All In: A Vegas Reverse Harem Romance Read online

  Contents

  1 - Sage

  2 - Sage

  3 - Sage

  4 - Bryce

  5 - Sage

  6 - Sage

  7 - Sage

  8 - Xander

  9 - Sage

  10 - Eddie

  11 - Sage

  12 - Sage

  13 - Xander

  14 - Sage

  15 - Sage

  16 - Sage

  17 - Sage

  18 - Eddie

  19 - Sage

  20 - Sage

  21 - Sage

  22 - Bryce

  23 - Sage

  24 - Eddie

  25 - Sage

  26 - Sage

  27 - Sage

  28 - Bryce

  29 - Sage

  30 - Sage

  31 - Sage

  32 - Sage

  33 - Sage

  34 - Bryce

  35 - Sage

  36 - Xander

  37 - Sage

  38 - Eddie

  39 - Sage

  40 - Eddie

  41 - Sage

  42 - Eddie

  43 - Bryce

  44 - Eddie

  45 - Sage

  46 - Bryce

  47 - Sage

  48 - Xander

  49 - Eddie

  50 - Sage

  51 - Bryce

  52 - Sage

  53 - Sage

  54 - Sage

  Epilogue

  Bonus Scene

  Sneak Peek - Five Alarm Christmas

  About the Author

  1

  Sage

  I lingered back stage, trying to fight down my persistent anxiety. Not quite a panic attack… But close.

  I always got nervous at this part even though I’d been doing this for over a year. It was one of those things that wouldn’t subside in spite of my experience. Did the butterflies ever go away? Did professionals get nervous before going out to perform?

  “You are a professional,” I told myself, though it did little to calm my racing heart. I smoothed out my cocktail dress and went over my set list in my head for the hundredth time.

  Carl, the owner, suddenly emerged through the curtain. “The hell you waiting for?”

  “Uhh,” I said. “Isn’t someone going to announce me?”

  “This ain’t the Rio. Get your ass out there.”

  He disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

  I took three deep breaths, held my head high, and walked out on stage.

  The little lounge was tucked away in a corner of the casino with enough tables for 200 people. The lights and arcade sounds of the slot machines were a huge distraction beyond the tables, but I focused on the area that was mine for the next half hour. Smoke lingered in the air from a dozen sources, and the room was barely half full. Mostly older patrons except for what looked like a bachelor party doing shots at one table against the wall. I had no idea what they were doing here since this place only had slot machines. They’d probably come down here for cheap drinks before heading to the main strip.

  As I grabbed the stand microphone in the middle of the small stage the music began playing. And with it disappeared my worries.

  I’d wanted to be a singer since I was six years old and my mom took me to my first concert. Christina Aguilera, back when she was a performer instead of just a reality TV host. I sang every morning in the shower. I joined my high school glee club and choir club. Hell, I was even the first female member of the school acapella club, though that was because they couldn’t find a fourth male member to join.

  I wasn’t the most confident girl, or the most charming, or the sexiest. But when I took hold of that mic on stage and the music played I knew exactly who I was. That’s more than most people could say about themselves.

  I was a singer, and I was born to do this.

  My intro song was one of my strongest—a slow, sultry version of Queen’s Crazy Little Thing Called Love. I crushed it, hitting all the notes in my version like I was Freddie Mercury reborn. That brought a smattering of applause from the half-attentive crowd, especially the bachelor party who clapped loudly and enthusiastically. One of them nudged another, who walked up and tossed a $20 into the tip bowl at the front of the stage. That raised my spirits more than the applause.

  The next song began and I went through the rest of my set. All covers of course. I wasn’t big-time enough to sing my own music yet—which was fine since it wasn’t good enough to perform live anyway. My set included another two Queen songs, two Elvis hits, and a slow, almost whispered version of the Beach Boys’ Wouldn’t It Be Nice. I hit the high notes, leaned out over the microphone at all the right parts, made love to the crowd with my eyes and voice and body.

  It was a flawless performance, more than this crappy little off-strip lounge deserved.

  The applause as I finished was the loudest yet—my singing had attracted another few dozen people over from the casino floor. I bowed as more people came forward to toss bills and casino chips into the tip bowl.

  “Thank you very much,” I said. “It’s been wonderful entertaining you tonight. My name is Sage Parker and—”

  My voice amplification suddenly died as the mic was cut off. Damnit. I gave a wave and passed through the curtain back stage.

  My heart was racing now, but from excitement and satisfaction rather than nervousness. No missed notes, no awkward stage movements, perfect segues from one song to another. I was getting the hang of this.

  “I’m a professional,” I repeated to myself with more confidence than I had half an hour ago.

  “Professionals don’t have to announce who they are.”

  Carl was back. His blue dress shirt had grease stains along the breast that his faded dinner jacket failed to cover, and his face was covered with liver spots.

  “Sure they do,” I said. “Every singer says who they are.”

  “I paid you to sing, not to promote yourself.”

  “Singing is promoting myself,” I said. “And you haven’t actually paid me yet.”

  He grumbled and pulled out a fat wad of cash. As a small casino, he paid all his employees under the table to avoid paying taxes. Shady, but that wasn’t my concern. What was my concern was that he only held out three $20 bills.

  “We agreed on $80,” I said.

  “You only did six songs. I expected seven.”

  “I never said I would do seven,” I said through gritted teeth. “You gave me a 30 minute slot and asked how many songs that would be. I said six or seven, depending on my set list. I filled the time.”

  Managers at these little casinos were notoriously stingy. That’s how they survived off-strip: by being cheap in every way they could. Cutting corners on entertainment, maintenance, cleaning, service. I didn’t care that he watered down the free drinks I got pre-show, but short-changing me on my fee was something I couldn’t accept.

  Especially considering how badly I needed the money.

  “I filled the time,” I repeated. “And I drew a bigger crowd to the lounge than you normally see.”

  He snorted. “You pulled them away from the slot machines is what you did.” Then he made a show of thinking about it and added, “$80 and you come back Friday for another show.”

  My immediate reaction was excitement that he wanted me back. It only lasted a split second. “I’ve got a shift at the Volga on Friday.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a singer,” he said. “Ask them for the night off. A big casino like that won’t notice one waitress gone for a night.”

  “You know the Volga just opened,” I said. “I can’t take time off on short notice, and my manager doesn’t exactly like me.”

/>   His shrug was casual and cruel. “Then this is all I have for you.” He tossed the three $20 bills on the table and walked back out to the lounge tables. I stood there at the edge of the curtains and watched him drift away, wondering what I should do. Arguing with a casino owner over $20 wasn’t very professional. It would cause a scene among the customers who were still finishing their drinks. Arguing with him might land me on a viral YouTube video.

  Yeah, that wasn’t how I wanted to get famous.

  “Fucking prick,” I said, retrieving my purse from where I’d hid it and stashing away the $60. I looked back through the lounge. I loved chatting with people. Hanging out at the bar with a post-performance drink while talking to people was one of my favorite things to do. Not only did it boost my ego and self-confidence, but sometimes it landed me gigs with other casinos. But I didn’t have time for it tonight, not even a quick drink. I scanned the room looking for Angela but didn’t see her anywhere.

  I pulled out my phone and called her. As soon as she picked up I said, “Hey, I’m done. You out in the slots?”

  There was a pause on the other end. My heart began to sink.

  “Yeah…” Angela began in an apologetic tone. “Sage, I had to run…”

  “Goddamnit Angela, no! I have to get back for my shift!”

  “I met this guy. He’s so dreamy, you’d understand if you saw him. He’s taking me to a little club he knows. He says he can get me in the VIP section.”

  “Angela, you’re my ride. You promised!”

  “You know, you should be glad I gave you half a ride. Show a little gratefulness, yeah?”

  I wished I could strangle her until her Jersey accent turned into a high-pitched squeak. I glanced at the time: I had only 30 minutes to get back to the Volga, change clothes, and start my shift.

  “Just take an Uber,” Angela said. “You’ll be back in 10.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I said, hanging up.

  I crossed the stage to the tip bowl. It was empty. Goddamnit Carl! I looked around but he was nowhere to be found. Maybe I should make a scene.

  Instead, I made my way around back toward the exit. I checked the Uber prices on my phone while walking. They were slammed tonight—it was $41 just to get back to the strip at this time of night. That would leave me with under $20 earned for this gig. An Uberpool would be cheaper, but that meant waiting even longer.

  I walked outside, all satisfaction of my performance now gone.

  2

  Sage

  Mom had warned me it would be a tough life.

  She’d raised me by herself in this town, so she knew first-hand how easily it could chew up and spit a girl out. Don’t get me wrong, she was as supportive as I ever could have hoped. She listened to me sing while she cooked dinner, even if it was the same song every single night. She took extra waitress shifts so she could pay for private singing lessons. She always made sure to be at every high school performance, even if it meant trading schedules for the graveyard shift or working a double the next day.

  But she’d warned me, too. Told me how tough it was to make it as a singer in any town, let alone the meat grinder that was Las Vegas. She wasn’t the kind of woman to sugar coat things; she wanted her baby girl to be prepared for the world.

  And she was right. After a year of bouncing around C-rated casinos and lounges I had little to show for it. Some good experience but not money or fame. And now I spent more time serving drinks to ungrateful casino gamblers than I did thinking about my actual dreams. Just like mom.

  Still though, there was no feeling in the world like stepping up to a microphone and owning a room for 30 minutes.

  I wondered what she would say if she was still here. She’d probably tell me the best rewards in life required the most patience and hard work. I tried to remind myself that on nights like this, when it felt the toughest.

  It was a chilly Autumn night while I waited for the bus. My coat did little to cover my legs, and the wind was biting here in the desert. Next time I got a ride with Angela I would be prepared to stand out in the cold waiting for the bus.

  Better yet, I should stop relying on Angela at all.

  The bus chugged around the corner and then pulled to a stop in front of me. It was mostly locals: hotel workers, janitorial staff, card dealers in their black vests. I ignored their eyes as I found a seat by myself halfway to the back.

  Realistically, I couldn’t blame Angela too much. I’d been leaning on her for rides a lot lately. She only had one night off a week. She deserved to enjoy herself.

  What I needed was my own car so I could drive myself around. The old Ford truck I’d inherited from mom had broken down months ago, and I sure as hell didn’t have the money to replace the dead transmission. Scraping together the cash for a new ride was my top priority… but so was paying my share of the rent, and keeping the electricity paid on time, and buying a new dress for singing gigs, and new flats to replace the ones with holes wearing through the front, and keeping myself fed…

  I huddled in my coat on the bus and ignored the creepy guy who kept stealing glances over.

  It took us 20 minutes to get back to the glamor and excitement of the Vegas strip. Every casino was a palace of luxury and lights, with streams of hopeful patrons coming and going with drinks in-hand. I pressed my cheek against the window and watched with the same wide-eyed wonder as I had the first time mom brought me here for that Christina Aguilera show long ago. Some things never changed no matter how old you got.

  I got off the bus at the closest stop to my job, which unfortunately required me to walk another two blocks. I could only move so fast in a tight dress and heels before the casino loomed above me.

  The newest addition to the Vegas strip, the Volga Hotel and Casino was like something the Romanoffs themselves would have built. It was an octagonal structure that was wider than it was tall, covered in gold and marble with accent lights showing it all off. Spotlights scraped across the sky on either side of the casino as if it were a Hollywood premiere. Just then a helicopter was approaching and landing on the roof pad, one of the luxuries the casino boasted to bring in high rollers and entertainers on demand. I craned my neck and wondered who might be arriving now.

  The front entrance was busy with patrons, but I slipped down the side and around the building to the employee entrance. There were no lights or glamor here; only a plain white building and the sickly-sweet smell of garbage from the dumpsters.

  I hurried to the locker room and changed into my outfit. Waitresses at the Volga wore these sexy Soviet style military uniforms, complete with brass buttons down the front and gold stars on the shoulder with a backdrop of communist red. But instead of soldier slacks these uniforms boasted a short skirt and black jackboots to show off our legs.

  It could be worse. At least I didn’t have to wear a ridiculous push-up top to show off my tits like the girls at the Venetian or Bellagio. Small victories.

  I clocked in on the wall computer and then quickly made my way toward the serving bar. Theming aside, I was able to walk faster in these jackboots than I could in normal heels. I scanned the area as I walked, praying that I wouldn’t see my boss. He was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed a serving tray from the waitress supply stack and pushed through the door onto the casino floor.

  It was like walking into the inside of a pinball machine.

  Lights were everywhere—an overwhelming amount of flashing colors and neon letters no matter where you looked. A cacophony of sounds drifted from the slot machines to my left and right. Cash register sounds, the computerized sound of coins falling into buckets, every manner of beep and clink and siren. I was bombarded by the smell of carpet cleaner and cigarette smoke too. Fortunately all of my senses were used to this. You had to get used to it when you worked in this town.

  Directly ahead of me was the relatively calmer section of the table games. Blackjack tables, gimmick versions of poker, roulette wheels, and craps. That was my section tonight. Beyond that, on the opposite end o
f the casino, was the Volga casino’s secondary stage where a man in a cowboy hat sat on a stool playing the guitar. If I strained my ears I could barely hear the music—he sounded good.

  I imagined myself performing on a stage that big in front of a packed casino. Just thinking about it sent a shiver up my spine. Something to work towards.

  “Drinks,” I said as I approached the first blackjack table. It was surprisingly full, six men hunched over their chips in a semicircle. The blackjack dealer, a cute blond with sharp cheekbones who I’d never seen before, gave me a smile. “Drink orders?”

  “Scotch, neat,” one man ordered. Two others asked for me, and the remaining three guys ignored me, too focused on their cards to stop and place an order. I mentally took note of their orders and their table.

  The name of the game as a casino waitress was volume. The more people I served, the more tips I got. It was that simple. It took a while to walk back to the serving bar and wait for drinks, so the most efficient thing to do was collect a full tray of orders before heading back to get them filled.

  Since I only had three orders, I turned to head to the next table over.

  Zeke, my boss, was blocking my way.

  “You are late,” he said in a slow, thick Russian accent. His face was hard and his nose had been broken more than once. The three-piece suit was totally out of place on his frame. He looked more like the bouncer at a club than a shift manager at a casino.

  I tried to hide my wince. I’d thought I was in the clear when I didn’t see him in the back. “Hey Zeke. What’s up?”

  “You are late. Do you deny it?”

  That was a trap. There was nothing he’d love more than to catch me in a lie. “I’m a little late, yeah. I had to take the bus, and it stopped at every damn corner on the way here…”

  “We talked about this, yes?”

  Two of the blackjack players looked over their shoulder at us. It was incredibly unprofessional of Zeke to chew me out here in front of everyone.

  “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, sir.”

  I turned away. I was trying to be overly formal to get him off my back, but it had the opposite effect. He grabbed my arm before I could get to the next table and said, “Do not be sarcastic with me! You have already been given a warning. Perhaps I should fire you.”