Page 31 of Don't Bet On It
“Is there something I can do to make your stay more comfortable?” I asked, greeting him with my best smile.
He cast me a sidelong look, his eyes roaming my body, pausing at my chest for an uncomfortable beat before finally meeting my gaze. “I sincerely doubt it.” With that, he strode past me and headed for the couches.
I swallowed hard as the line of men filed past. They all looked me up and down like I was a piece of meat. I felt like an invisible statue in an opulent garden. When I looked up, I found Ronan frowning in my direction. Did he blame me for this? Well, screw him. It wasn’t as if I’d decorated the lounge. This wasn’t on me.
I collected the drink orders for everybody in the party. They spread out—some at the bar, some at the Texas Hold’Em table, and some in front of the televisions—and kept me busy for a solid hour.
Unlike how he was with me, Baskins was charming with Ronan. They struck up a strong rapport right from the start. Whenever Baskins won a hand, he high-fived Ronan. As for the dealer, he kept the jokes coming fast and furious. He was the hit of the lounge. It was impossible to miss the big tips being thrown his way. Of course they tipped me, too, but nowhere near as much as he was getting. And didn’t that make me salty?
I had to make regular trips past the table to see if anybody needed a drink. Lionel Durbin, the owner of the Seattle hockeyteam, was always on the lookout for me. He liked to leer, and his eyes were on my cleavage—even in my new top—more than the game or the cocktail list.
“You’re a pretty one,” he said to me when I returned with his third whiskey. “Like … really pretty. Do they grow them pretty out here in Vegas?”
I smiled because it was expected. “We grow them on trees,” I replied, not missing a beat. “We have his and hers orchards.”
Durbin laughed like a donkey. “Oh, you’re quick on your feet too.” His index finger ran up and down my arm as I leaned past him to put down a cocktail napkin and his glass. “I like it when they’re smart.”
Before I could figure out a diplomatic way to get him to stop touching me, the gentleman to his right decided to add his two cents to the conversation. His name was Rick Hoffs, and he was the owner of the Colorado basketball team.
“Not me,” he said, vehemently shaking his head. “I don’t like them smart. I prefer them dumb.” He sent me a pointed look. “The smart ones are too uppity.” He looked at Ronan for confirmation. “Am I right?”
Ronan looked shocked to have the question addressed to him. “I’ve never associated intelligence with being uppity,” he replied. He seemed to be grasping for the right thing to say. “I actually like a smart woman. Being bossed around is fun.”
Durbin raised his hand to high-five Ronan, who amiably acquiesced. Hoffs, however, wasn’t having it.
“You’re one ofthose, huh?” Hoffs made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Do you want to know what the problem is with younger people today?”
“Oh, here we go,” Durbin lamented, rolling his eyes.
Hoffs ignored him. “It’s the truth.” He took a long drink of his martini. “This country has a real problem because it’s turningall the men into women.” He said it to me, as if I was his target audience.
“That’s the problem, huh?” I asked dryly. I hated—absolutely loathed—men like him. I used to think it was an older-generation thing and that beliefs such as his would die out with the Boomers. Lately, I’d heard younger men expressing the same sentiments. A lot of them wanted to go back in time and live a life where the man wore the pants in the relationship and the woman did what she was told while popping out babies and maintaining the household.
It drove me crazy.
“It is.” Hoffs was deadly serious. “In this country, men used to be men. Now, there are men running around in dresses. There are men splitting duties with their wives at home. That’s not how the good lord intended for things to go.”
I had to swallow my snort of disdain. “Another drink?” I pointed to his martini glass. It was mostly empty, and I was desperate to make my escape.
Hoffs pretended he hadn’t heard me. “Take you, for example.” His gaze roamed over my body. “You have good breeding hips and a nice rack.”
My mouth fell open. I was used to people saying crass things—that was simply how it worked in the high rollers lounge because people with money thought they could get away with anything—but this was beyond the pale.
Before I could decide how to respond, Kyla appeared. “Say thank you,” she prodded me.
My stomach constricted. She was ordering me to thank this man for commenting on my hips and breasts? She had to be joking. Of course, Kyla didn’t joke. That was not who she was.
Ronan intervened before I could decide exactly how to respond. “I happen to like Tallulah’s quick wit,” he said, causingme to stop floundering and focus completely on him. “To me, the most attractive thing about a woman is her brain.”
Gratefulness washed over me. Hoffs, however, wasn’t moved by Ronan’s intervention.
“You’re from the wrong generation,” Hoffs said to him, as if talking to a child. “You’ve had all the manliness whipped out of you by uppity women.
“It’s not your fault,” he continued. “You were raised to think of women as equals even though they’re weaker, not as smart, and prone to histrionic fits.” He marked off each insult on his fingers, as if going through a to-do list. “It’s time we take back this country.”
My head was spinning. I couldn’t tell this man exactly what I thought of him without risking my job. Not only because of the money—although that was an important factor—but also because of Olivia and Zach. They’d gone out on a limb for me. I couldn’t disappoint them.
“Another martini?” I asked pointedly, forcing my demeanor to remain calm. “Extra olives, right?”
