The Boss's Runaway

At the rear of the lounge, Faye reaches up onto a shelf and hands me a folded stack of clothing. “Put on your uniform and we’ll see if it needs any…adjusting.”

“Thank you.”

I wait for her to leave, but she simply stands there, watching me. Having no choice, it seems, I strip off the same dress I was wearing yesterday, sighing when it smells like Locke’s laundry detergent.

“So…I’m guessing the interview went well,” Faye begins, conversationally. “Did you have to take your dress off for Craig, like the rest of us?”

My face heats at the blunt question. “No.”

Her smile spreads like a Cheshire cat. “Took it off for Locke, instead, hmm?” She studies her nails. “In the understatement of the year…he must have liked what he saw.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I mumble, feeling the need to defend us. She makes what I have with Locke sound seedy and purely physical, but it’s not.

“What was it like?” Faye asks, chuckling when I remain staunchly silent. “You know, we all call him the priest. He doesn’t partake in the buffet of debauchery here in Vegas. Doesn’t speak to women, doesn’t drink. That’s why he’s the best pit boss in town. Never has an off day. Never hungover or sweating over a fight with the wife. He’s even-keeled. Calm and methodical.” She nods at the entrance to the lounge where we came in. “Until now. I’ve never seen him so worked up.”

“He’s just worried about me.”

“After knowing you for one day?”

I pull on the gold, sequined dress, gulping when it barely covers any of my thighs, let alone reaching my knees. “Yes,” I say without thinking. “After one day.”

“Wow. Must be nice to have a man pant after you like that.” She whirls me around to zip up my dress, making the garment tight. Everywhere. “This dress is a size too small for you, but…the object of this job is to make tips, right? Could work in your favor. Our male customers are going to lose their minds over this ass.” She pats my butt with a laugh. “It’s going to be an entertaining shift watching Locke sweat bullets in the blackjack pit.”

“I don’t want him to sweat bullets. I’d like the bigger size, please.”

“Sorry,” she singsongs, gesturing to the empty shelves. “Fresh out.”

My nerves start to jangle, but I don’t have time to worry much more about the uniform, because Faye hooks her elbow in my arm and drags me toward the door.

My fingers tighten around the tray in my hands.

Locke was right.

That’s my first thought when I make my initial lap around the table games and male attention rolls toward me in a lecherous wave. They aren’t subtle about looking at my body. They ogle my breasts, which are pushed up and on display in the neckline of this too-snug dress. The hem is short, but it rides up ominously now, so often that I have to keep tugging it down. And the gamers seem to enjoy watching me struggle to remain covered by the gold material, some of them openly turning in their chairs to watch me.

I feel naked and vulnerable, but Faye only laughs at my expression.

“We’ve got a randy crop tonight!” she says to me out of the corner of her mouth. “Bet you won’t be complaining when we’re counting our tips at the end of the night.” She gives me a subtle elbow in the ribs. “By the way, fifty percent of your tips are mine while you’re training.”

Once that piece of information is shared, her refusal to find a dress in my correct size makes a lot more sense. She’s benefitting from my discomfort. I’m half naked out here in front of hundreds of strangers so she can make some extra cash.

That realization makes me nauseous.

“Ooh, would you look at your boyfriend?” Faye croons. “He is not happy.”

My heart shoots up into my mouth, my gaze swinging around the casino floor and eventually landing on Locke where he stands frozen in the center of the pit of blackjack tables, his face a mask of pure fury. Even though he is visibly angry, I still can’t help to take a moment to appreciate how sexy he is in this setting, as the pit boss. He towers over the dealers slinging cards at the surrounding tables, his suit impeccable, radiating authority. I want to be in his lap kissing his mouth and feel the rise of his erection beneath me. I want to disrobe for him, dance for him, do everything for him in this moment.

I’m obsessed with this man.

The infatuation is under my skin, making me hot and shaky.

In the back of my head, I can hear the groaning springs of his king-size bed as we rolled around, him coming in warm, sticky splats over and over again while he tickled me, kissed me, licked my nipples.