Going All In (1Night Stand) Read online

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  Going All In

  Copyright © 2015 by Lily Vega

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-854-4

  Cover art by Renee Rocco

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Dedication

  Going All In is for the hardworking casino employees who make Las Vegas my favorite travel destination. Big thanks to Kerry Adrienne, Louisa Bacio, Amelia Calhan, Anna Campbell, Rachel Firasek, Kelly Lynne, Kenzie Mack, Valerie Mann, and the Moonshine Critique Group.

  Going All In

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Lily Vega

  Chapter One

  Ian Harding’s heart slammed in his chest in time with the boom-boom-boom bass of the song playing over the poker room’s sound system. Jittery from too much casino coffee and too many crappy cards, he prayed for a considerable win. Life had sucker-punched him in the gut with a side kick to the balls. And the majority of his escape fund lay in the mound of chips in the center of the poker table, out of reach and in jeopardy.

  Slot machines screamed for attention, and patrons from the nearby sports book cried out in joy or sorrow at every football touchdown, field goal, and flag. He blocked out the casino activity around him and concentrated on the bounty of chips at stake in this game of Texas Hold ’Em.

  The dealer revealed the river, the king of hearts.

  Ian struggled to keep a neutral expression. Lady Luck finally favored him. The pair of kings in his hand with the king and pair of twos on the board gave him a full house. A boat. A winner-winner, chicken dinner. His empty stomach made a garbage-disposal gurgle at the thought of food. How long has it been since my last decent meal?

  Fighting back from an epic losing streak, he’d managed to rebuild his diminishing chip stack with the last bill in his wallet. If he failed to win a big hand, he’d be forced to return to the pawnshop to trade in his few remaining possessions for cash. In front of him, his hole cards begged him to take another peek at their regal portraits, and his fingers itched to lift them from the scratchy table felt. Instead, he laced them together on his lap and willed his hands to stop shaking.

  The dealer nodded toward the only other player at the table who hadn’t folded, a man sporting a comb-over and the sleazy vibe of a corrupt politician fresh from a stint in a low-security penitentiary. “The action is to you, Mr. Richards.”

  Having bet heavily on the turn, the man tapped the felt indicating a check then snapped his fingers at the cocktail waitress and pointed to his glass, empty except for melting ice.

  The waitress bewitched Ian with her wavy, dark-brown hair, sparkling-green eyes, and killer curves. Whenever she walked by the table, his thoughts drifted from the game. Something about her captivated him. Maybe how she tugged at her miniskirt when she thought no one watched. Or the way she greeted each of the local players by name. Or perhaps because too damned much time had passed since he’d spent an evening with a beautiful woman rather than a computer screen filled with numbers. He longed to invite her to dinner in the casino coffee shop, but he’d come to Vegas to escape his problems. He couldn’t afford the distraction a bewitching brunette would bring.

  “I’ll be right back to take your order.” Her shoulders slumped as though she carried a strongbox of sorrow in addition to a full tray of glassware and bottles.

  “Do your job and get my drink. Scotch on the rocks. Top shelf. Not that cheap shit you brought last time.” The player smirked at the man sitting next to him. “With a rack like that, she doesn’t need a high IQ.”

  A scarlet flush crept up the woman’s neck, and her left eye twitched. She spun away and walked briskly in the direction of the bar.

  Mr. Richards couldn’t be more of a dick.

  The dealer nodded at Ian. The brushfire of his hunger pains faded, replaced by an inferno of anger. His mission shifted from winning enough money to buy dinner, to wiping Dick’s face clean of his pompous leer.

  “All in.” Ian pushed his remaining chips forward. In his haste, he shoved along the voucher he’d won earlier in the day in a casino promotion. Anxious to get to the poker room, he hadn’t examined it.

  “Keep your coupon. You’re gonna need it.” Dick flicked the paper toward him. “I call.”

  Ian revealed the kings and waited, hands outstretched, to receive his winnings. Maybe I’ll spring for a beer with my steak.

  The dealer examined both upturned hands and pushed the pile of chips toward Dick.

  Ian couldn’t wrap his mind around the pairs of twos.

  “Never seen quad deuces before, boy?” The jackass arranged the chips in teetering towers.

  A Mack truck drove its oversized tires over Ian’s heart, shifted into reverse, and crushed his ribcage a second time. The asshole had made four deuces. Ian estimated the odds of that hand to be a little more than 0.8 percent.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Where the hell is that bimbo with my drink?” Dick took a pull on his cigar. The cloud of smoke he blew out hung over the table in an ominous fog.

  The word, bimbo, spiked Ian’s adrenaline. He pushed back his chair, jarring the waitress standing behind him.

  Brown liquid splashed across Dick’s shirt. “Stupid slut.” He tossed a dollar chip over his shoulder. “That’s it, bend over and pick it up. I’m sure you spend plenty of time on your knees.”

  Ian retrieved the chip, placed it on her tray, and glared at Dick. “Don’t be an ass. Everyone deserves respect.”

  The guy sneered. “The cash station is next to the buffet. If you want respect, come back and earn it.”

  Ian stood and poked his chest. “You should apologize.”

  “Floor.” Dick shouted above the sound of poker chips and player chatter.

  The poker room manager, a muscled hulk who could have moonlighted as a bouncer or a World Wrestling Federation Intercontinental Champion, rushed to his side.

  Dick gestured at Ian. “
This man is disturbing me.”

  “If you leave quietly, I won’t call security.” The manager led Ian out of the poker room. Once out of Dick’s earshot, he whispered, “I’m really sorry, but Mr. Richards is a high roller.”

  The constant clang of slot machines gave the impression winners filled the casino, but Ian knew the truth. Risking all of his money in an attempt to teach the idiot a lesson had made him a loser. To win, he needed to keep his emotions at bay. He should have walked away after losing his initial buy-in. But, no matter how far he got from Portland, he couldn’t seem to stop his mistakes from compounding.

  “Excuse me.” A lilting female voice drew him away from his mental self-flagellation.

  The waitress. His dream woman. The Enchantress.

  “Thanks for standing up for me.” She held out a slip of paper. “You forgot this at the table.”

  Her hourglass figure filled out her uniform of a red corset and black miniskirt. He dragged his eyes from her cleavage and accepted the voucher. He wouldn’t be like Dick and ogle her.

  “Thank you.”

  The deodorant body spray he’d doused himself with after waking did little to disguise his need for a shower. If only they could’ve met under different circumstances. His face itched under her scrutiny, and he scratched his beard stubble.

  Her eyes sparkled, and her lips curved into a smile. The kind of smile displayed by gamblers in the sports book when their horse crossed the finish line and they held the winning ticket. She handed him a bottle of water from her tray.

  He reached into his pocket for a tip but found only lint. Once he returned from the pawnshop, he’d find her and give her a gratuity.

  Ignoring his open palm, she kept her eyes locked on his. “Have a nice evening.” With a sway of her hips, she walked away.

  Ian flipped the paper over. The voucher provided an email address and offer for a complimentary date arranged by a Madame Evangeline and her online dating service, 1Night Stand.

  A good fuck would relieve his tension. On the other hand, a sandwich and a decent night’s sleep would be a better bet. He couldn’t stand another overnighter in his car. Constant folding of his six-foot-two-inch frame into a semi-horizontal position in the sports coupe had mangled his spine. If he ever had the guts to return to his old life in Portland, he’d spend some quality time with a chiropractor.

  Draining the bottle of water, he averted his gaze from a sign advertising the $9.99 steak dinner. He didn’t have enough money for a cup of coffee, let alone a hot meal. At least his cell phone service hadn’t been cut off yet. He punched out a quick email to Madame Evangeline on the tiny keyboard and headed for the food court where the employees handed out samples speared on toothpicks. The voucher and the free food would buy him a few more hours before he would need to return to the tables and pray for his luck to return.

  He tucked his phone into his pocket and his gold and emerald University of Oregon class ring caught the light. Once he took the ring to the pawnshop, his last chance to make good would be on the table.

  Chapter Two

  Suppressing a shiver, Kira Marchi maneuvered her way past the throng of gamblers to the bar servicing the poker room. Management kept the casino at a temperature between morgue and meat locker, and her skimpy uniform didn’t provide any warmth. The tray of empty glasses she carried shook, but at least she’d refrained from throwing an empty beer bottle at the vile man’s fleshy face. The psychedelic carpet, designed to distract the patrons from the security cameras lining the ceiling, muffled the sound of her heels. She couldn’t even express her frustration with a noisy stomp.

  With the hot, scruffy guy who defended her honor gone, his sleazy tablemate had gotten handsy. Why did he need to grope her? He’d degraded her enough with his insults and attempts to coerce her to crawl on the carpet for a crappy tip. She wished she could conjure a force field to keep his clammy hands off her.

  The shift manager claimed he hadn’t seen the man grab her ass. She suspected the casino cared more about keeping a customer than an employee. In a sluggish economy, servers were the equivalent of commemorative quarters, well collected but common. Hardcore gamblers with deep pockets were the 1804 silver dollar—priceless.

  To add to the shittiness of her day, her ex-boyfriend, Eddie, worked the bar. His brief stint on a reality-television dating show allowed him to claim D-list celebrity status, and he fostered the delusion that at any moment he could be swarmed by paparazzi. He focused his megawatt grin on her, and charisma oozed from his pores. His sunshine smile could melt panties and entice the droopiest plant to stand at attention. Even plastic foliage seemed to perk up in his presence. But the smile lacked the sincerity of true warmth, being as fake as his shiny veneers and spray tan.

  Kira recited the list of drink orders, hoping for once he’d do his damned job and not get personal. He always wanted what he couldn’t have. When she’d broken up with him, he’d pursued her harder than ever. She suspected he wanted to get back together more to soothe his bruised ego than because he genuinely cared for her.

  “What can I do to convince you to come over tonight?” he asked for the eleventh time and patted his gel-stiff blond-highlighted hair. “The producers sent over a gag-reel DVD from Sin City Singles. There’s a full minute of scenes featuring moi.”

  “I told you, I’m busy.” Kira would rather watch static on the television than Eddie turning his charm on a bevy of bachelorettes. She didn’t want to date a man who used more hair product in a week than she used in a year. Especially one who called her frigid and seemed to be on the constant lookout for a girlfriend upgrade.

  “Why the rush? You got a date or something?” He placed his elbows on the bar, perfectly groomed eyebrows raised.

  An image of the hot poker player came to mind. With his soulful brown eyes and dark hair, he bore a slight resemblance to one of her favorite musicians, Gavin Rossdale. The player seemed more in need of a good meal and a shave than a girlfriend, though. She shook thoughts of him from her mind. After the debacle with Eddie, she vowed never to date anyone she met at work.

  “Actually, I do.” And that wasn’t a lie. One of the other waitresses swore the 1Night Stand dating service had changed her life. Based on the recommendation, Kira had decided to take a chance. She’d entered her personal information into the electronic form on the dating service’s website the week before. It terrified her, but she couldn’t pass up an opportunity to gain some experience, an impartial second opinion on her sexual performance. Hopefully, no one would call her frigid again.

  As if on cue, the phone tucked in a hidden pocket of her skirt vibrated.

  Eddie huffed and went off to fill the drink order.

  She checked her phone. Madame Eve didn’t waste time. She’d scheduled Kira’s date for that night.

  ***

  Ian pushed the plastic key into the door-lock mechanism. With a metallic buzz, the lock released and he entered. Madame Evangeline’s return email had stated the voucher covered the room and all related amenities. Inside the lavish suite—decorated in an elegant palette of blacks, whites, and silvers—he gravitated toward a tray of bread, cheese, and fruit. He shoveled food in his mouth, passing over a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket in favor of a Sin City amber beer from the minibar. Popping the top, he lifted the bottle in a silent toast to Madame Evangeline and took a long pull. The malts and hops in the foamy liquid lit up his taste buds and lifted his spirits. The room, a far cry from the seedy motels he’d become accustomed to, smelled faintly of flowery perfume with underlying citrus notes. The scent reminded him of one of his favorite India pale ales, a side effect of his dedication to his beloved alcoholic beverage and his former business.

  A basket by the bed held a variety of lubricants and condoms, with every color and flavor represented. Madame Evangeline had stocked the room with everything they could possibly need. Downing the beer, he opened another. Not quite the steak dinner he’d craved, but he couldn’t complain.

&nb
sp; Taking the bottle into the bathroom, Ian stripped out of his clothes. He avoided the mirror. His reflection would reveal him undeserving of this unearned luxury. What he should do was slink to the car and leave the room pristine for his date, but he’d already eaten the food, drunk the beer, and tainted the air with his bad luck, rendering the room a lost cause. And his shower would be a kindness to anyone forced to be in his close proximity. If he went another day without bathing, no amount of deodorant body spray would conceal his stench.

  The shower cleared his mind and relaxed his aching muscles. He treasured so many things he’d taken for granted in his old life, such as showers and sandwiches. Some of his worries washed away, but a nagging sense of wrongness over considering ditching his date remained. But the voucher bought him the chance to get his head out of his ass and back in the game—or one last attempt to run away from his mistakes in Portland and toward a fresh start.

  He hoped his date would linger in the casino and hit a slot machine jackpot. Even if she didn’t hit the MegaMillions, she’d be better off without him, a MegaDud. He pictured the voucher with its elegant script print. Madame Evangeline would compensate her and provide her with a new-and-improved date.

  ***

  Stopping at her apartment in Henderson took extra time, but Kira refused to show up for the date in her work uniform. Role-playing could be fun, but she didn’t want to be reminded of her job during sex.

  The Friday night traffic on the Strip crawled. Drivers and pedestrians gaped at the breathtaking Bellagio water show and the contrasting human spectacles. Kira tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and willed the light to change. The DJ on the radio stopped talking and cued up Bush’s song, “Machinehead.” With Gavin Rossdale belting out the lyrics, her thoughts returned to the hot poker player who’d defended her earlier. She indulged in a moment of fantasy for the duration of the song and imagined Gavin, or rather his poker-playing doppelganger, as her date.

  Finally, she drove into the casino parking garage with the melody of the song still playing in her mind. Slotting her car into the first available space, she grabbed her bag and jogged into the entrance. Eddie sometimes picked up extra shifts, so she chose a path through the sea of old-school slot machines to safely avoid the poker room.