Stripped Bare (Vegas Billionaire 1)

“I want this car—”

“Alex Jones.”

Smirking, I shake my head and rub my hand over my mouth. “Didn’t ask for your name and I don’t appreciate being interrupted. As I was saying, I want this car and Scott over there is going to get the commission or I’m walking out that door and everyone will know exactly how bad the service is here.”

“Yes, Mr. McCormick.”

It’s underhanded of me and I don’t care. I know what it’s like to get that big paycheck. It’s powerful and exhilarating. And I have a serious problem with people taking shit that isn’t theirs.

Scott walks back over with his shoulders squared and a look of pride on his face. “Mr. McCormick, please forgive me for not recognizing you when you walked in. I recently transferred to UNLV and this is my first week on the job.”

My name speaks for who I am and how successful I’ve become since graduating from UNLV. I chose to stay in the area and help the city that I fell in love with prosper and grow instead of taking my knowledge elsewhere. Plus, I love the hot desert heat and the fact that I am never cold.

“Where are you from?”

“Wisconsin.”

“Pretty big cultural change between here and there.”

He smiles and I remember being new to Vegas. The fucking strip joints were my best friends and the constant access to all the tits and ass I wanted to look at couldn’t be beaten.

“Yes, sir, but I’m enjoying it. Let’s sign your papers.”

Following him over to the empty desk, he sits across from me and shows me where to sign and, as I’m writing the check, he calls for someone to open the showroom windows so I can drive my new baby home.

We shake hands after I hand him the check and tell him if he ever needs anything to give me a call. I have a feeling he won’t be long with this job and simply out of spite I’d hire him. The pay wouldn’t be the same, but it’d be a job where he’s respected.

Climbing back into my new car, I close my eyes and press the ignition button, listening to her come to life. She purrs, reminding of a woman who is about to climax. With the gas pedal slightly depressed, her moans become louder until I ease up, bringing her down from her high. Thinking about driving her out on the open road through the valleys is making me hard.

When the coast is clear, I pull out slowly and drop my aviators over my eyes. My Benz is sitting there, reminding me that I need to have someone come and pick it up. Later. Right now I want to see what this beauty can do. As soon as I hit Route 159 and I’m out of town, I press the gas pedal and shift until I’m pushing the speedometer, driving in and out of each corner, the car never slipping off her base. With the top down, the wind pushes her fingers through my already-messed-up hair and a quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I’m still a hot-ass motherfucker.

All too soon I’m back near the Strip and back to fucking reality. The sun is down and the nightlife is starting to rise. As I troll down the Strip, I consciously make eye contact with as many beautiful women as I can. The action makes me look like a douche in the eyes of the men they are with, but it has me wondering if the women stop and ponder what it’d be like to be with me, as they sit in the backseat of the idle cab, looking at my car and finally realizing that I’m eyeing them. The subtlest of moves has me guessing that they’re crossing their legs and imagining the ride I could give them, completely forgetting about the man sitting next to them. It’s never my intention to touch another man’s chick, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. With the nice suits and cars like this, coupled with my dark hair and light blue eyes, women gravitate toward me. And once they figure out that I have the cash to back it up, they fucking flock to me like moths to flame and bring their friends with them. The men they were with quickly and easily forgotten without a second glance once the money starts talking.

Turning in to the hotel garage, I flash my ID at the attendant.

“Nice car, Mr. McCormick.”

“Thanks,” I say, driving forward until I enter the private section that is meant solely for me. I let my friends park here when they come to the casino, but other than that, this space is exclusively for my Benz, Wrangler and now my Ferrari.

I live in my hotel in a custom two-story penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows giving me a view of the city whenever I want it. With the marble floors and counters, my home is everything the quintessential Vegas suites aren’t. I opted for black, grays and the industrial look with a gold staircase. The gold was for my mother. She had always wanted one in our house, but my father never put one in, until it was too late for her to enjoy it.