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LACEY

“Oh, for the love of a milk cow.” I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to believe what I’m seeing on the computer screen.

My bank balance is negative four hundred and forty-two dollars.

When I open my eyes, that’s not what I will see. That was a hallucination. Blurred vision. Or something.

I’m not even drunk or high, though.

I crack one eye open and peer at the laptop again. Shit.

“How can this be?” My stomach clenches painfully. I click to look at the transactions in the account. “Jesus.” My gaze fastens on the large withdrawal four days ago. All my savings ... gone.

It’s not like I had millions or anything, but damn, I’d just gotten out of the debt I’d accumulated when Mom had gotten sick. I was just starting to get ahead of the game.

I swallow and press my fingers to my mouth. My insides start trembling.

I’d bought groceries and paid the electric bill not knowing my bank balance was zero, which had put me into overdraft. “Chris. What the fuck have you done?”

I slump back in the couch, the laptop on the table in front of me.

I haven’t seen my brother in two days. How did he do that? Steal my bank card? Guess my PIN? Where the hell is he?

I want to cry. I want to scream and punch things. Possibly my brother, who, while being the same age as me since we’re twins, feels more like my child.

This wasn’t always true. But Chris got himself into trouble and I’ve been yanking my hair out trying to get him to change his life.

I give up.

I hate to think those words. I’m not a quitter. I take pride in my ability to bounce back. To land on my feet. But I’m tired. So tired.

I need a plan. But I’m too exhausted to figure it out right now. I have to get to work—my shift at Silk Lounge starts in an hour. What’s the point of even going, though? What’s the point of anything?

No, no, I can’t think like that.

I rub my aching forehead and haul my weary ass up out of the chair to get ready for work. I have to go, since it’s the only job I have right now, other than my freelance work. It’ll be worth going in just for the tips. I can do pretty well in an evening. Silk is a high-end cocktail lounge located on the top floor of the Wellborne Resort on the Vegas Strip, with panoramic views of the city, chill-out tunes, and pricey artisan cocktails.

I wriggle into my black dress—short, tight, with narrow straps—do my hair and makeup, and toss my heels into my backpack. With my black Chucks on my feet, I head out to take the bus to the Strip. I lean my head against the bus window, staring sightlessly through it as the bus bumps its way across town from our little apartment on South Decatur to the glitzy Vegas everyone knows.

I’ve lived here my whole life. I both love it and hate it. Las Vegas, the entertainment capital of the world. For most people who live here, it’s just like everywhere else; and yet it’s also like nowhere else. This town is alive and awake twenty-four/seven. Money, sex, and gambling are everywhere. And yet there are people who work ordinary jobs, like teachers and doctors, who go to work and go home and never interact with the tourists who flood the city. Then there are people like me and Chris—who grew up a part of the entertainment industry because of our mother. And people like Chris, who fall prey to the gambler’s self-centered interest in winning and the parts of the city I hate—addiction and despair.

In the staff room at the Silk Lounge, I add some shiny gloss to my lips and slide into black high heels. My feet will be dying in an hour, but it’s part of the job.

I used to love the vibe at Silk, and there’s no denying the beauty of the glittering view of the city outside the windows, but now it’s like wallpaper—always there. Inside, the lounge glitters too, with lots of metallics and crystals and little white lights everywhere, the furniture upholstered in purple, blue, and gray velvets. Silk draperies in similar shades hang from the ceilings to separate table groupings.

I swing into the rhythm of my work, keeping my smile fixed in place, flirting mildly with customers. Inside, I’m a mess of frustration and anger and hopelessness, but nobody cares about that. My co-workers know me as perpetually cheerful and dependable no matter what’s going on in my life, and customers don’t want doom and gloom from their server.

Around nine o’clock, a group of men come into the lounge. I don’t know who they are, and they’re not dressed in suits and ties, but Enrico, the shift manager, springs into action to arrange some of the curved couches, chairs, and brushed metal tables into a grouping for them. In my section.

I sigh. Probably a bachelor party. Guys from Omaha or something, out for a wild time. Yay.

This is a tradition I have come to despise. The guys all expect the groom to act like a complete jack wagon because it’s his last night of “freedom.” For fuck’s sake. I’ve seen fights break out. Saw a groom fall over the railing and break both his ankles. I’ve dealt with the drunks hitting on me in all kinds of ways—groping me, cornering me, trying to kiss me ... including the groom.

I can only hope they have money and will tip well.

There are about ten of them, and wow, they’re all big guys. Nicely dressed and clean cut. A few middle-aged guys, some younger, like, in their twenties. I smile at them all. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Lacey. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

I wait for the lewd comments about how I could “take care of” them.

Instead they all chorus, “Hi, Lacey,” making me smile. In a glance I can see they’ve already been drinking, but none of them seem hammered. Yet.

“You guys celebrating something tonight?”

“Yeah.” The man nearest me nods and gestures to another guy. “Théo here got a new job.”

I smile at the man he gestured to. “Congratulations.” Okay, not a bachelor party. Whee.

“He’s moving to California,” another guy says. “Tomorrow. Fucker.”

Théo grins.

My guess is ... accountant. Théo’s a good-looking dude, with dark-rimmed glasses that give him a sort of sexy scholar look. His brown hair is cut short, but longer on top. Compared to the other guys, who are all dressed in casual clothes—although I notice expensive watches and more than one pair of red-soled shoes—he’s wearing a neat, button-down shirt over black dress pants. My gaze lingers on wide shoulders and flat abs. If he’s an accountant, he must work out. “What you are all drinking tonight?”

I wait with a smile. They order bottle service—bottles of expensive vodka, scotch, and tequila.

Back behind the bar, Crystal, one of my co-workers, says, “Lucky you, waiting on those guys!”

“Mmm. Why?”

“Don’t you know who they are?”

“Well, one of them is Théo Somebody, and he just got a new job in California.”

“They’re all hockey players! From the Nevada Mustangs!”

“Ah.” We’ve had a hockey team in town for a few years now; they made quite an entertainment splash in Sin City.

“Well, they’re not all players.” Crystal eyes the group. “I think the big older guy is the coach. I forget his name. And I don’t know who Théo is.”

“You’re not much of a fan.” I flash her a teasing smile.

“I’ve only been to a few games,” she admits. “But it was fun.”

I pick up my tray loaded with glasses. I don’t know anything about hockey, and I don’t usually have time to watch much of it, between this and the two other jobs I was working until recently.

The guys are all laughing uproariously about something when I arrive with their drinks, and I smile as I set things on the tables. No one grabs my ass as I bend over, so I count that as a win. Not only that, they all say thank you when I’m done. I’m impressed. Hopefully they’re good tippers.

“Should I bring food menus by?” I ask, making eye contact with a couple of the men.

“Yeah, yeah,” the first man who spoke says. “We should order some food.”

“Absolutely.”

After I’ve taken orders and served a variety of small plates for them to share, I take stock of the table to see if they’re getting low on anything. “Is your new job a promotion?” I ask the man named Théo.

I’m not really flirting with him. I like to be friendly and make conversation with the customers I’m taking care of.

“Yeah.” His grin is a little loose, like he’s well lubricated. “Sort of.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it, which is very attractive. My gaze drops to his legs; he has one foot crossed over the opposite knee, wearing expensive-looking loafers, his feet and ankles bare—no socks. For some reason, this strikes me as insanely sexy, and I have a hard time looking away. “Whole new job.”

“I’m sure you’ll do well at it.” I smile as I say it, even though I have no idea if that’s true. “Good luck.”

The man sitting beside him snorts. “You’re gonna need a fuckton of luck.”

This sparks my curiosity.

“I sure as hell am,” Théo agrees. “That’s why I’m getting shitfaced tonight.”

The other man’s forehead creases. “You sure you made the right decision, man?”

I sense his genuine concern and surmise they must be pretty good friends.

“I’m sure.” Théo nods, still smiling indolently. “You know me. Every decision carefully thought out.”

“True.”

“And I’m just joking about the luck. I got this, dude.” He lifts a hand, slaps it onto his friend’s thigh just above the knee, and squeezes.

“Yow!” The guy flinches.

Apparently Théo has strong hands.

“Get your mitts off me, asshole.” The man shoves Théo, but they’re both laughing.

I’m standing here watching them instead of working, and I give myself a mental shake. “Anything else I can get for you right now?” I keep my smile pleasant.

This time Théo meets my eyes, and I feel a little zap through to my core, a sizzling connection. He’s more attractive than I first thought. Maybe it was the glasses, or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention, but there’s something about him that pulls at me. The corners of his mouth are tipped up and his eyes gleam, as if he wants to ask me for something inappropriate.

And I kind of want him to do it.