The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

To: Sophie Jameson

Subject: re: Job expectations

Miss Jameson,

Please check your phone. It should be turned on and close by at all times should I have a need of your services.

Sincerely,

Jared Hart, Owner and Operator, The Black Hart Casino & Hotel

A growl vibratesin my throat as I walk out of the kitchen in search of my phone. I find it on my bed where I dropped it when I went to change. I’d turned the volume down earlier this afternoon when Ava and Zoey were blowing up our group chat with supportive memes and gifs about kicking ass and getting the job done.

I still haven’t told them my new boss is the man from the auction. The same man I confronted in the casino Saturday night. Right in front of them.

Sifting through all of the notifications, I find one for a text message from a local Las Vegas number that came through ten minutes ago.

702-555-2309: This is Jared Hart. I need you to pick up some reports from the print shop and bring them to me tonight.

I feel every muscle in my body tighten with anger. I’m exhausted, I’m starving, and he wants me to just drop what I’m doing to be his courier? Fuck to the no.

Me: I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to help you tonight. I’m off the clock. See you tomorrow.

702-555-2309: This is not a 9 to 5 job, Sophie. I need those reports. You’re my assistant. Assist me. Go pick them up at Tropicana Printing and bring them to me at Mercacio’s at 8pm.

I look at the clock in the upper corner of the screen. It’s seven-fifteen. That bastard is giving me forty-five minutes to get all the way across town to the printer’s office, get the reports, then drive all the way back to the restaurant to deliver them?

I can only make it on time if I leave right now.

I look down at my comfy clothes, a devilish smile curving my lips. My thumbs fly across the screen as I type out a response.

Me: No problem. See you there at 8.

Mercacio’sis one of those fancy-schmancy places where they won’t let a guy in if he’s not wearing a suit jacket. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never been able to afford it, myself, and getting a reservation is damn near impossible.

And Mr. Bigshot Casino Owner wants to spring this on me last-minute? A task he knows is difficult, at best, in an impossible timeline?

Well, he deserves what he gets.

Leaving my dinner in the microwave, I grab my purse and keys and head out the door just as I am. Messy bun, ratty clothes, and slippers.

By the time I have the reports and am on my way to the restaurant, I’m riding high on a wave of self-righteous indignation. Jared Hart is an insufferable asshole, expecting me to be at his beck and call at all hours of the day and night.

A small voice in my head reminds me that this is what I signed up for when I decided on this career path, but I scream at it to shut the fuck up. I’m pissed. And rightfully so. I know he’s only sent me on this errand because he’s mad that Scotty hired me and he has no other option but to keep me around.

Just as I’m angry that I have no choice but to stay until I find another job.

We’re two angry people determined to make each other miserable. How could this possibly end well?

I pull up to the restaurant and hop out of the car with the reports in hand. The valet attendant eyes me suspiciously, but I ignore the look and toss him my keys.

“Keep it close. I’ll only be a minute,” I say as I rush toward the entrance.

It’s seven fifty-eight, and I’m damn well not going to be late.

The hostess turns up her perfectly highlighted nose as I approach, her cherry-red lips curving into a deep frown.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but the restaurant is––”