Cash

by Cassia Leo

  Cash looks up at me and the trance is broken. I reach for the stack of chips in front of him and his hand lands on top of mine. I’m frozen. I don’t even see Wyatt and Victor coming until Victor’s hand is on top of mine.

  He shakes his head at Cash. “No touching the dealer or reaching across the table, please.”

  Cash nods and Victor removes his hand. I pull mine back as well, taking the chips and the cards with me. Victor nods for me to take a step back away from the table with him.

  He leans in close so Cash can’t hear him. “Looks like the customers can’t resist the urge to touch a pretty dealer. You’re going to have to do a better job of balancing your emotions, sweetheart. Don’t let them think they have a chance at getting in your panties, okay?”

  I nod and he steps back into his previous position with Wyatt, who has been joined by another floorman. When I turn back to Cash, he’s flirting with a blonde cocktail waitress who’s taking his order as she retrieves his empty highball glass. I guess it’s not against the rules for cocktail waitresses to make the customers think they’re getting laid. I clear my throat just as Cash’s hand lands on the small of her back.

  He turns to me and smiles. “Sorry, Kara. Just a minute.” He turns back to the waitress and slips a large bill onto her tray. “Tell Lauren I said hi and I’ll try to drop by next week.”

  I try not to roll my eyes as the waitress walks away with a huge smile on her face. “Are you a regular?” I ask as he places his bet.

  He signals for a hit. “Used to be. I was sort of…decommissioned this morning.”

  I wince inwardly when he gets blackjack and I bust. “Decommissioned how?”

  He shakes his head and raises his bet this time, to $100,000. “Not important. What’s important is that this may be the last time you see me in here. That’s gotta be some sort of sign, don’t you think? You starting work on my last night here?”

  My hand trembles slightly as I deal him another card when he taps the table. “What kind of sign is that?” I wait for him to hit or stay, but his hand doesn’t move. When I look up at his face, our eyes meet and anxiety flutters inside my belly.

  “A sign that we should keep talking,” he replies, holding my gaze a while longer before he looks down at his cards and signals to stay. “How did you get to be a dealer?”

  This is a question I was asked a lot when I worked at Smith’s Gambling Hall. I already have my lie prepared.

  “A friend of mine told me that blackjack dealers make a lot of money, so we signed up for a four-week class and I got hired at a casino downtown within a week after getting my license. It was too easy to pass up.”

  He chuckles. “How many people believe that story?”

  My smile disappears. “I’m sorry. What story? It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

  He rolls his eyes as he motions to stay on a soft eighteen. “Yeah, I’m sure it probably took you all of two minutes to come up with it. What’s the real story? We’re you a runaway who learned to play blackjack on the streets? Did your pimp make you hustle blackjack players and you ended up getting good enough to quit turning tricks? What’s the deal?”

  “Are you calling me a whore?”

  He throws back his head in a healthy guffaw. “No, I’m just trying to get you worked up so you can tell me the truth. So what is it?”

  My heart races as I bust against his soft eighteen and Cash wins $100,000. Is he casually keeping track of the count while chatting me up?

  I draw in a deep breath, keenly aware of Wyatt and Victor’s watchful eyes. “It was my dad. He was a card shark, and he taught me how to play from a very young age.”

  “Did he teach you how to deal?” he asks, lowering his bet to $10,000 on this hand.

  He knows if he keeps betting $100,000 or higher when the deck is hot, he’ll get backed off fast. He’s smart to lower the bet.

  He’s a patient card counter, like my dad.

  The strategy he’s using isn’t immediately obvious to the floormen or the eyes in the sky, but I can spot it a mile away. That $100,000 bet probably got flagged, but the minute he lowered it back to $10,000, it was like throwing a little water on the flames. But my dad taught me this method, which he used to call anchoring. Purposely lowering the bet when the deck is hot makes you look like you’re going on gut instinct. Of course, you can never be sure that you’ll win, so lowering your bet when the deck is hot is perfectly acceptable strategy for prudent card counters after a big win.

  I can’t make $87,000 on one set of customers then lose $90,000 on another. This won’t look good for me. I could alert Victor, but I’m not certain Cash is actually counting. I guess I’ll just have to wait for Victor to step in, if necessary.

  He loses the next hand in an odd deviation from basic strategy, then he looks up at me as I take his chip. “Did your dad teach you how to deal?”

  I smile as I think about the days my dad would let me stay up late practicing. “He used to make me cut cheques for hours when he was first teaching me how to deal,” I reply as he sets down another $10,000 bet and I deal the next hand.

  “Cut cheques?” he asks. “I don’t get it.”

  “I thought you were a big gambler?”

  “Not really,” he replies, motioning for a hit.

  I deal him a card and he gets twenty-one, making back the ten-grand he lost on the last hand, so he’s still up ninety. “Cutting cheques is the act of cutting and stacking the chips,” I reply. “It’s a means of counting chips quickly to keep track of the money when settling deals.”

  He stares at me for a while, a soft smile turning the corners of his lips. “I was only kidding. I know what it means, I just wanted to hear you explain it. You look cute when you’re teaching.”

  I roll my eyes. “Jerk.” I clap my hand over my mouth and he bursts out laughing. “I’m so sorry, it just slipped out. I guess I’m getting a little too comfortable. I apologize.”

  He holds up his hand to stop me. “Please don’t apologize. This is the most interesting conversation I’ve had all night.”

  “Really?”

  He laughs again. “Don’t look so surprised. It’s not like having money makes a person more interesting, right?”

  I shrug as I wait for him to make another bet. “I guess I never really thought about it. I just assumed rich people lead really exciting lives.”

  He shakes his head. “I know enough boring rich people to keep me fully stocked with yawns for the rest of my life.”

  I hear someone cough behind me and I have a strong feeling it was Victor signaling me to keep the conversation to a minimum.

  I smile at Cash and the smile he returns me is warm with a hint of sadness. “Mr. Westbrook, are you going to place a bet?”

  He lowers his gaze to the table and lets out a soft chuckle. “Actually, I think I’m going to call it a night.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and lays it on the table. “If you should ever need a refresher course on spotting card sharks, I offer my services to you free of charge.” He gets up to leave, sending me into a panic.

  “Wait! Your chips!”

  He glances over his shoulder at the $90,000 worth of chips on the table. Turning around slowly, he takes a stack of eight $10,000 chips and leaves one behind.

  He winks at me as he places the $10,000 chip on top of the business card. “That’s my jerk tax,” he says with a smile, then he turns around and walks away.

  My eyes follow him until he disappears behind the waterfall in the center of the room. I turn to face Wyatt and Victor, and the other floorman who joined them earlier. Victor does not look concerned at all that I just gave up $90,000 of the casino’s money.

  “Was I supposed to alert you to the questionable plays?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “Eye in the sky alerted me, but I let it slide. Westbrook’s dropped millions here. $90,000 won’t make a dent in that.”

  Millions? Now I’m even more confused. I really thought he was counting. Es
pecially with the comment about spotting card sharks. I shake my head as my face gets hot with embarrassment.

  Did I just get played?

  I spend much of the rest of the night trying to forget about Cash Westbrook. And by the time I’ve finished my shift and changed out of my uniform into a tank top and jeans, I’ve managed to cram my head with the usual thoughts of bills and bookies. When I walk out to my car on the third level of the employee parking garage, my adrenaline is still on a slight surge. I draw in a long breath of hot Vegas air, which I almost choke on when I see Cash Westbrook leaning against my Ford Escape.

  5

  Cash

  Hector and Dex have been keeping me entertained for the last ninety minutes, while I wait for Kara, with stories about their family. Hector’s mom recently surprised everyone in the family by presenting his cheating father with divorce papers the day after his youngest sibling turned eighteen. Dex’s twenty-three-year-old sister called him from her summer trip to Italy to inform him she’d fallen in love with a forty-five-year-old Italian drummer. These are the kinds of stories that make me feel like I might actually be normal rather than the screw-up my father makes me out to be.

  I know it’s not “normal” to gamble away millions of dollars in less than two months. And partying almost every night of the week is probably not the best way to change my father’s opinion of me. But there are very few things that make the memories of that night on the beach fade into the periphery. One of those is getting shit-faced drunk. The other is the adrenaline high I get when taking huge risks at a blackjack table or in a board room.

  Now that I have to magically produce a fiancée to win back the hearts of a bunch of stodgy board members, it’s time to focus my risk taking elsewhere.

  “Hey, hey. Heads up,” Hector says, and he and Dex stand up straight.

  I cock my head to the side and smile as I watch Kara approaching her car. “You look like you could use a drink or four,” I say, pushing off her car to meet her near the rear of the SUV.

  She stops a few feet away from me. “Sorry, it’s against club policy to fraternize with customers.”

  “Is it against club policy to exercise with customers? I’ve got a great home gym in my penthouse.”

  She laughs, then she seems to realize something and she quickly stops. “I have to go.”

  Without thinking, I reach out and grab her wrist to stop her. “Wait.”

  She glances at my hand around her wrist. “I can’t,” she whispers, shaking her head.

  I can feel her pulse racing under my fingertips. “I know you probably get approached by billionaires in parking lots all day,” I begin, relishing the smile she’s trying to suppress. “And I know you’ve probably heard a lot of very bad things about me. Aside from the obvious, you’ve probably heard that I’m a bit of a player.”

  This time she doesn’t try to hide her laughter. “A bit of a player?”

  “Okay, it’s true. I’ve spent the past few years going through women like a fat man goes through Cheetos, but don’t let my past scare you.”

  “Your past?” she scoffs. “You call front page of this week’s Star magazine your past?”

  “I thought you said you don’t believe everything the media tells you?”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Can I have my wrist back?”

  I smile as I let go, trying to brush off her mention of this week’s media scandal, though inside I’m really hoping she didn’t read any of the articles. Especially the one in Star magazine.

  Lana Trudeau, the reporter at Star, has a love-hate relationship with me ever since I fucked her brains out in L.A. a couple of years ago, when I was trying to convince her not to print a story about a very wild trip I took to Cabo. This week, Lana printed a timeline of all the famous women I’ve been spotted with since Vanessa’s death. I’m sure that really impressed her bloodsucking coworkers.

  “You don’t have to worry about that club policy with me, because I’m no longer a customer. I just quit gambling.” I take a step closer, so close I have to look down into those wide chestnut-brown eyes. “I think you should celebrate with me.”

  She swallows hard and, for a good minute, she seems to be staring at the top button of my shirt. Finally, she glances over her shoulder, toward the elevator, then she looks up at me.

  “I’ll go home with you on one condition.”

  I blink a few times, surprised that she’s giving in so quickly. Obviously, it doesn’t take most women very long to acquiesce to my whims, but I expected Kara to make me work a bit harder. And honestly, that’s kind of what drew me to her. Maybe she’s not as smart as she seemed when I was sitting at her table earlier.

  “What condition?” I ask, hoping her terms will prove my new suspicions about her are incorrect.

  “You have to make me want it,” she replies, the corners of her luscious lips turning up in a seductive smile, and it takes everything in me not to kiss her right there, just to taste her lip gloss. “And I don’t want you to make me promises you don’t intend to keep. I’m not the kind of girl who falls for that shit.”

  I smile as I realize she is the smart girl I thought she was. “No promises. Just a good, clean fuck,” I reply. “And trust me, sweetheart, I won’t just make you want it. I’ll make you need it.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She takes one more glance over her shoulder, as if she’s starting to get paranoid. “Well, make that three conditions. First, you have to make me want it. Second, you cannot tell anyone even remotely associated with the club about this. And third, you have to agree that there are no expectations afterward. You don’t expect me to call you and the same goes for me. Do we have a deal?”

  I cock an eyebrow. “Do we need to put this in writing? Should I get my lawyer on the phone?”

  She rolls her eyes and begins to turn around, but I grab both her arms and press her up against the back of her SUV.

  “Looks like you’re calling the shots on the terms of this deal,” I whisper, my face inches from hers. “But first, we need to get something crystal clear. I call the shots in the bedroom. Because when I fuck you, I’m not just going to fuck that sweet little pussy of yours. I’m going to take every inch of you, and true to my word, you’re going to beg me for it. Understood?”

  6

  Kara

  I don’t know whether to scream bloody murder or kiss him right there. His gaze is locked on my eyes, telling me I have no choice but to agree to his terms if I want him to agree to mine. And, though I can’t let him know, I probably want this more than he does. This is my chance to make my dad’s medical bills disappear by expediting his insurance claim with Union Oil. If Cash can sleep with a new girl every night just for the sake of getting his dick wet, then I can sleep with a billionaire for roughly a hundred thousand dollars.

  It doesn’t take a lack of morals to have a one-night-stand. All it takes is a little desperation, a touch of motivation, and a large dose of animal attraction. And maybe a little alcohol.

  “I need a drink,” I declare, without acknowledging whether I agree to his terms.

  He narrows his eyes a little, then he seems to let this slide as he backs away. “Come with me. We’ll go in my car.”

  I shake my head. “No. I need to take my car in case I have to leave. If I can’t take my car, I won’t go.”

  He chuckles. “Okay, Dex will drive your car and you’ll ride with me. That way you won’t have to pay for valet parking or show ID to get in the parking garage.” He tilts his head when he notices my trepidation at letting someone else drive my car. “You said you wanted to be discreet, didn’t you?”

  I nod as I hand him my keys and he walks around to the other side of the SUV, where his two enormous bodyguards are standing. I shoot off a quick text to my dad’s caregiver to let her know I’ll be back late. Then, I watch through the windows as Cash hands the black guy my keys and the Hispanic guy follows him toward the back of the car.

  “Let’s go.” He holds out his e
lbow for me to take his arm.

  I smile as I tuck my hand in the pocket of my jeans. “Let’s go.”

  He shakes his head as we head up to the top level of the parking garage, where the billionaire customers park their cars right underneath the roof of the structure, which is reserved for two helipads. I wonder if he has a helicopter. I chuckle to myself at this thought. Of course he has a helicopter. He’s a self-important billionaire who’s only concerned with his image.

  I can see that much from the Armani suit and the fact that not a single hair on his head is out of place. I roll my eyes as I realize he probably has a personal stylist who dresses him and does his hair every day. She probably schedules his regular teeth-whitening appointments, facials, and mani-pedis, among other things.

  It’s even hotter on this level than it was on the employee level. I pull my hair up and fan my neck as we walk. The last thing I need is for my sweat glands to ruin the mood.

  Cash opens the back door of the silver Mercedes for me, his gaze raking over my body as I step forward. “You look insanely hot in that outfit.”

  “You mean, I look like I’m about to melt. I hope overactive sweat glands turn you on,” I say, getting into the car.

  He smiles as he holds the door open. “The sweatier and slicker the better.”

  I let out a deep breath and press my thighs together, trying to quell the throbbing between my legs. Inhaling the scent of leather and lemon-scented leather conditioner, I lean back into the comfortable seat.

  Cash slides in through the other door, then the bodyguard pulls out of the space and heads out of the garage. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes until the Mercedes is out on the streets of Vegas. The back windows of the car are heavily tinted, but I can still see the gaudy neon lights as we drive down the Strip.