Page 8 of Full Tilt
I pulled my cell phone from the front pocket of my uniform slacks to check the time. It was nearly one a.m. The limo was commissioned only until two, but I could already tell this was going to be a night of enforced overtime.
But what did I care if the job ran late? I didn’t sleep much these days and I could use the money. I’d stay until the band and their manager came oozing out of the venue, wasted and reeking, and take them back to the mega-mansion in Summerlin where I’d picked them up at five that evening.
The upside to driving at night was it left me time to work during the day. The downside was the downtime.So many empty hours spent waiting for my fare to get done with dinner or the show, or to finally emerge from the casino, stinking of booze and smoke and—more often than not—mourning their losses at the blackjack or poker tables.
Limo drivers tended to band together at events, lined up outside the venue in a train of sleek black or white vehicles. I saw the same faces at different jobs, and some were my own co-workers at A-1 Limousine. But I had to avoid smoke, and I wasn’t interested in making new buddies. I kept to myself, to my routine.
I leaned against the limo and looked up. No stars could conquer the lights of Vegas. I’d have to wait until my best friend’s Great Basin camping trip in a few weeks to see actual stars. But the Strip was its own kind of constellation. A riot of garish neon color and glittering lights. It was beautiful in its own way, as long as you didn’t look down.
At my feet, in the gutter running between the street and sidewalk were cigarette butts, a crushed soft drink cup from Dairy Queen, and a flyer for a nudie show off the Strip. Shattered glass glittered green under a streetlamp.
One of the other limo drivers approached me. “Got a smoke?”
This guy was young. Younger than my twenty-six years, anyway. Sweat beaded his brow as he looked at me hopefully. Even in this summer heat, he was still wearing his service’slivery, a maroon polyester jacket with gold piping. Newbie. My black jacket was on the front seat and had been since the band and their manager exited my limo nearly eight hours ago.
“I don’t smoke, man,” I told him. “Sorry.”
The sorry was code forconversation over,but this guy didn’t catch on.
“Shit, I ran out an hour ago,” he muttered. His nametag read Trevor. “Hey, who you driving for? I got a bunch of sweet-sixteen richies seeing the Rapid Confession show.” He barked a laugh. “Spoiled rich brats. I mean, what’s worse than that?”
“I can’t imagine,” I muttered.
My phone vibrated with a text. Probably my brother Theo, with the hourly check-in. I pulled the phone from my pants pocket. Yep.
What’s up? You good?
Rolling my eyes, I took a screen shot of the midnight check-in: the exact same message and my reply that I was fine. I hit ‘send.’
He texted back.Dick.
I smirked, typing.You make it so easy. Go to sleep, Teddy. I’ll call you in the morning.
“I wonder who has the band,” Trevor said, glancing down the line of limos. “If I had those bitches, it would be epic. Nightmade.”
Another photo text came in, this one of Theo’s middle finger. He hated when I called him Teddy. Almost as much as I hated it when guys called women bitches.
I turned to Trevor to tell him to get lost when the Pony Club’s back door banged open and the sound of raucous laughter, shouts, and shattered glass spilled onto the street. A huge bodyguard hurried out carrying the limp body of a woman, her leather skirt hiked up her thighs and her head hanging so that her blond hair spilled over the bodyguard’s arm.
I gave Trevor a little shove out of the way and opened the limo’s passenger door. The bodyguard never broke stride butbent his hulking form over to lay the girl inside, on the long leather seat that ran opposite the door.
Trevor sucked in a breath. “That’s her! The blonde… The guitar-player for RC.” He looked at me like I was his hero. “Youhave them?”
The bodyguard reemerged from the limo and towered over Trevor, his hands balling into fists. “Is this your business?”
Trevor cringed and backed off. “N-no, sir.”
“Are you going to tell anyone what you saw here?”
“No. I sure won’t.”
“Good answer.” He turned back to me. “Take her home. Quick. Before the paparazzi show up. It’s a fucking riot in there.”He jerked his head toward the venue where the shouts were louder, punctuated by shrill cursing and more breaking glass. “I gotta get back.” He jabbed a finger into my chest. “You make sure she gets home safe.”
I saw the concern bright in the guy’s dark eyes boring into mine, then he was loping back to the venue. Sirens wailed in the distance, getting closer.
With the huge bodyguard gone, Trevor crept forward, peering into the limo. “Dude.Dude,she is smokin’ hot.”
I had to agree with Trevor’s assessment, but the girl was also passed out drunk. Women needed to be coherent and conscious for me to entertain even fleeting sexual thoughts. Trevor’s tongue was lolling out of his mouth, and I slammed the door shut, disgusted, cutting off his view.
