The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

I know it’s strange, that a noisy, chaotic casino floor grounds me like this, but it’s true. Ever since I was a kid, this place has been a second home to me. I remember Dad bringing me to work, pointing out a new bank of slot machines or a shiny new roulette table he’d added. Always expanding, always refreshing the layout.

Making this one of the most profitable casinos on the strip. For me. It’s my legacy.

Neither of us realized I’d be taking over so soon, but despite only being twenty-two, I jumped in with both feet soon after his death to make sure the casino didn’t flounder. I wanted to honor him. To make him proud.

And I think I have.

“Hey, Jared. Didn’t expect to see you here today.”

I turn at the sound of my name to see Sam Simmons striding toward me. My number one pit boss and, truth be told, my best friend. Sam has had my back since the moment I took over, when he was just a blackjack dealer and occasional bartender when the need arose. He barreled his way through all the walls I erected following the heart attack that stole my father’s life.

“Hey, Sam. How’s it going today?”

“Typical Saturday,” he says with a grin. “Regulars blowing their paychecks at the tables like they don’t realize the house always wins in the end. Oh, and Miss Judy from the Granny Patrol won a jackpot over in section eight.”

I return his smile and nod. Sam playfully dubbed the group of little old ladies from the nearby senior community “The Granny Patrol.” They come in every Saturday afternoon, play slots for hours, drink mojitos, and hit on what they call the “young bucks” behind the bar. My father knew each of them by name—that’s how long they’ve held the tradition—and I always try to stop by to greet them when they’re here.

“How much?” I ask.

“Four grand.”

I whistle. “Good for her.”

“She offered James a hundred bucks to take his shirt off.”

A laugh barks out of me. James is one of my most popular bartenders at the horseshoe-shaped bar near the floor. He’s a six-foot-two blond behemoth with muscles for miles and a face that belongs in Hollywood.

And his boyfriend, Spencer, is a dealer in the poker room.

“He didn’t, did he?” I ask, arching a brow.

“Of course, not,” Sam scoffs, then chuckles. “He made a blow job shot and taught her how to take it with no hands. She said it was the most action she’s gotten in two decades and tipped him the hundred bucks, anyway.”

A little old lady paid a hundred bucks for a blow job? I shake my head. Only in Vegas.

“I’m going to head to my office for a bit. Drinks after your shift?” I ask, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You’re buying,” he says with a wink, then heads back to his station in the center of a circle of gaming tables. “And none of that soda water crap you drink for me. I want the good stuff.”

I shake my head and smile as I head toward the elevators that will take me up to the executive suite. I already feel better, just like I knew I would.

This casino is my happy place. My solace. It’s everything I need and everything I’ll ever need.

This place is my kingdom, and it’s good to be king.