All characterizations, plot lines, backgrounds and details belong to the author. Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight.
Thanks as always, to my beta the incredible xrxdanixrx. Check out her wonderful new story Washed Up. XO BB
A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who has graciously agreed to pre-read this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you.*Pull and Pray.* XO
So, let's meet this Bella, shall we?
Come, join me.
The only sure thing about luck is that it will change. - Wilson Mizner
Bella
Chapter 2
The bus hisses, steam and dust rising from the baking asphalt as I'm pushed off by some idiot, who is blaring heavy metal from his iPod so loudly, he'll probably lose his hearing.
After a pointed and patented death stare, which goes unnoticed, I adjust my bag over my shoulder and navigate my way through the pockets of tourists, who have already started to wander the streets. It's only seven-thirty in the morning. If I was on vacation, I wouldn't be up at seven-thirty in the morning.
I take the short walk down to the Sunrise Rehabilitation Center, cursing the new pumps that I bought last night at Payless. What the fuck was I thinking? Right... you're going to be in the Twilight Room tonight. My heart pounds faster at the thought. I don't know why I'm nervous. It's not like I haven't dealt with these people before. But you haven't dealt with him.
Him... Edward Cullen. Mr. CEO himself. I've seen him nearly every day for over a year as he breezes into the casino, impeccably dressed, and looking... delicious. There really isn't another word for him. Unfortunately, he knows he's delicious, as do the never ending women I've seen him leave with. I don't think I've seen the same one twice. Not that it matters, the most I've ever gotten from him is a head nod in my general direction. He doesn't speak to the lowly reception desk staff. I suppose he doesn't really have to. He's got bigger things to worry about than who wants a free upgrade to a suite.
I give my head a shake as I round the corner and approach the center. I shouldn't think so poorly about an employer who has been as good to me as he has, even if he doesn't know I exist.
I got my job at The Oasis as a reception assistant just over a year ago. Part time was all I was looking for, then. It paid the rent and didn't interfere with my studying or limited social life.
Two months ago, after Charlie suffered a stroke, I knew part time wasn't going cut it anymore. I was forced to drop out of my MBA program at the University of Nevada and switch to full time in order to help pay for his rehabilitation.
The stroke left Charlie partially paralyzed on his left side, and while his disability insurance pays for some of his treatments, it certainly doesn't cover everything. We had hoped that he would be able to move back to his house by now, but that hasn't happened. So, I'm stuck paying the bills on the house, covering the expenses related to his long term care, and paying my own rent until that does happen.
Charlie has started to make progress over the last few weeks and is slowly relearning how to walk, but he still has a long way to go in order to be able to live by himself. It hasn't been easy for him, or for me, if I'm being honest. To see your father, a once vibrant and active man, unable to do basic functions like walking and feeding himself, or having to be helped to the bathroom, has been extremely difficult.
He's a proud man, and I know this has done more to damage his self-confidence than the actual physical damage. Still, the doctors are hopeful that with continual physio and speech therapy, he'll be able to make a recovery that will allow him to live independently.
I push open the glass door to the center and move to the reception desk, happy to be in the air conditioning. "Morning, Charlotte," I greet.
"You're here early. Is everything okay?" she asks, smiling back at me. Charlotte is Charlie's favorite nurse. She doesn't let him wallow and is constantly pushing him to try harder.
"Yeah, I'm just working late tonight, so I won't be able to see him. Is he awake?"
She nods. "He's in good spirits today."
"Thanks, Charlotte." I take the short walk down the hallway, the sterile smell assaulting me as I stop at his door. I knock and peek my head into his room. He's sitting with his back against the headboard, his legs under a beige blanket, a tray over his lap. His hand shakes as he tries to lift a spoon to his mouth, a look of concentration on his face.
"Morning, Daddy." My voice causes him to lose his grip on the spoon, and it crashes to the tray. He lifts his eyes to me slowly while I make my way to the blue chair beside his bed, pulling it next to him.
"Mmm… morrn, Bbells," he says, his eyes clenching shut as he struggles to say those two simple words. "Eearrrly." I smile at him, kissing the top of his head. It's taken him more weeks than I want to count to get to this point.
We've run the gamete of emotions since the stroke; frustration, sadness, anger, joy. His psychologist says it's all normal. It doesn't feel normal. I'd give anything to turn back the clock and have my father back.
"Yeah, I know. I have to work late tonight. I'm starting a new job at the casino," I explain. He furrows his brow. "Don't worry. It's in the high limit lounge. I'm sure there's a ton of security."
He nods slowly as I pick up the spoon, stirring the mystery beige concoction in the clear glass bowl. I spoon out a serving and bring it to his mouth, trying not to focus on his sad eyes.
WC
By the time I walk to The Oasis, its eight-thirty. My feet are killing me and I'm sweltering in the black skirt and blazer that is the coveted uniform for the reception staff. At least I don't have to think about what to wear to work every day, or spend a fortune on clothes.
I take the marble stairs to the overstated entrance, marveling at how busy it is already. Some people come to The Oasis just to take pictures, or to visit the gardens. They ohh and ahh, point and whisper, hoping for a glimpse at a celebrity. It borders on crazy some days, but I know I'm lucky to have this job. It's the best casino in the city, and I'm paid extremely well for what I do.
Once my badge is scanned, I settle in and start my fascinating day of checking in VIPs and catering to their every ridiculous whim. I'm actually hoping today will be busy so I don't have time to think about tonight and the Twilight Room. If I think too much about it, I'm only going to get more nervous, and God knows, me getting nervous is never a good thing.
WC
It's three-thirty, and my heart is racing as I check the door to the private elevator for the twentieth time. Mrs. Cope called down at two o'clock, saying that Mr. Cullen wanted to see me, and that she would be down when he was ready. Apparently, his schedule is more important than mine. Of course it is! He owns the place, Bella.
Still, I can't help but think that he's keeping me waiting on purpose. Like maybe this is a test or something. I shake my head at my overactive imagination and try to focus on arranging spa treatments for the pretentious pain in the ass in room 1482.
I'm in the middle of booking appointments when I hear the distinctive sound of the private door shutting. Unfortunately, Mrs. Cope's warm smile does nothing for my nerves. She's the picture of calm, carrying the leather bound journal that I think may actually be permanently attached to her hand.
"Good afternoon, Bella," she says, stopping at the side of the marble reception counter. "It's been busy down here today."
I nod, unable to actually speak. My mouth has gone dry, and I feel like I'm going to throw up. Idly I wonder how she knows it's been busy. I imagine she must have more important things to worry about than the activity at the reception desk.
"Mr. Cullen is ready to see you," she states.
Holy shit. "Okay," I squeak out. She smiles, waiting patiently as I give Emily instructions before I leave her in charge. Emily has become a good friend since she started a couple of months ago, and she knows how to handle this job. She gives me a reassuring smile as I pick up the binder, which I now consider my Bble, and follow Mrs. Cope on shaky legs to the private door.
Jasper had given me the massive binder, complete with detailed profiles on the players that frequent the Twilight Room last night, after I agreed to cover for Angela. I studied it as much as I could, trying to learn their names, their likes, their personalities, and their drink preferences, until I fell asleep with the binder in my hands, my dreams full of random faces, casino chips, and blinking lights.
As Mrs. Cope punches in some code on a key pad next to the private door, I wonder what the fuck I was thinking agreeing to this. I'm so far out of my element here, its frightening. I can handle the reception desk and my team easily, but this seems more daunting, more demanding, more intense.
I know I'm about to enter unchartered territory here; that this world, the elite of the elite, is one which few people are ever allowed in to. She holds the door open for me, and we walk to the elevator. I watch as she punches another code into the pad beside it; codes to keep the undesirables out.
"Did you have a chance to look over Angela's notes?" she asks calmly as we wait for the elevator.
I nod, thankful beyond words for Angela and her information, which borders on stalkerish. "I did; although, right now, it's pretty much a blur," I admit.
She hums a response as the elevator doors open, and we step inside. I shift nervously beside her, having absolutely no idea what to expect.
The rumours about Edward Cullen spread like wildfire amongst the staff. He seems to be a bit of a dichotomy, hosting charity events one minute and cutting ruthless business deals that result in the eventual demise of other smaller casinos the next. He seems to be on a quest to take over Vegas, and he shows no signs of slowing down.
I look up at Mrs. Cope, who probably knows him better than almost anyone, and suddenly, the words are spilling out of my mouth before I can stop them. "What's he like?"
She smiles warmly at me. "Mr. Cullen?" I blink a response while the elevator whisks us up, leaving my stomach in the lobby. "Overbearing, demanding, arrogant." Fuck. That description does nothing to calm my nerves.
I study the marble floor of the elevator, wondering if somehow I can figure out a way for it to just swallow me up. I feel her squeeze my arm gently in reassurance. "It's okay, dear. Under all the bravado and the expensive suits, he's just a man… an extremely frustrating one at times, but just a man."
Right…just a man. I can handle a man. I do it everyday. Conceited assholes are my specialty. God knows I've had experience here with the rich playboys, coming for a weekend vacation and spending Daddy's money with reckless abandon, assuming they can just throw you a smile and get you to drop your skirt the next minute.
"You can handle this, Bella. You wouldn't be here if Jasper thought you couldn't."
Jasper… I stop short of telling her that Jasper probably gave me this assignment because he just couldn't take Alice hounding him every waking minute about promoting me.
I owe my job at The Oasis to Alice. She's been my best friend since high school. We commiserated over teenage crushes, biology tests, and finding the perfect dress for the prom. She sat on my couch and let me cry my eyes out over what I thought at the time was a devastating breakup with Mike Newton, my first real love in college. She was there when I got the call from the police station that Charlie had his stroke. And it was Alice who suggested I go see her new boyfriend, the Director of Human Resources, at the prestigious Oasis for a job.
"They're always hiring people, Bella," she'd said. "You'd be great there, and Jazz says they pay really well." That was really all I needed to hear. Paying really well was and still is a priority, given the expenses that I'm responsible for handling.
The elevator dings ,and the doors open to a lavish hallway and a large cherry wood door with gold lettering, signaling our arrival at the legendary Twilight Room. Mrs. Cope holds the elevator open, waiting as I pick my jaw up off the floor, my eyes taking in the massive security guard, who stands in front of the door with his arms folded across his chest.
"Mrs. Cope." The menacing security guard nods at her, his eyes sweeping over me. "Miss Swan." He knows my name? How does he know my name? My heart starts beating faster as I step out of the elevator, my shoes sinking into the plush burgundy carpet.
Mrs. Cope steps back into the elevator. "Let me know how it goes, dear."
"You're not coming in?" My voice squeaks out as the elevator doors start to close again.
She shakes her head at me. "No." No? What the fuck? Don't leave me here with this freak of nature and God only knows what, waiting for me behind that door. The panic spikes, and I watch helplessly as the elevator doors shut and Mrs. Cope disappears, along with her welcoming smile.
The guard opens the massive door to the Twilight Room, gazing down at me intensely, and I step through, my feet landing on a honey coloured hardwood floor. The door closes firmly, the sound echoing through the substantial room, while I clutch the binder to my chest, holding onto it for dear life.
I've never seen anything like this. I step up to an elevated floor, scanning the bar that seems to take up the entire left side of the room. There are sleek, modern, brown leather stools and couches, surrounding a huge stone fireplace in the corner. I wonder why anyone would want or need a fireplace in Las Vegas.
Interlinking metal, glass, and silver-leafed screen partitions separate the bar from the ample gaming area which holds several half circle shaped blackjack tables and oval poker tables, covered in expensive looking burgundy felt.
The lighting is muted and understated with ornate chandeliers and sumptuous brown, leather chairs dotting each of the tables. Modern art work ordains the rich coffee painted walls. I'm sure they're worth a fortune.
It's all impressive and intimidating, and I'm feeling light-headed. I'm sure it was designed specifically to make you feel that way.
And then I see him.
Directly across from the door, seated at one of the blackjack tables, moving a rectangular cream colored card methodically through his fingers, his eyes focused, razor sharp on mine.
I'm melting, hyperventilating, close to passing out as I take in his perfectly tailored grey suit, the black pinstriped tie, his angular jaw firmly set as he sits in complete command of the room. He doesn't say a word to acknowledge my existence.
I see a single card dealer standing perfectly straight, his hands hanging at his sides, waiting it seems. He nods his head to the table, and I somehow remember how to walk, the sound of my new pumps clicking across the floor, distracting me from this beautiful specimen of a man before me.
I take a step up to the raised floor that the table sits on, my heart hammering. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Cullen," I think I say, although I really can't be sure. I think I've left my body. I've never seen anyone look at me like this, all intense and dark. It's nerve-racking. He's worse than the mutant standing guard outside.
"Do you like surprises, Miss Swan?" he asks, his voice even and unemotional, the card turning between his long fingers.
Do I… what? No pleasantries, no idle chit-chat about the weather? Alright, then. He's just a man.I try to focus on Mrs. Cope's words, praying they'll help me through this. "It depends on the circumstances."
He raises an eyebrow. "Give me an example of a surprise you would enjoy." Jesus, how do people function in this man presence? I stare back at him, his angular jaw and wayward hair highlighted by the muted glow of the light above. He doesn't even look real.
I grip the binder tighter; something to hold onto to keep me from passing out. "Well, if I got flowers for no reason, or if I ran into someone I hadn't seen in while, I'd like that kind of a surprise."
"And what about a surprise you wouldn't enjoy?" he asks, cocking his head to the side.
Oh, well that's easy. "I don't like to be embarrassed. Last year, one of my friends threw me a surprise birthday party. I hate being the centre of attention." Kind of like I am right now. I feel the heat rise in my face.
"Well, we have something in common."
I relax slightly. "You don't like to be the centre of attention, either?"
"No. That I love," he answers, his expression stern, my momentary relaxation dissolving. "I don't like to be embarrassed. You're not going to embarrass me, are you, Miss Swan?" Holy fuck, he's gorgeous, and confident, and so fucking sure of himself, and I just feel like some small insignificant speck.
"I'm going to try not to," I reply, my voice a whisper.
"I also don't like surprises. I was surprised to learn that Angela was in the hospital, and I was surprised to learn that youwould be taking her place." His eyes sweep down me. He motions to an empty, imposing brown leather chair at the table. "Sit." So I do. He's not exactly asking. "Tell me what you know about this room."
"This is the first time I've seen it," I say timidly.
The eyebrow rises higher. He's mastered the intimidating stare. "You can do better than that."
I take a deep breath, trying to find my confidence. I must have left it in the elevator. "I know that it's exclusive. That the only people who are allowed in are the ones you invite. You sent out eighteen invitations for tonight. Sixteen have accepted." He continues to move the card through his fingers, the thin gold threads that weave through it catching the light from the chandelier above the table. It's beyond distracting.
"Go on," he presses.
"You only open the room a few times a week. I'm not sure why, maybe to keep them wanting more. You don't want to give people too much of a good thing."
"You don't know Vegas very well if that's your opinion. It's all about too much of a good thing." He hesitates, watching me closely before continuing. "Tell me about some of the people who have accepted my invitation tonight." I pull the binder from my chest and open it. He frowns in obvious disapproval. "You won't have a binder to help you tonight, Miss Swan."
My eyes flicker away from his and to the dealer who just stares at the burgundy table, emotionless. He's clearly not about to help me. I set the binder on the chair beside me, my eyes locking onto his as he silently tests me. I clear my throat and pray to God I remember something from Angela's endless pages of notes.
"Jane Sampson. She's fifty-one, a recent widow who has had one too many plastic surgeries, and whose much older and wealthy husband died a few months ago from a heart attack. The rumour around the casino is he died while she was fucking him." My cheeks blaze under my blatant description.
"Hmm. Not a bad way to go," he muses.
"If women like Mrs. Sampson turn you on, I suppose." Oh God!Did I actually just say that? Me and my stupid inability to keep my mouth shut.
"Are you asking me what type of woman turns me on, Miss Swan?" he asks, clearly not amused.
"No, I was just... I'm... No," I ramble. I'm unable to break away from his stare. I'm the fly in the web, the lamb being brought to the slaughter. That last thought brings me out of my haze.
"Riley Biers. He's young and rich," I continue.
"They're all rich, Miss Swan. Tell me something interesting about him."
"He won seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars the last time he was here. I imagine that's what you mean when you say interesting." He nods, saying nothing. "James Miller. He's only been here once before. He brought a woman, Victoria, with him. She's like his good luck charm or something."
"Or something?" He seems amused by that. "How does he take his martinis?"
"He doesn't drink martinis. He drinks scotch. Neat. Preferably Glenfiddich." Stick that in your expensive pipe and smoke it, Cullen.
He nods, stopping the distracting turning of the card and holding it in his hand. "I'm impressed, Miss Swan. I don't impress easily."
"Angela kept good notes," I mumble, shifting in the chair and feeling pretty damn proud of myself.
"Never give credit to someone else. You have obviously been trying to prepare for this, and I admire that." I smile back at him, but he doesn't return it. "For future reference, Mr. Miller drinks Macallan scotch, not Glenfiddich." I take in a shaky breath. "Have you ever gambled before, Miss Swan?"
"Bella." I correct him.
"Okay, have you ever gambled before, Bella?" The way my name falls from his lips sounds entirely too good.
"No."
He furrows his brow. "Do you honestly think I don't know what goes on in this town?" he asks incredulously.
Shit! "Okay, so I've gambled a couple of time before. I wouldn't even really classify it as gambling. It was like twenty bucks on the slot machines with some of my girlfriends after work, over at Eclipse," I blather, lowering my eyes from him.
"How did it feel when you won that sixty dollars at Eclipse?"
"You know I won sixty dollars?" I ask in disbelief, looking back up at him.
"Do you really have to ask me that?" I simply stare at him, not knowing how to respond. "You're an employee gambling at another casino. It's my job to know, and I see everything, Bella." His words are unsettling. I mean, of course I know that there are cameras and security in the casino, but spying on employees? Is that even legal? Oh God! Has he watched me here before? Is that how he gets his kicks? "How did it make you feel?"
"It felt good," I answer truthfully.
"And yet you felt the need to lie to me about it. Why?"
"I don't know. I guess I didn't want you to think I was some hardcore gambler or something."
He chuckles "Hardcore gamblers are part of the reason this casino exists, part of the reason you have a job."
I shift uneasily. I've offended him. Way to go, Bella. "Mr. Cullen, I—"
"Have you played blackjack before?" he asks, recommencing the turning of the card between his fingers.
"At home with my dad."
I see a hint of a smile. The first I've seen since I walked in here and fell under his heated scrutiny. "Play a hand with me. For this." He places the card down on the Oasis logo in front of him. "Do you know what this is?" I shake my head at him. "It's a five thousand dollar plaque. That's the minimum bet at this table."
I swallow audibly, looking up from the plaque. "I don't have five thousand dollars to give you when I lose."
He smirks at me. "Well, technically, in blackjack, you're not playing against me, you're playing against the dealer, and who says you're going to lose?"
"Well, obviously, I'm going to. I have no idea how to play this, and you've got like a ton of experience," I say.
"You can count to twenty-one, can't you?" His smirk widens.
"Of course I can," I fire back at him. You arrogant prick.
"Then you know how to play blackjack."
I look down at the plaque and then up to him. "I'm sure there's more to it than that."
"Humour me," he says, his green eyes blazing.
"Seriously, I don't have that kind of money, Mr. Cullen."
"How about this, then? We'll play a hand. If you lose, we'll just give the plaque over to Harry, here. If you win, you keep it," he says casually, as if five thousand dollars isn't a big deal.
"What? That's not… Are those even the rules?"
"No. But I'm breaking all of the rules now and this is my casino. Harry?"
The dealer, who I had all but forgotten, comes to life, turning his head to Mr. Arrogant. "Yes, Mr. Cullen?"
"Deal," he says firmly, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Of course, sir," Harry responds, robotically moving to the large stack of cards in front of him and shuffling it with flourish before placing it into a rectangular box.
It seems to take a year as Cullen's eyes burn into mine before Harry extracts a card from the box, placing it face up on the table in front of me. I break away from his gaze long enough to notice a jack of hearts staring back at me.
Harry turns over an eight of clubs in front of Cullen and a seven of hearts in front of himself. He then turns over a king of clubs next to my Jack and a ten of diamonds next to Cullen's eight. He keeps the card he deals to himself face down.
"Miss Swan?" Harry's voice echoes through the room, my eyes darting between my cards and Cullen. He lifts his eyebrows to me. I turn in Harry's direction. "Hit or stay?" he prompts.
"Stay." It sounds more like a question than an answer.
Cullen taps the table behind his cards with his enticingly longer index finger. "I'm feeling lucky today," he states, his gaze penetrating.
Harry pulls a card, flipping it over to reveal a five of diamonds. Cullen doesn't even look at it. He doesn't seem fazed at all that he's out of the game. Harry then turns over the card that is face down in front of him. It's a ten of spades. Harry has seventeen, and I have twenty. I take an audible gasp in.
"Congratulations, Miss Swan," Harry says.
"You're not going to take another card?" I ask Harry, while Cullen smirks in amusement.
"He has to stay at seventeen or higher. Those are the casino rules."
"Oh." I look at the five thousand dollar plaque on the table in front of him.
"How does it feel? Walking in with nothing and leaving with everything on the table?" Cullen asks.
"I don't know. Like it's not real," I say quietly.
"Imagine how Mr. Miller or Mrs. Sampson will feel when it's not just five thousand dollars, but fifty or a five hundred thousand," he says, the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly as his eyes stay locked to mine. "That will be all, Harry."
Effectively dismissed, Harry nods to me and without another word, steps down from the raised floor and makes his way out the door, leaving me alone… with him.
Chapter end notes:
Oh, dear.
Thoughts on our Bella and her first encounter with Casinoward?
Twitter: CarLemon