Chapter One
Aria
L AS V EGAS, N EVADA
Whales belong in the ocean, not in a casino. But in my experience, more often than not, that’s exactly where you find them. Cozied up to a poker table or a craps table or a roulette wheel, sucking down Lagavulin and hassling every pretty girl that walks by.
Then again, I live in Vegas and I work at the Atlantis, currently the hottest casino on the Strip. Where the hell else am I going to see a whale other than right here in my own backyard?
Tonight the place is crawling with them, rich men throwing around thousand dollar chips like confetti and tossing back thousands of dollars’ worth of free liquor the same way. I want to say that it’s an unusual occurrence, but the truth is, this is my life. Has been for a while now.
It’s a different view on this side of the casino from your typical Vegas experience, one filled with ten thousand dollar suits and ten million dollar bets. The air fairly crackles with the sound, the scent, the
feel
of money. Which translates into much higher tips than working the regular floor does, tips I desperately need. All I have to do to earn them is ignore the fact that the whales on this side of the velvet ropes have much grabbier hands. And an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.
“I need two fingers of Lagavulin, a Belvedere and cranberry, another Nolet’s Reserve and tonic and a shot of Patron Silver,” I tell Michael, tonight’s bartender, as I pick up a dirty martini and a couple of mojitos made with top shelf booze.
He nods, never breaking rhythm as he shakes a margarita in one hand and squirts Coke on top of rum in another.
And then I’m off again, teetering back toward the high roller tables in the four-inch stilettos my boss insists all the cocktail waitresses wear. I don’t mind them so much—learning to walk in Louboutins and Manolos was pretty much a required course growing up in my house—but after seven hours straight on my feet, even my steel arches are beginning to whimper.
Which is probably why I’m not at my most patient when Whale Number One, a Japanese businessman who just flew in from Tokyo, rubs a suggestive hand over my ass and down my scantily clad thigh.
I turn around and shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up in a pretend gesture of surrender. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask him, keeping my voice sweet and my eyes steady. It’s my experience that guys like this have trouble keeping up the letch act when they’re looking straight into your eyes. It’s a lesson I learned from my mother years ago: rich men will only give you respect if you demand it.
Even if you’re married to them. Or maybe, especially then.
But that’s a different story, a million worlds away from where I am right now. Thank God. These days, the most I have to worry about are guys who like my butt a little too much.
“Another Lagavulin, Aria,” he tells me, his English accented but precise.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be back with it in just a moment.”
This time when I turn away, my ass goes unaccosted.
I drop off the mojitos to Whale Number Two and the idiot blonde about forty years his junior who is currently decorating his arm. He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and I thank him for the tip before bracing myself to deliver the dirty vodka martini. It’s going to Whale Number Three, a Russian billionaire, and he’s a real douche. He’s only been here an hour and already I’ve got more than one bruise on my ass from his unwelcome advances.
“Here’s your dirty martini, three olives,” I tell him with a forced smile as I set the glass down in front of him. I take care to keep my body—and my ass—angled away from him, but somehow the fucker gets a pinch in anyway. I grit my teeth and count backward from ten as I remind myself of all the reasons that punching him is a bad idea. Starting with the fact that I really need this job. “Can I get you anything else?”
I pull the eye contact trick, but this guy
Aria
L AS V EGAS, N EVADA
Whales belong in the ocean, not in a casino. But in my experience, more often than not, that’s exactly where you find them. Cozied up to a poker table or a craps table or a roulette wheel, sucking down Lagavulin and hassling every pretty girl that walks by.
Then again, I live in Vegas and I work at the Atlantis, currently the hottest casino on the Strip. Where the hell else am I going to see a whale other than right here in my own backyard?
Tonight the place is crawling with them, rich men throwing around thousand dollar chips like confetti and tossing back thousands of dollars’ worth of free liquor the same way. I want to say that it’s an unusual occurrence, but the truth is, this is my life. Has been for a while now.
It’s a different view on this side of the casino from your typical Vegas experience, one filled with ten thousand dollar suits and ten million dollar bets. The air fairly crackles with the sound, the scent, the
feel
of money. Which translates into much higher tips than working the regular floor does, tips I desperately need. All I have to do to earn them is ignore the fact that the whales on this side of the velvet ropes have much grabbier hands. And an overdeveloped sense of entitlement.
“I need two fingers of Lagavulin, a Belvedere and cranberry, another Nolet’s Reserve and tonic and a shot of Patron Silver,” I tell Michael, tonight’s bartender, as I pick up a dirty martini and a couple of mojitos made with top shelf booze.
He nods, never breaking rhythm as he shakes a margarita in one hand and squirts Coke on top of rum in another.
And then I’m off again, teetering back toward the high roller tables in the four-inch stilettos my boss insists all the cocktail waitresses wear. I don’t mind them so much—learning to walk in Louboutins and Manolos was pretty much a required course growing up in my house—but after seven hours straight on my feet, even my steel arches are beginning to whimper.
Which is probably why I’m not at my most patient when Whale Number One, a Japanese businessman who just flew in from Tokyo, rubs a suggestive hand over my ass and down my scantily clad thigh.
I turn around and shoot him a look, and he holds his hands up in a pretend gesture of surrender. “Can I get you anything else?” I ask him, keeping my voice sweet and my eyes steady. It’s my experience that guys like this have trouble keeping up the letch act when they’re looking straight into your eyes. It’s a lesson I learned from my mother years ago: rich men will only give you respect if you demand it.
Even if you’re married to them. Or maybe, especially then.
But that’s a different story, a million worlds away from where I am right now. Thank God. These days, the most I have to worry about are guys who like my butt a little too much.
“Another Lagavulin, Aria,” he tells me, his English accented but precise.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be back with it in just a moment.”
This time when I turn away, my ass goes unaccosted.
I drop off the mojitos to Whale Number Two and the idiot blonde about forty years his junior who is currently decorating his arm. He flips a fifty dollar chip onto my tray and I thank him for the tip before bracing myself to deliver the dirty vodka martini. It’s going to Whale Number Three, a Russian billionaire, and he’s a real douche. He’s only been here an hour and already I’ve got more than one bruise on my ass from his unwelcome advances.
“Here’s your dirty martini, three olives,” I tell him with a forced smile as I set the glass down in front of him. I take care to keep my body—and my ass—angled away from him, but somehow the fucker gets a pinch in anyway. I grit my teeth and count backward from ten as I remind myself of all the reasons that punching him is a bad idea. Starting with the fact that I really need this job. “Can I get you anything else?”
I pull the eye contact trick, but this guy
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