoever it was that fired my dad—is responsible for so much of our medical debt.
Of course, he’s still a paying customer at the Billionaire Club, which means I have to be nice to him whether I want to or not.
“Good evening, Mr. Westbrook,” I say with a cordial smile, which I hope doesn’t look forced.
His smile fades. He expected me to play along with his joke about losing my virginity to an old man, if only because it’s my job to entertain the guests. What he doesn’t know is that even though it’s my
job to keep him playing, Mick made it abundantly clear that I am not to fraternize with the customers, a rule I’m quite thankful for right now.
He places his bet and I deal the first hand. “You’re new here,” he says, signaling for a hit. “That means you know my name from the media.”
I flash him a tight smile. I will absolutely not tell him how I know him. If he finds out I’m the daughter of one of the Union Oil employees who were left out in the cold last year, he’ll probably try to offer a hollow apology right before he skitters away to another table. Or worse, he’ll try to defend the layoffs.
He chuckles at my lack of response. “Well, just so you know, I’m not the person they make me out to be.”
I nod. “Who believes anything the media says these days? I sure don’t.”
He shifts uncomfortably in his stool, clearly not convinced. He plays a few more hands before he looks up again, his jaw set as his gaze meets mine. “I don’t know why I feel the need to tell you this, but it wasn’t my fault.”
My heart thumps painfully against my chest as I wonder what Victor and Wyatt think of this exchange between Cash and me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Holy, shit. Does he know who I am? Is he saying it wasn’t his fault my father was let go?
“What happened to her…” he continues. “To Vanessa. It wasn’t my fault.”
His words fall heavily in the space between us. He stares at the table in front of him. He just busted with a twenty-three, but I make no move to collect his bet or his cards. All I can think of is how awful it must feel to be judged guilty of something you didn’t do by millions of strangers.
I remember the the tabloids and the magazines went nuts for the story of Vanessa Allen’s death. People thought Cash’s father had paid off the police to not file any charges against him. At the time, my father was still working for Union Oil and getting paid well. He was gambling a little less, and I credited Union Oil for possibly putting my father on the road to recovery. I fully believed that Cash was innocent. Of course, my resolve in this belief wavered after my father got diagnosed with lung cancer and laid off in the same month.
