My Las Vegas Trophy Wife
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Hot dad-of-one, Drew Keller, heading to Vegas. Needs the perfect date. Hires a stunning woman, his daughter's bestie. Samantha Gayle, the epitome of arm candy. Gorgeous, poised. Smile that captivates, laugh that enchants. Business arrangement turns into so much more. Drew feels the pull. Samantha's warmth, intelligence irresistible. Samantha falls for the unexpected. Drew's easygoing charm, depth beyond billionaire facade. In sinful Vegas, they explore together. Discover the magic of unexpected connections. Spin the roulette, sip cocktails. Join the gamble of fake love in the city that never sleeps. Drew and Samantha take a leap into the unknown.
“Who the hell are the Hale’s Hounds?”
Samantha Gayle sat on the sofa in the employee lounge in the sub-basement of The Pines Resort and Casino. The plush, purple velvet Queen Anne was left over from the main lobby’s old decor, following a recent renovation that modernized the top Vegas destination. Rumor had it that members of Prince’s entourage, during a concert residence, once attempted to make off with it because the Purple One himself was so enamored with the furniture and wanted it at Paisley Park. A bullshit story, Samantha was certain, but she and her co-workers found the cast-off comfortable and enjoyed the urban legends attached to it.
Deanne Lopez, fellow blackjack dealer and work wife, sat opposite her, scrolling the same communications app for casino employee news. “Where are you seeing that?”
“The newest post under private party opportunities.” The Pines offered a variety of services to private parties within and beyond the property. High rollers, especially, preferred to have the gambling come to them in quieter rooms. One could rent a blackjack table or roulette wheel for the night, or arrange a private concert, but anything beyond that was considered unauthorized by the hotel group. Play at your own risk.
Samantha normally avoided the requests for private dealers. The rich and/or famous tended to preen around the “underlings” and get handsy. Samantha still bore the deep fingerprints of one former A-list action star on her bicep when he tried to tug her into his bedroom. He’d lost thirty grand at her table and intended to make it back under the sheets. Samantha liked to believe he still bore the dent in his balls made by her black suede pumps.
“Here we go,” Deanne said, and read off the posting. The Hale’s Hounds were a small fraternity, a group of seven men, in for a weeklong reunion. They had one of the executive penthouse suites for the duration of their stay and wished to host a private blackjack party tomorrow night. The Pines didn’t assign employees to these requests but accepted volunteers. Pay was the same, but the clients often tipped well. Not necessarily in Samantha’s experience, however.
Following her run-ins, casino policy now called for two employees to take turns at the private tables while one guard waited outside, for security purposes.
“We should take this job before somebody else claims it,” Deanne said.
“No way.” Hale’s Hounds sounded more like a biker gang than a fraternity. Samantha imagined walking into a disheveled room full of snarling pervs, all with their dicks out. Nobody looked like Charlie Hunnam in these scenarios. “I have my pride.”
“Do you have your price, though?” Deanne side-eyed her and flashed her phone screen to show a text thread with Shawn, their friend in concierge. “I thought that name sounded familiar. Shawn says they’ve been tipping him heavy all week. He’s pocketed four figures alone from these guys. We’re talking deep pockets, Samantha.”
Money. It made the world go round, and lord help her but Samantha needed some. Her job paid well, and the shorts and sandals crowd were moderately generous in slipping her chips throughout her shift. It kept her afloat, but she welcomed more.
Samantha thought of her little girl, Kiara, now with her babysitter. Samantha provided well for her, but room for improvement always existed, especially since Kiara’s pre-kindergarten teacher remarked on the girl’s natural ear for music.
Extra income could nurture that talent. Voice lessons, piano… Samantha pictured Kiara on stage at Carnegie Hall one day, performing to a sold-out audience.
Was it worth sacrificing her dignity, though? “I don’t know, Deanne.”
“Shawn says they’re nice guys. Just a pack of old farts roaming Vegas on a nostalgia kick,” Deanne said, her eye still on her phone. When she went quiet Samantha asked what Deanne was texting Shawn.
Deanne winked at her. “Checking to see if any of them are wealthy redheads.” Samantha laughed. Deanne loved her gingers.
She re-read the posting. The party was scheduled during her shift hours, so keeping Shay on for extra time wasn’t necessary. It got her off the floor and away from the clattering and whooping of slot machines for a night, though Samantha was used to that particular white noise. The only caveat she noted in the post was the dress code. The Hounds had prioritized female dealers, wearing “something alluring.” The casino offered to provide an alternative uniform.
“They must be kidding,” Samantha murmured. She flashed back to her first job in Vegas, as a bunny-suited waitress in a diner near the Vegas Vic sign. It paid the rent and other expenses, but once she snagged this coveted position at The Pines she fell in love with the tuxedo uniform. It was cut to highlight her figure as well, so surely what she wore now offered plenty of “allure.”
“Samantha.” Deanne stretched her name out into several syllables. “Old guy heavy tippers. Maybe they’re senile enough to tip us every hour.”
“Maybe.” Samantha rubbed a patch of velvet on the sofa. Everybody did it for luck, invoking Prince’s name as one would a saint while asking for strength. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
Baby needed piano lessons.
Victor pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peered over them at his friend. “Yo.”
Drew Keller kept his eyes closed, face tilted toward the Vegas sun. Triple-digit temperatures baked their skin, giving them more than their share of Vitamin D. “How much you think it costs to live here?”
“In the hotel, or Vegas in general?” Vic rested back on his lounger. “‘Cause this place has done spoiled me. If I were going to live anywhere, I’d want ‘round the clock room and maid service and walking distance to showgirls.”
Drew laughed. “I’m just thinking I might not go home,” he said.
“You’re not a gambler, Keller. Hell, I’m surprised you even agreed to Vegas for the reunion. We appreciate it and all, but we know it’s not your scene.”
Vic told no lies. Drew would have much preferred a retreat in the Rocky Mountains or Yellowstone Park. He was the outdoorsy one of the old group, forever dragging somebody on a hike or spelunking excursion during the
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