The fat man’s volume increases until he is practically shouting at the now cowering woman. I continue watching, noting that the bartender keeps peeking over her shoulder regularly, keeping tabs on what is happening behind her. While I watch over the rim of my glass the petite waitress seems to shrink inward, making herself even smaller. I strain to hear the words being exchanged, but they are still being drowned out by the sounds of the bar behind me and the constant clanging of slot machines out on the casino floor.
The man’s face is a mask of hostility and his body language conveys the same. Whatever the woman just said to him made it worse. My ruse of indifference slips and I jump to my feet, ignoring the throbbing in my knee, when his hands fly toward her and she flinches away from him as he grasps her shoulders and gives her a shake. I am in no way okay with any man putting his hands on a woman in anger, and this guy is no exception.
I’m looking for the quickest route behind the bar and into the kitchen, not sure why this little drama is upsetting me so much, when he takes her by the arm and turns her physically toward a room service cart standing nearby. He points upstairs, his jaws still flapping angrily, his meaty cheeks flushed red with anger, before shaking his head in what looks like disgust before walking away, leaving her wringing her hands beside the cart.
The accelerated beating of my heart slows infinitesimally as I watch him leave. I stand there, unable to tear my eyes away as she slowly straightens her spine, visually gathering her composure, and turns toward the overburdened cart. My breath hitches painfully in my lungs and my heart clenches as she wipes tears from her flushed cheeks with shaking hands and slowly starts pushing the cart toward the waiting service elevator.
So, this is how it happens? I expected something more… I don’t know. Dramatic, maybe?
Just one damn look at her angel-perfect face and I’m sunk. Her sad, chestnut brown eyes are seared into my heart. Now my life’s purpose is to erase that look and make sure no one and nothing ever makes her face reflect that kind of shame and despair ever again.
Mine! The word echoes through my mind, and I already know that I’m not going to fight this. She is mine or she will be soon enough.
Now I just have to find out who she is.
Chapter Two
Elinor (Ellie) Lovell
I almost wish I hadn’t asked to pick up extra waitressing shifts this week. I’ve barely had a minute to relax in weeks and today? Today has been the worst day I’ve ever had at work. I’ve had worse ones in my life, obviously, but this one… just wow! The worst thing is that today is nowhere near ending. I already worked the night shift, covering for one of the girls in the laundry department, but just as I was getting ready to catch the bus that would take me home, Lawrence caught up with me, letting me know that one of the regular waitresses had called in sick, leaving an overtime shift available for me.
Lawrence is the manager of the café and the lounge in the Luminoso Casino where I work. He is also the one who agreed to give me a chanc
e with waitressing. I really need the money, so even though I’m already exhausted, I couldn’t bring myself to turn down the extra hours. I quickly changed into a server’s uniform and untwisted my hair from its long, tight braid to pull it into a high, wavy ponytail that is cute and flirty. It didn’t take me long to discover that the more attractive I make myself, the better my tips are. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is.
At first, I was happy at the opportunity to work today. Even happier that I would be able to walk out with some cash in my pocket at the end of the day. At least I was until Lawrence let me know that I would be delivering room service trays instead of serving meals in the cafe or drinks on the casino floor. That’s where the tips are. Not delivering room service. Not to mention that pushing that heavy cart, in a skimpy dress and heels that I can barely walk in, is not my idea of a good time. I’ve only made two deliveries and already my feet are killing me.
The guests so far have been horrible too. What the heck is wrong with some people? Shouldn’t they be happy when they’re on vacation? I thought Vegas was supposed to be like Disneyland for adults. The happiest place on earth? I can’t help rolling my eyes at the thought.
I swear Lawrence has purposefully been giving me the worst assignments since he asked me on a date last week and I turned him down. I didn’t say no because I find him repulsive, which I do. I just don’t date. I haven’t in ages. Not even casually. I have too many responsibilities and not enough time or energy to consider pursuing a relationship with any of the men I meet at work. It’s not like I get much opportunity to meet them anywhere else.
Already exhausted from working the night shift and humiliated by the dressing down that Lawrence just gave me, I wipe my eyes with shaking fingers. If I didn’t need this job so badly… It’s better not to think that way. I do need it, so there is no use crying about it. Grasping the handle of the room service cart firmly in my hands, I lean my weight into it and push it to the waiting elevator.
This is the second time today I’m having to deliver breakfast to Dr. and Mrs. Rosewood. They are horrible people but have apparently been celebrating their anniversary here since before Mr. Cerelli acquired the casino from his uncle and changed its name. You know the type. Dr. Rosewood is a plastic surgeon. His wife, I’m sure, was his patient before she married him. She is at least twenty years younger than he is, which makes her ten or fifteen years older than me. Of course, when I delivered their breakfast first thing this morning, absolutely nothing was right. According to her, the eggs were undercooked, the juice didn’t taste fresh-squeezed...probably because it wasn’t… we’re a casino, not some fancy-schmancy resort where we hand squeeze the OJ. It’s not like it’s cheap or sour. No one else ever complains about it.
Nothing she was dissatisfied about was my fault, but to people like the Rosewoods… well, they kill the messenger. Before I could even get back to the kitchen to request the replacement meal Mrs. Rosewood demanded, she had already called down and spoke to Lawrence. She blamed me, which in turn, gave him the kind of opening he thrives on. So, because somehow the kitchen messing up their order is my fault, I get to take up a new one. Including Bloody Marys that I’m paying for out of my own pocket for some reason. She threatened that I would pay, I guess this is what she meant.
I’m literally paying for the wealthy woman’s drinks.
It’s not like I make a lot of money doing these extra shifts since they end up being taxed higher. I do it for the tips, and since no one has been what you would call generous today, those drinks mean I’ll be going home without cash in my pocket. I have no doubt that Lawrence will make sure I pay Tina before I leave for the day.
I can’t help my small sigh of dismay as the elevator door whisks open silently. I won’t be stopping for coffee on my way home this afternoon, I guess. Mom will make some if I text her while I’m on the bus.
My usually cool temper is simmering just below the surface because Loser Larry could have just comped the bar tab for the drinks and let Mrs. Rosewood believe that she got one over on me. He does it for unhappy guests all the time. But no! This is just his way of punishing me for rejecting him. He’s such a … such a JERK!
Still fuming, I knock on the door to the Rosewood’s suite and mentally prepare myself for the attack that is sure to be coming. I don’t have to wait long.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Rosewood’s nasal voice grates over me as she flings the door open and glares at me, her hands fisted on her abundant hips. “I’m surprised that they let you come back since you are obviously too stupid for this job. You should just go back to scrubbing toilets,” she sneers, her red-painted lips curling in disgust while she looks me up and down. “It is where you people belong.”
She means because I’m Latina and I know it. Keeping my eyes lowered so she doesn’t see the pain and rage burning in them, I push inside on my wobbly heels.
“Yes, ma’am.” I reply quietly. I’m not going to engage with this witch. She can say what she wants. Right now, I wish I were back in housekeeping. Anything, even dirty toilets, are better than being subjected to this woman and her nastiness. Swiftly, I set the covered dishes on the table and remove the covers for her inspection before I take a step away.
A movement close by catches my eye and I turn my head ever so slightly. I can barely smother my gasp of disgust as the esteemed Dr. Rosewood struts into the room in nothing but a disgustingly tight, white speedo that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, much to my horror. A thick gold chain around his neck peeks out from the carpet of black and grey hair covering his chest and shoulders.
Oh my-Lanta! I think I’m going to be sick. This job is so not worth it. At least not today.
Embarrassed by the unseemly display, I look back toward the doctor’s snotty missus. She glares at me… again. It’s not as effective now that I’m getting used to it.