Page 7 of Don't Bet On It
“I think you did it on purpose.”
“And I think you’re as annoying as you’ve always been.”
The expression on her face briefly turned to granite, then she straightened. “I have to fix my hair. I don’t want to be late for my shift.”
“Yes, because that would reflect poorly on you, considering how you got the job.” I leaned closer to convey the next bit in a conspiratorial whisper. “I would watch your back. All of those women who have been waiting for their shot at the high rollers pit—some of them for years—are going to want to plant a knife squarely in the middle of your back.”
“Yes, I’ve already figured that out,” she said dryly. She started to walk away, then stopped. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “Why are you here?”
“I told you.” I was sick of this conversation. “I’m working. I have no bad intentions. I just want to be left alone.”
“But … your father could get you a bigger job, a better job.”
A bigger job. Why didn’t people understand that wasn’t what I wanted? “Just… How about we avoid one another, huh? I’ll do what I came here to do, and you can do what you came here to do. We don’t need to interact.”
She scowled. “Fine. I’m going to figure out what you’re doing here, though.”
“Yeah. Good luck with that.”
3
THREE
I’d been handed a golden opportunity to make a lot of money. It had been delivered to me on a silver platter.
So why did I hate my new job so much?
The biggest reason stood in front of me, her outfit nowhere near as revealing as mine, and gave me a bland look. “You’re late,” my boss, Kyla Conners, said sharply.
I kept the scowl that tried to bubble up submerged. “Sorry. I ran into one of the dealers—literally—outside the bathrooms. I hit the floor. I needed to give my hands a good wash after they were on the floor.”Take that, Kyla.
“You were knocked down?” Doubt knitted Kyla’s eyebrows. Did she think I would make that up? “Were you injured? We’re supposed to report any on-shift injuries.”
“I wasn’t injured,” I assured her. Sure, I had issues with Ronan—oh, so many issues—but that didn’t mean I was a snitch. Besides, I hadn’t figured out what he was up to yet. I didn’t want to get him in trouble before I knew the full story. “It was an accident. I can’t handle food after my hands have been on the floor, though. I figured you would want me to take the sanitation aspect seriously.”
“Of course I do.” Kyla looked frustrated. She’d been nothing short of obnoxious since I started my new job a full week before. She didn’t like me—that much was obvious—but since Zach had been the one to give me the job, she couldn’t push too hard. That didn’t stop her from pushing at all, however. “It’s important to be on time, though,” she said pointedly.
“I was on track to be early until the collision.” That was a bald-faced lie. I’d been on track to be on time. That was the best I was ever going to do. “I’m sorry.”
“Whatever.” Kyla let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re handling section three today.” She pointed to the right. “Jack Klinger has a party coming in ten minutes from now.”
I had to do a double take. “The actor?”
She nodded. “He has a whole entourage coming. They’re going to keep you busy.”
I didn’t mind being busy. In fact, I looked forward to it. What I didn’t like was people acting entitled. Kyla knew that. We’d talked about it on my first day before I realized she was digging for dirt to hold against me. She made no bones about her sister having been next in line to get a job in the high rollers pit. Me being hired had delayed that … and Kyla wasn’t happy.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I lied. I loathed the idea of waiting on a bunch of people who thought they were somehow better than everybody else. I didn’t have an option, however. “It’s going to be a fun shift.”
Kyla snorted. “Yeah, talk to me again in an hour.”
She sounded so sure of herself, all I could do was cringe. “It’s going to be great. Trust me.”
“HEY, SWEETHEART,” A BOOMING VOICEsaid as a big hand landed on my ass. “I’ll take another double.”
I glanced down at the man with his hand on my rear end. His name was Dickie Tomlinson. It wasn’t a nickname either. He’d told me as much. This man’s parents had purposely named him Dickie. He was a character actor, barely five feet three, with a bald head and thick hair sprouting out of the top of his button-down shirt. He was sweaty, smelled like cigars, and kept touching me whenever I brought drinks.
I loathed him.
