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, who also made the awesome banner. Check out her new story, Washed Up. XO BB

A million thanks to my dear friend MizzezPattinson who pre-reads this story. Much love, hun. I couldn't do it without you.*Pull and Pray.* XO

Let's see how the rest of the day looks for Bella. Come, join me.

Casinos and prostitutes have the same thing in common; they are both trying to screw you out of your money and send you home with a smile on your face. -V.P. Pappy

Bella

Chapter 4

The elevator doors close, and I'm whisked down at a shocking speed, my stomach plummeting with me. "Holy fuck," I breathe, looking up to the ceiling and trying to get my bearings.

I see everything, Bella. His words swirl in my head as I quickly try to compose myself. If he sees everything, I'll be damned if he's going to witness me crack. I've never been this simultaneously pissed off and turned on in my life. The nerve of that man is unbelievable. Get yourself some new shoes? What the fuck?

And now, I've been sent down to the concourse à la Pretty Woman with cryptic instructions to get something tasteful and elegant. Pretentious asshole. I glance at my new Payless pumps, which he may as well have laughed at. My version of tasteful and elegant is clearly much different than his.

The binder slips beneath my sweaty palms, and I adjust it as the elevator stops and dings, opening to the upscale stores of the concourse. Despite having worked here for over a year, I have yet to step foot in any of them.

Clutching my bible against my chest, I take a tentative step out of the elevator. The concourse is busy, with smartly dressed people filing in and out stores, designer bags swinging happily from their hands.

I make my way from the elevator, trying not to look too conspicuous. The truth of the matter is I couldn't be more out of place if I tried, wandering down the marble inlayed floors in my generic, black uniform, staring up at the designer signs that adorn the shops.

I stop outside of Louis Vuitton. The display in the window is stunning. Patent leather monogrammed bags, mounted beside perfectly tailored suits set against a clean, crisp white and silver backdrop. The security guard stationed at the door lifts an eyebrow to me, silently asking what the fuck someone like me is doing in front of Louis Vuitton.

I nod my head, agreeing with him. Move along, Bella. Gucci or Prada. Mr. Sure-of-Himself said Gucci or Prada. The concourse seems to go on for miles. You would think stores like these would have a more prominent location. I'm about to give up and try my luck at one of the other stores, when I see the gold letters popping from the slate background at the corner of the concourse.

Gucci.

Taking a deep breath, I wander into the store. The security guard briefly acknowledges my existence and then turns back to people watching. There are more women milling about than I would expect inside. My eyes dart to the handbags that look more like museum pieces than anything else. I keep walking. Handbags, however enticing, aren't required for the Twilight Room.

I find the woman's section at the back of the store and scan the dresses. None of these look appropriate. I'm not going to the Oscars, here. These are all gowns. What the fuck did he mean by tasteful and elegant? Why didn't I ask him more questions? Right, you were trying not to pass out.

"Can I help you find something?" A statuesque blonde smiles warmly at me. She is, of course, impeccably dressed in a form fitting steel blue sheath dress with black expensive looking boots that end just below her knee, her hair pulled into an elaborate twist.

"I hope so. I need something for… an event."

She cocks her head to the side. "What kind of an event?"

Oh, you know, just a casual a poker game, maybe some blackjack where several million dollars may exchange hands. Focus, Bella! I decide on the truth. "I'm actually working in a VIP room tonight."

Her eyes widen for a moment, and then she nods her head. "And what kind of budget are we looking at?" she asks.

Shit! He never said how much I could spend. My eyes dart from the blonde to the rack of gowns. "I don't know." One perfect eyebrow rises. "Mr. Cullen said just to put it on his account."

"Oh. I see." Her warm welcome vanishes, replaced by an icy stare. "I'll need to call up and verify. Your name?" she barks.

I give her my name, and she moves behind the opulent desk that houses the cash register. I set my binder down on the white, overstuffed couch in the middle of the room and start to scan the rack in front of me, trying not to listen as the blonde bombshell whispers into the phone. He said he would call down. How much more embarrassing can this get?

There are no price tags on any of these gowns, and my heart starts to race. If you have to ask, you can't afford it. Yes, but I'm sure he can. This feels so surreal. I'm so far out of my comfort zone, it's frightening, and these clothes… they have to cost a small fortune. Why does anyone want to wear Gucci? Give me my sweats, and my gray U of N hoodie, and I'm happy.

"Everything seems to be in order." The blonde's acidic voice stirs me back to reality… or whatever this is, right now. "Did you want a suit or a dress?"

"Um, well…maybe something like this?" I pull out a simple black, tailored pant suit. It looks elegant enough to me, and not unlike what I have on, right now. Maybe this isn't the right choice. I have no fucking idea what I'm doing.

"A dress would be better. A suit would require a lot of tailoring, given how short you are," she says pointedly, her scowl hardening. Her eyes sweep down me incredulously, and I wonder what the fuck I did to offend her.

Without hesitating, she breezes by me and yanks out a black asymmetrical dress from further down the rack, holding it up in front of her. It gathers at the waist and probably ends just above the knee. It's stunning, and I feel my mouth fall open. "Try this," she commands, turning on her heel and moving to the fitting rooms.

I pick up my binder from the couch and follow along behind her. The floor that leads to the fitting rooms is embossed with the Gucci logo, the walls lined with floor to ceiling mirrors, the ceiling housing muted track lighting.

A cream coloured love seat sits at the front of the fitting room area. On it sits an older looking man with thinning grey hair, lounging back, immaculately dressed, sunglasses covering his eyes as he plays with his BlackBerry. I wonder what he's doing here.

As the ice queen opens up a large fitting room door, another opens, with a tall, thin, extremely tanned brunette, practically skipping out of it on her way to the man on the love seat.

I watch as she completes a full circle in a miniscule, skin tight green dress in front of the man. "I like this one," she says happily. The man sits up, adjusting his glasses, a creepy smile playing over his face. She's probably at least twenty-five years younger than he is. I feel a full body shiver as he smirks, nodding his head, and then waves her back to the fitting room while she giggles with excitement.

The cranky sales woman clears her throat as she stands beside the open door to the fitting room. I make my way inside, shutting the door. Placing the binder on the cream stool in the corner, I remove my jacket and my skirt robotically, stepping out of my new pumps. My feet breathe a sigh of relief, and I scowl, realizing that Cullen was right. My feet are killing me.

I remove my cream blouse, setting it on the stool, and lift the expensive dress from the hanger. I'm almost afraid to touch it. I lower the zipper in the back, sliding it over my head and sighing as the fabric skims over my skin. It feels like heaven, like nothing I've ever had on my body before. This is why people want to wear Gucci.

I struggle with the zipper, but manage to do it up enough to get the general idea. I turn to the mirror and take an audible gasp in. Holy shit ,this dress is tight, practically showing off everything I own.

I lower the cream bra strap on my exposed shoulder. I'd need to get a new bra, something strapless, probably costing more than the usual cotton ones I splurge on at Victoria's Secret when they have their semi-annual sale.

I turn around and strain my head to see the back. There's no way in hell I can wear this. Its way too sexy for what this job entails. Perhaps if I was just visiting the Twilight Room, then maybe. You'll never be just visiting the Twilight Room, Bella.

No. I won't. I shake my head, lowering the zipper, pulling the dress off and placing it back on the hanger. I smooth it down and get dressed back in my generic uniform quickly, listening as the brunette in fitting room number one squeals, no doubt from some other skin tight dress she loves.

I grab my binder and open the door, making my way back into the store, looking for the nasty sales woman. She's otherwise occupied with another paying customer and ignores me as I place the dress back on the rack. I'd rather not buy anything from her, anyway.

I leave the store with my head held high. The security guard doesn't bat an eye at me. Prada it is.

WC

My Prada experience is significantly better than my Gucci one. Once I find the store, I am met by an extremely helpful, young sales woman who shows no signs of crazy mood swings.

After trying on a few dresses that she selects, I settle on a knee length, black, V-neck, light weight one with tucked and knotted detailing in the bodice. It's my version of elegant. Nothing skin tight or revealing, and no new ultra expensive strapless bra required.

The sales woman makes casual conversion as she runs the dress through his account. No raised eyebrow, no accusatory glares, it's actually been enjoyable.

The dress costs eight hundred and twenty-five dollars. I'm sure I gasp as I see the number on the computer screen flash, and my momentary enjoyment vanishes. I've never spent eight hundred and twenty-five dollars on a single item of clothing in my life. Well, I guess I'm not really spending it. I feel a wave of nausea roll over me. I'm going to have to pay him back for this. It doesn't feel right, spending someone else's money this way for a silly job.

With my ridiculously high priced dress tucked safely away in a Prada labeled garment bag, I leave the store, eyeing the tempting handbags on my way out.

I'm on my way back to reception, my feet complaining, a harsh reminder that I need shoes. And there, encased in cream swirling marble, with black simple letters, is Manolo Blahnik. I've seen enough Sex and the City to know if I want shoes, this is where I need to go.

The shoes cost almost as much as the dress, which seems ridiculous to me, and I'm skeptical they can be any more comfortable than my Payless ones, but they are. They're black and simple, fitting as if they were made for me. The same wave of nausea is back when they are added to Cullen's account.

With the purchases that cost more than my paycheck in my hands, I make my way back to reception. Emily gives me a run down of what's transpired since ,I've been thrown into an alternate universe. Thankfully, there have been no emergencies. Everything's normal were her exact words. Right… normal. It's all a matter of perspective, according to Cullen.

I spend the next hour trying to commit the contents of the binder to memory. Time is running out as we inch closer to five o'clock where I will be "collected," according to him, much like the garbage, or those tacky snow globes you pick up when you're on vacation.

I find myself unconsciously twirling the pen through my fingers, trying to mimic his distracting fondling of that damn five thousand dollar plaque. The pen drops several times in my attempts. How did he do that? Why did I find it such a fucking turn on?

Of course it's a turn on; the man is beautiful. Unfortunately, he knows it, and I'm sure that performance this afternoon was just the tip of the iceberg. Tonight, he'll be in fine form, I'm sure, posturing and parading around like he owns the place. He does own the place!

Holy fuck, what am I doing? I run my fingers through my hair, pushing a strand behind my ear and try to focus.

The fact that Edward Cullen is beautiful and sexy as hell is irrelevant. I have a job to do and a point to prove. I can handle this room in all its legendary glory. Yes… it's all a matter of perspective.

WC

"Can you just go over doubling down, again?" I ask as Harry smiles at me from behind the blackjack table. We've been going over the "finer points" of poker and blackjack as Cullen requested for the last two hours, and it's all starting to blur.

"You're going to do fine, Bella," Harry says.

I furrow my brow. "But Mr. Cullen said—"

He chuckles, shaking his head, leaning forward. "I'll let you in on a secret," he whispers. "Mr. Cullen can get a little crazy about this place. You don't need to be an expert blackjack or poker player; trust me."

I like Harry. He's calming my rattling nerves and reminds me of Charlie; loyal to the core and clearly a heart of gold. He has worked at The Oasis for over twenty-five years. The man could probably write a book about what he has seen and experienced. He's a fountain of knowledge and he knows this business and this room, very well.

"At the end of the day, they're all just people. Don't let the fancy watches fool you."

I try to take comfort in his words of wisdom as he deals another hand.

WC

An almost unrecognizable reflection stares back at me in the lavish mirror of the woman's bathroom. My hair, pulled back into a low ponytail, the Prada dress falling effortlessly to my knees, and the shoes… he was right, they're comfortable, not that I'd admit that to him.

I contemplate putting on actual makeup for the first time in months and decide against it. I'm already nervous enough, and trying to figure out how to do the smoky eye is not going to help matters. Lip gloss and a quick powder cover it is. You look pretty damn good, Swan.

So does the rest of the team, all dressed in stylized black trousers for the men, a-line skirts for the women with varying shades of crisp, rich, burgundy shirts that mirror the colour of the tables. This is definitely a step up from the boring black and cream of the reception area.

I am amazed at the experience the team that works this room has. Most are seasoned veterans, having worked in Vegas for years. I'm greeted warmly, with the exception of Kate, a skilled server with a bigger chip on her shoulder than the Gucci saleswoman had. There's always one, I suppose.

She questions me at every turn as we ready the room for ten o'clock, frequently flicking her long blonde hair back and issuing me a death stare. Jessica, one of the other servers, rolls her eyes at me and shakes her head, as if this is normal behaviour for Kate.

"Just ignore her. We all do," Jessica says, squeezing my arm in reassurance.

Seth, the distractingly good looking bartender nods his head in agreement. "She's just pissed they didn't pick her to take over from Angela." Well, that would explain it, then.

As we inch closer to ten, the air in the room takes on a dramatically different feel. The laughter fades, Seth's playful banter stops. The dealers stand at attention, their hands clasped behind their back. It's all serious all of a sudden. I suppose when you're here to wager a small fortune, it needs to be.

I've done a pretty good job up until now, managing the ever growing anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. Having to decide on appetizers, the critical placement of chairs around the bar, and managing Kate's attitude has been a welcome distraction. But now, this is it.

I stare at the thick and imposing cherry wood door, wondering what's lurking out there. Not only do we have Peter stationed outside, but somewhere between our discussion on shrimp cocktails and Seth inviting us all to his apartment for a party on the weekend, two more hulking security guards have materialized and flank the doors. What do they think is going to happen in here?

I station myself at the door, not knowing if I should or not. Should I be invisible, as well? Do they expect to be greeted? They must. I should have asked more questions. My panic is halted as the door clicks open. It's close to ten-thirty… they're fashionably late, of course.

One by one, I greet them as they arrive sporadically over the next hour, explaining Angela's absence to the ones who bother to ask. Most of them are genuinely concerned about her, which I'm not going to lie is shocking.

A few of them recognize me from the reception desk, nodding apparently in scrutinized approval, their eyes raking down the Prada dress as I try my best not to flinch. Yeah, I wear this everyday.

They are all flawlessly dressed; smart suits, flowing gowns, tight skirts, enough jewelry to feed a small country. It's staggering the amount of the wealth that these people have. You can almost smell it. There is an air about them, a sense of entitlement, it's daunting to navigate, and I find myself over thinking every single thing I say, not wanting to inadvertently offend them.

I move them to the bar area, take expensive shawls from wives or mistresses, I'm not exactly sure which in some cases, storing them out of sight in the coat room behind one of the frosted partitions.

Mini discussion groups start up between the players, reminiscent of cliques in high school. Backs are slapped and tumblers full of bronze liquid are clinked together, the ice rattling around as they get reacquainted with each other. It's all very civilized, the tension in the air mounting as the dealers start to shuffle decks of cards with flourish, almost as if they're hypnotizing them to come closer.

Players select tables, sinking into expensive leather brown chairs and placing down obscene amounts of money in exchange for plaques. Blue and white backed cards flit across the burgundy tables as I signal for drinks to be refilled. The team falls into a coordinated rhythm. It's like a well oiled machine as they attend to both the players and their guests. See? I can do this.

And then, Jane Sampson arrives dramatically, her jet black hair slicked back into an extreme ponytail, her eyebrow cocked as she steps foot into the room. An extremely young boy-toy trails along behind her, looking petrified as soon as he takes his eyes off of her plastic ass that seems to have been literally poured into a floor length, form fitting, red halter dress. She scares the hell out of me.

Every head in the room turns to the door as I scramble down from the bar to meet her. She cocks her head to the side, clearly confused. "And you would be?" she asks.

"Bella," I say, my voice faint as I try not to stare at her plastically enhanced face. Why do people do this to themselves?

"Just Bella?"

"Swan… Bella Swan. Angela is in the hospital, so I'm filling in for her," I ramble. As if she cares.

She takes a deep breath, judging me, studying me, deciding if I'm worthy. "Which table do you suggest, Bella?" She accentuates my name bitterly almost, waiting impatiently.

Fuck! Which table? How the hell do I know? I look up to the raised tables, scanning them quickly, my eyes falling to James Miller, whose heated leer I've almost gotten used to over the last hour. Almost.

He's a man of few words, his fiery red-headed companion a polar opposite, currently giggling and holding court with three men around the fire place as she sips on her fifth gin and tonic of the night.

"I would say this one." I motion to James' table as the corners of her collagen enhanced mouth curl up.

"An interesting choice," she murmurs, her eyes locking onto James'. "Come, Paul." She glides across the floor, stepping up to the blackjack table with Paul, following along like a dutifully trained dog.

I watch in amazement as he pulls out her chair, and she sinks down into it, waving him off when he hovers beside her. They don't like hovering. Cullen's words come crashing back to me as Paul makes a hasty retreat to the bar.

Speaking of Cullen, where the hell is he? All sixteen players are already deeply entrenched; cream, dark blue, and blood red plaques clicking between them, and he's nowhere to be seen.

I move back to the bar area. Victoria and her court jesters look bored. Clearly, the alcohol is wearing off. Time for food.

Back in the kitchen, Kate is hoisting a silver tray with appetizers from the oak prep table. She rolls her eyes when she sees me. "I think they're starting to get restless out there," I offer, hoping to crack her iron clad exterior.

"No kidding. They were starting to get restless a while ago," she snaps, brushing by me. "You would have seen that if you weren't so busy flirting with Seth." What the fuck? I haven't been flirting with Seth. I've been dealing with ridiculous drink requests for the past hour. My blood boils as she dawns a fake smile before moving to the bar area. I watch as she lowers the appetizer tray, lingering a little too long for their or my liking. Kate doesn't do subtle very well.

She giggles and laughs with Paul, louder than she needs to, causing Jane to take her eyes off the table, leveling her a glare that she doesn't even seem to notice. This is not good. It was all going so well. Too well. Cullen's words rattle around in my head. The servers should be invisible. Right now, Kate is the center of attention in front of the bar.

Jessica turns to me pointedly from the bar, her eyes widening, darting to Kate in a silent exchange. I have to do something about this. I move to Kate, stopping beside her as she throws her head back and laughs, well, cackles is more like it. "Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?" I ask as discreetly as I can, her eyes hardening at my intrusion.

"Of course," she says snidely. I smile at Paul and Victoria as Jessica intervenes, quietly offering them a refill on their cocktails.

She follows along behind me, slamming the tray down on the counter once the door to the kitchen is shut. "What do you want? I'm trying to earn tips out there."

"You're making a scene out there."

Her eyes narrow further. "What the hell do you know about any of this? You've been here all of what, a nanosecond, and all of a sudden you know everything?" she barks.

"Keep your voice down," I practically hiss. "I'm pretty sure Mrs. Sampson doesn't want you flirting with her guest."

"Mrs. Sampson is a dried up old prune," she rants.

"She may very well be, but while she's in this room, you will treat her and everyone else in here with respect, and that does not mean throwing yourself at the first warm blooded male who pays you some attention."

"You've got a lot of nerve. Who do you think you are?" she seethes.

I pull out the Swan glare. "I think I'm in charge of this room, at least for tonight, and if I see one more stunt like that, I'll have you removed."

"You wouldn't dare," she growls.

"Try me," I fire back at her. Her mouth gapes open at my words. I find it hard not to let mine do the same. I've never had a confrontation like this, and I hope to never again. The adrenaline spikes as we stand in stare down mode, until finally, she breaks the stare, a silent surrender.

She moves to a fresh tray of appetizers, lifts it above her head, and without another word, leaves the kitchen. I stand for a moment, watching the door as it closes, hoping I haven't just made an enemy.

I don't do conflict well. I'm usually the middle ground, the voice of sanity, the one always helping out. This feels foreign, and quite frankly, more than I bargained for. I don't know how Angela does this. It's overwhelming; the quirky demands, running the staff, dealing with egos that seem to grow by the minute. But there's no time for me to have a mini meltdown, I need to get back out there.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the kitchen door and make my way back to the room, my heart stopping as I see him. He's standing at one of the poker tables, laughing quietly with Riley Biers as they share some inside joke.

He turns his head from the table, scanning the room, burning green eyes finding mine. The corners of his mouth turn up… he nods his head and quirks an eyebrow as my heart hammers. Apparently, he approves of the way his money was spent this afternoon. Get a hold of yourself, Bella!

He's changed from the light grey suit. This one is dark midnight blue, perfectly cut and accentuating his lean frame, his hair slightly more tamed then it was early today. He stops short of issuing me a full blown smile, his eyes moving back to the table.

He is clearly in his element, working the room, stopping at each of the tables, spending time with the elite. I can't look away. He is in complete command, radiating confidence. It's a massive turn on.

I feel Jessica nudge my arm, huffing beside me. I didn't even see her standing here.

"Don't waste your time. None of us are good enough for him," she whispers, turning on her heel for the kitchen.

"I wasn't going to," I mumble. Just keep telling yourself that.

My eyes move from Cullen to James and his almost empty drink. I motion to Seth, my mind fuzzy on the type of scotch he drinks… McFadden, McCullen… I almost snort at my slip. Seth stops in front of me as I try to calm down. "Glass of Macallan, Seth. Neat."

He nods, slipping back down the bar as I lean against it, my fingers gripping the smooth, rounded marble edge.

"Drinking on the job, Miss Swan?" Cullen's warm, thick voice lands in places I know it shouldn't. I can feel him behind me. He's closer than he should be. Close enough to smell, to feel, to touch. "You look lovely."

He moves beside me, leaning against the bar, and I make the mistake of looking up at him. His eyes intense, amused, fucking mesmerizing.

"Yeah, well, Prada will do that for you," I say in an amazing moment of boldness. This room, my encounter with Kate, the six hundred dollar shoes on my feet; it all has me feeling brave.

He leans down, his lips close to my ear, his breath on my shoulder, he smells intoxicating. It's all I can do not to pass out. "Prada doesn't have anything to do with it."

Chapter end notes:

Yes-The Gucci fitting room experience, complete with a Sugar Daddy. I've witnessed it, first hand. Really quite something.

Thoughts?

CarLemon