Page 81 of Don't Bet On It
That was exactly what I predicted as well.
22
TWENTY-TWO
It wasn’t supposed to be a relationship. A month later, however, it felt like a relationship.
We spent almost every night together. That wasn’t the original goal—it was supposed to be an occasional night of sex offset by a full dose of professionalism at work—but things shifted before I even realized it was happening.
At work, we bantered and flirted but only when Kyla wasn’t present. Deep down, I recognized Kyla was probably asking about us when we were off shift. I told myself to stop the flirting. It didn’t happen, though. Whenever I was around Tallulah, I couldn’t stop myself. She always rose to the occasion. I alwaysroseto every occasion too.
We went out to dinner. That shouldn’t have been part of it. She liked trying new restaurants, however, and it was always a joy to try to find someplace she’d never been with an eclectic menu and a garish Vegas vibe. She was gung-ho to try everything, even if she was convinced she wouldn’t like it. Sometimes, she surprised herself. Other times, she picked around the entree and suggested grabbing a burger afterward.
I was up for all of it.
As for the sex, it was still as hot as it had always been. I expected to burn out—that was the plan—but instead my interest in her grew with each passing day.
She was funny. Sometimes, she was mean funny, but she was also self-deprecating. She didn’t let herself off the hook. Often, I wished she would get over the trauma of her childhood and see herself as everybody else saw her. She was a queen, and I always wanted to worship her. Her insecurities popped up at the most inopportune times, but I was getting better at talking her down from her emotional cliffs.
The other thing I noticed—although I never brought it up—was that Candy was spending two solid hours with her a week. The conversations weren’t happening in Candy’s office, which would’ve been an obvious tipoff, but Candy followed her around on slow afternoons and chatted with her nonstop.
I understood something about that relationship that Tallulah did not. It was therapy. Candy was working with Tallulah, talking her through her childhood trauma, and easing some of the anxiety that weighed Tallulah down. Tallulah didn’t realize that, of course. If she recognized what Candy was doing, she would clam up. Instead, she was opening up more, naturally. And, from what I could tell, she was being honest.
That was good. I wanted her to feel better about herself. I lived in fear of how she might shut down when she realized what was really going on. There seemed to be no danger of that happening yet—especially since I had no intention of telling her—so I pushed those fears out of my mind. For now, at least.
Her mother had shown up at the casino four times, to my knowledge. Tallulah had managed to avoid her each and every time. Sharon was determined, however. If Sharon escalated things by doing something stupid—and she would—Tallulah was going to melt down. That was a worry for another day too.
Tonight—we’d both worked day shifts, thanks to a bachelor party—I had something else I wanted to show Tallulah. I hadn’t told her what—she’d made jokes about penises of unusual sizes—and I was looking forward to the surprise.
“This is a nice building,” she said as I keyed us in through security.
I took her hand once we were inside and led her toward the elevator. “It’s an older building, but they did a nice refurbishment on it,” I agreed. Once on the elevator, I hit the button for the twelfth floor.
Her eyes went wide. “Top floor, huh?” She cocked her head. “Is this where you live?”
Surprisingly, we’d spent all of our nights together at her apartment. I wasn’t keeping her from my place—I had no inhibitions about sharing my space with her—but she had never mentioned wanting to see it. Since I preferred her being comfortable, I always stayed with her. Plus, she was closer to the casino. It made it easy to head there after our shifts, which sometimes ended at two or three in the morning.
“Actually, I don’t live here.” I didn’t say anything else until we got off on the top floor. Then I led her to the left. “I do something else here.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Omigod. Do you have a sex room in this building?”
Why she’d jumped to that conclusion was beyond me. I spurted out a laugh. “Who has a sex room?” I was honestly curious.
“This is Vegas. Every self-respecting millionaire in the city limits has a sex room.” She sounded as if she meant it.
I shook my head. “I am not a millionaire.”
She didn’t say anything, but it was obvious she wanted to.
“I’m not,” I insisted. “If I was a millionaire, would I be working as a dealer?”
“When rich people do crazy stuff, they’re called eccentric. Maybe you’re just eccentric.”
I burst out laughing. “If you say so.” I keyed a different code into the pad outside the end unit. “This is not a sex room, and I’m not a millionaire. My father is a millionaire—he might actually be a billionaire at this point—but I’m not my father.”
“Okay.” She was dubious. “If we walk in here and I see a sex swing, though, I’m leaving. You’ve been warned.”
I was taken aback and paused with the door halfway open. “A sex swing?”
