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Authors: Stephanie Caffrey
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want to go to Hakk?" I assumed that was what the cool kids called Hakkasan.
"To what ?"
"Hakkasan, the club over at MGM."
He cocked his head sideways. "I'm on 'til three. And since when do you go clubbing?"
"I'm not going clubbing, " I said, as though the word were toxic. "It's for a case. And I'll pay you more to come with me than you'll make here." Carlos sometimes rode shotgun with me when I wanted some muscular backup. I had never known him to turn down the opportunity to work with me.
He frowned, considering it. From experience, I knew he would come, but he'd squeal in an effort to get more money out of me. It wasn't going to work.
"I would, but—"
"Just punch out. They'll be happy since it's slow anyways."
"Can't do it. I promised Javon I'd take his spot later."
Now I knew he was bluffing, since he never traded shifts with anyone.
"Suit yourself," I said, and turned away. I put the over-under for the time it would take for Carlos to come crawling back at five seconds. The under won.
"All right," he said, hustling immediately after me.
I turned around and allowed a little smile to creep up my face.
" Bitch, " he muttered, knowing he'd been played by a master.
That B word made my smile blossom. It meant I'd gotten under his skin. "Just give me a minute to change, and meet me at your car."
"I'm driving?" He protested.
"I walked here."
He pouted, as though asking him to drive the three miles to the MGM was like asking him to walk across hot coals. I rolled my eyes and headed back to my locker.
My yoga outfit was not going to fly at the club, which I knew had a dress code, but I had plenty of slinky outfits in my locker. Unfortunately most of them were a little too revealing—about the kind of stuff you'd expect a stripper to wear around a strip club, or the kind of outfit your slutty friend might wear at Halloween. I found a dark red cocktail dress and squeezed into it. On my way out I deliberately refused to check myself in the mirror, afraid of what I might see.
Carlos raised an eyebrow at my outfit when I met him at his car, a black Mustang GT with whiplash-inducing acceleration. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
We climbed in, and he pulled out of the parking lot with a loud and unnecessary thrust of the accelerator. The Strip at one in the morning was just getting warmed up. Throngs of tourists packed the corners, waiting for lights to change, slurping away at their yard-long glasses of watered-down margaritas. The High Roller observation wheel (don't call it a Ferris wheel, the locals said) was lit up ostentatiously, offering its passengers a 360-degree view of Las Vegas in all its glory. We caught mostly green lights through the heart of the Strip, passing Caesars Palace and Bellagio on my right, and then the City Center complex and Monte Carlo. Carlos got into the left lane and turned left on Tropicana, where we eased into a U-turn and then into the valet parking lane at the MGM Grand.
CHAPTER NINE
To say that the MGM Grand valet gave me a once-over as he helped me out of the car would not do justice to the prodigious gander down my top to which he helped himself. In fact, he ogled me so thoroughly that it made my skin tingle, which was a hard thing to accomplish after my decade of exotic dancing. I flashed him a thin smile and bit my lip, remembering that I was the one who'd spent ten grand on fake boobs and was currently dressed in clothes more commonly worn as a gag Halloween costume. What the hell did I expect? I figured I should have been upset if he didn't leer at me.
As Carlos stepped into the lights under the valet area, I grimaced.
"You know they have a dress code, right?"
He shrugged. "These babies get me in the door anywhere," he said, before laying a big smooch on each of his bulging biceps. Classy. He was decked out in the standard bouncer attire, which was designed to accentuate his muscles in an effort to dissuade potential hooligans from causing mischief. His off-white
"To what ?"
"Hakkasan, the club over at MGM."
He cocked his head sideways. "I'm on 'til three. And since when do you go clubbing?"
"I'm not going clubbing, " I said, as though the word were toxic. "It's for a case. And I'll pay you more to come with me than you'll make here." Carlos sometimes rode shotgun with me when I wanted some muscular backup. I had never known him to turn down the opportunity to work with me.
He frowned, considering it. From experience, I knew he would come, but he'd squeal in an effort to get more money out of me. It wasn't going to work.
"I would, but—"
"Just punch out. They'll be happy since it's slow anyways."
"Can't do it. I promised Javon I'd take his spot later."
Now I knew he was bluffing, since he never traded shifts with anyone.
"Suit yourself," I said, and turned away. I put the over-under for the time it would take for Carlos to come crawling back at five seconds. The under won.
"All right," he said, hustling immediately after me.
I turned around and allowed a little smile to creep up my face.
" Bitch, " he muttered, knowing he'd been played by a master.
That B word made my smile blossom. It meant I'd gotten under his skin. "Just give me a minute to change, and meet me at your car."
"I'm driving?" He protested.
"I walked here."
He pouted, as though asking him to drive the three miles to the MGM was like asking him to walk across hot coals. I rolled my eyes and headed back to my locker.
My yoga outfit was not going to fly at the club, which I knew had a dress code, but I had plenty of slinky outfits in my locker. Unfortunately most of them were a little too revealing—about the kind of stuff you'd expect a stripper to wear around a strip club, or the kind of outfit your slutty friend might wear at Halloween. I found a dark red cocktail dress and squeezed into it. On my way out I deliberately refused to check myself in the mirror, afraid of what I might see.
Carlos raised an eyebrow at my outfit when I met him at his car, a black Mustang GT with whiplash-inducing acceleration. Wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
We climbed in, and he pulled out of the parking lot with a loud and unnecessary thrust of the accelerator. The Strip at one in the morning was just getting warmed up. Throngs of tourists packed the corners, waiting for lights to change, slurping away at their yard-long glasses of watered-down margaritas. The High Roller observation wheel (don't call it a Ferris wheel, the locals said) was lit up ostentatiously, offering its passengers a 360-degree view of Las Vegas in all its glory. We caught mostly green lights through the heart of the Strip, passing Caesars Palace and Bellagio on my right, and then the City Center complex and Monte Carlo. Carlos got into the left lane and turned left on Tropicana, where we eased into a U-turn and then into the valet parking lane at the MGM Grand.
CHAPTER NINE
To say that the MGM Grand valet gave me a once-over as he helped me out of the car would not do justice to the prodigious gander down my top to which he helped himself. In fact, he ogled me so thoroughly that it made my skin tingle, which was a hard thing to accomplish after my decade of exotic dancing. I flashed him a thin smile and bit my lip, remembering that I was the one who'd spent ten grand on fake boobs and was currently dressed in clothes more commonly worn as a gag Halloween costume. What the hell did I expect? I figured I should have been upset if he didn't leer at me.
As Carlos stepped into the lights under the valet area, I grimaced.
"You know they have a dress code, right?"
He shrugged. "These babies get me in the door anywhere," he said, before laying a big smooch on each of his bulging biceps. Classy. He was decked out in the standard bouncer attire, which was designed to accentuate his muscles in an effort to dissuade potential hooligans from causing mischief. His off-white
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