Call Me Sugar Read online

  Call Me Sugar

  Sage Nyx

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Description

  1. Jade

  2. Sugar

  3. Jade

  4. Sugar

  5. Jade

  6. Jade

  7. Sugar

  8. Sugar

  9. Sugar

  10. Jade

  11. Jade

  12. Jade

  13. Sugar

  14. Jade

  15. Sugar

  16. Jade

  17. Sugar

  18. Jade

  19. Jade

  20. Sugar

  21. Sugar

  22. Sugar

  23. Sugar

  24. Jade

  25. Jade

  26. Jade

  27. Sugar

  28. Jade

  29. Sugar

  30. Jade

  31. Sugar

  32. Jade

  33. Sugar

  34. Sugar

  35. Jade

  36. Sugar

  37. Jade

  38. Jade

  39. Sugar

  40. Jade

  41. Sugar

  42. Jade

  43. Sugar

  44. Jade

  45. Jade

  46. Sugar

  47. Jade

  About the Author

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Model: Travis DesLaurier

  Cover by: Clarise Tan

  Formatting: Cerys du Lys / Cherrylily.com

  This book is dedicated to Sugar.

  You will always bring a special kind of magic to this world!

  Description

  He’s gorgeous, muscled, inked to infinity and absolutely wrong.

  “Trust me, I’m a magician,” he says. Famous last words…

  So what if he's got magic hands and a really big wand? I’m sure he can make a dress disappear into thin air too.

  Look, I'm not trusting a man who dropped a live snake in my palm.

  Falling for a blue-eyed hunk with messy, blond hair isn’t in the cards.

  Not for a numbers nerd like me who came to Vegas on a mission: Get in, make money fast, and get out.

  Sugar's a sinful distraction. He's not putting me under his spell.

  Don't remind me this place is the devil's playground.

  I only messed up once with one little kiss.

  I'll vanish before his next kiss says stay…

  Call Me Sugar is a wickedly sinful romantic comedy standalone with no cheating and a steamy HEA you’ll be dreaming about for a long time.

  Jade

  “Can I get you something to drink, miss? You haven’t moved in three hours.”

  I glance over my shoulder at the cocktail waitress standing behind me in the Imperial Hotel Casino and smile politely.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  She raises her eyebrows at me while balancing an empty tray on her hip. Her vintage black flapper dress is tight, short, and low-cut. Long sequined gloves, strands of white pearls and a silver headband completes her outfit. She could easily pass for a cigarette girl in a forbidden 1920s speakeasy.

  “Okay,” she says. “I’ll swing by in another hour to check back. It helps to take a break occasionally when you’re playing the slots. It’s not healthy to sit in front of the machines for hours straight.” She leans down closer to my ear and drops her voice to a whisper. “It can make a person crazy. Trust me, I know. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times to other gamblers.”

  “I’ll take a break soon,” I assure her.

  She walks away without another word. I wait until she’s gone before pulling out my cell phone. After checking the time, I place it beside the slot machine.

  It’s almost midnight and I’m exhausted.

  Being a compulsive time watcher, I’m irritated at the lack of clocks in the bright casino. The management prevents gamblers from realizing the passage of time by removing all the natural cues, including windows.

  Keeping gamblers sitting at the tables or slot machines is their number one goal, and they’ll do anything to make that happen. Inside the loud Las Vegas casino, minutes can quickly turn into hours or even days.

  It’s easy to lure tourists wandering through to stop for only a minute to gamble. The sound of coins clinking, or the sparkle of fancy lights on a slot machine catches their eye, and they’ll pause to play only one time.

  What can be the harm in blowing a few dollars and then moving right along to dinner or a fancy show? They’ll tell themselves it’s well worth the money for the entertainment value of pulling the lever and watching the slot machine spin.

  The next thing they know it’s twelve hours later and they’re walking out with a thousand-dollar credit card bill and one of the worst hangovers they’ve ever had. The fun weekend in Vegas ends up being a very expensive vacation they’ll be paying off on their credit cards for a long time.

  Luckily, I’m not a gambler.

  I’m a recent college graduate with a Master’s degree in Statistics and one specific goal in mind.

  Get in, make money fast and get the hell out.

  People say it can’t be done. That the house can never be beat in Las Vegas.

  They’re wrong.

  What few people realize is that almost everything in this world is based on patterns or mathematical equations. Even something as random as a video slot machine really isn’t. Not if you understand the probabilities and have the patience to work them to your advantage.

  And these days patience is my new middle name.

  The cruel fact is that I need money.

  Stacks of it.

  After six years of attending an out-of-state private college in Boston, I’ve accumulated thousands of dollars in college loans. Even more importantly, I have a younger brother who desperately needs expensive occupational therapy.

  My mom’s crappy health insurance refuses to pay for it, and the only alternative is for her to take out another high-interest loan that she can’t afford.

  I’m not breaking any laws here in Vegas, and the worst thing that can happen is the casino might ask me to leave. I’m not worried. As long as I keep losing money and the slot machine isn’t paying off in an irregular pattern, my activities won’t catch their eye.

  On the chance anyone might be watching, all they’ll see is a near-sighted, geeky girl with big, thick glasses wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt, faded jeans and sneakers. My normal outfit that allows me to go unnoticed no matter what I’m doing.

  The last time I checked they can’t kick me out for not being stylish.

  Reaching around with one hand, I massage the back of my sore neck to work out the inevitable migraine building up there. I’ve sat on this stool for hours, slowly and methodically feeding the same slot machine.

  Taking the waitress’s advice, I stop for a second to stretch my cramped legs. A noisy group of intoxicated women making their way across the vast room catches my eye. They’re trailing behind a handsome guy with blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

  He’s wearing tight black pants and a long-sleeved, white shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist underneath a dark blue blazer. The gap in his shirt leaves none of his muscled six-pack abs to my imagination. A large pair of designer reflective sunglasses covers his eyes.

  The sun never shines in a casino and it’s after midnight. Why is this jerk wearing shades? I guess his future truly must be bright.

  His arms are thrown casuall
y around the shoulders of two petite, blonde-haired girls with ridiculously large boob jobs and plumped up, pouty lips. Both are wearing red leather mini-skirts so short that I can see that one has lost her panties somewhere along the way.

  I would love to hear that story.

  Two more tall, slender blondes are teetering close behind on four-inch-high stiletto heels. One reaches over and places a possessive hand on the guy’s back. A massive man in a dark suit is sticking close by the group. Probably the blonde guy’s bodyguard.

  I’m torn between being disgusted and amused by their behavior. I try not to watch, but it’s hard to tear my eyes away.

  This is damn good entertainment.

  Too bad, I don’t have time to sit and watch the freaky sideshow play out.

  Who is this sleazy Hugh Hefner wannabe surrounded by an entourage of sexy blondes and security personnel?

  In my mind, I’m already making up outlandish stories to go along with them. Maybe he’s a rich playboy from an Eastern European country visiting Las Vegas to play poker in one of the private rooms?

  Or a Hollywood actor who keeps a house in Los Angeles and one in Vegas?

  Or maybe even a porn star hanging out with his cast after a long shoot?

  My mind is running away with me. The cocktail waitress was right. Staring at the slot machine for too long is making me crazy.

  I sneak one last look to see the guy running a hand through a thick lock of his blonde hair. He turns around to say something to his entourage behind him, causing the group to break out into obnoxious loud laughter.

  What an asshole.

  I return my attention to the slot machine. I hope they don’t come my way. Now that I’m finally gaining an instinctive feel for the machine, it would suck to have my rhythm broken.

  It’s not something I can explain.

  The numbers.

  The mental calculations.

  The gut instinct when I know the game is making sense.

  I stopped many years ago trying to explain how math works in my head to other people. It only solidifies their opinion that I’m different and weird.

  When I was in elementary school, I once tried to explain to my teacher how I sometimes perceive numbers as colors and vice versa. The conversation ended in me being pulled out of class and put through three long days of psychological testing.

  I never made that mistake again. It’s always better if other people don’t know.

  In front of me, the slot machine spins a colorful arrangement of cartoon fruit while I mentally review the previous outcomes in my brain. I’m so deeply engrossed in my calculations that I don’t notice the group walking behind me until it’s too late.

  I gasp in shock when an ice-cold liquid spills down the back of my neck. A body falls heavily against me, knocking me off my stool.

  “What the hell!” I yell.

  I land on the carpeted floor in a tangled heap with one of the big-breasted blondes in a mini-skirt. Instead of trying to get off me, she dramatically holds up an expensive, black shoe toward her friends.

  “I broke the heel of my shoe,” she cries. “And I spilled my damn drink.” She tilts her empty glass toward me. “You owe me another screaming orgasm.”

  “A what?” I ask incredulously. “Are you insane? Get off me! I don’t owe you anything.”

  I push against her and try to wiggle out from under her drunken dead weight. It’s hopeless. She’s sprawled across my body, pinning me down to the dirty casino floor. Her spilled drink is pooling underneath my ass. The strong smell of her perfume engulfs me and immediately intensifies my migraine.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says with a giggle then leans forward, her bright red, pouty lips close to my face.

  I jerk away from the overwhelming stench of alcohol on her breath.

  “Hey, are you into girls?” she slurs. “You look like you might be. I can go both ways if you’re up for it. Either way, you owe me another drink. Unless I can lick this one off you.”

  To my horror, she leans down and slowly licks the back of my neck. She’s smashed and now my concentration is shot to hell.

  “Stop it!” I say, pushing at her again. “Get off me!”

  The sexy, blonde jerk stands there watching us with his arms crossed and his blue eyes twinkling in amusement.

  Or are they green?

  The color is somewhere between the two colors and for a split-second I’m mesmerized. I wonder if his eyes change colors when he switches shirts. Then I snap out of my daze. My palm itches to slap that silly grin right off his face.

  “She doesn’t seem interested in giving you another screaming orgasm,” he tells the girl smothering my face with her DD boobs. “But I’m totally up for it.”

  His bodyguard laughs loudly and slaps his leg. I glare at him and he abruptly stops. Is he paid to laugh at this guy’s lame jokes? It wouldn’t surprise me.

  I’ve figured out by now a Screaming Orgasm is the name of the creamy alcoholic drink I’m drenched in.

  “I bet you would be up for it,” the girl sprawled on top of me replies. She gives the guy a flirty, coy smile.

  Or at least she’s trying to be coy.

  It doesn’t come off quite that way since one of her extra-long, false eyelashes came loose during the fall and is now hanging on to the edge of her eyelid. Every time she blinks it’s like a butterfly trying desperately to gain lift-off.

  She’s too drunk to notice.

  The guy motions to his bodyguard. “Get the girls another drink, Leroy,” he orders. “Whatever they want. And call a cab for Shirley to take her back to her hotel. She’s had enough fun for one night.”

  “It’s Shelley,” she whines, pursing her lips in a pout. “And I’m fine. I don’t want to go yet. I’m ready to party. We haven’t even gone clubbing. And you promised to dance with me.”

  She manages to roll over onto her knees. Bracing her hands on my shoulders, she digs her long nails into my skin and tries to push herself up. Failing, she falls back down hard on her ass. Her skirt slides up around her upper thighs, flashing the whole room.

  Two sets of male eyes go straight between her legs.

  Ugh!

  I’m disgusted and have had it with this group of idiots. Her drink is sliding down my back and slowly oozing between my butt cheeks. My shirt is wet and sticky. I’m rolling around on a dirty casino floor.

  I need to get the hell out of here.

  If I plan to keep working tonight, I’ll have to grab a change of clean clothes out of my rental car and hurry back. Unfortunately, it’s parked several blocks away in a creepy public parking lot.

  If someone else grabs this slot machine while I’m gone, I’ll be forced to start the sequencing all over again. Their foolishness has cost me an entire night’s worth of work. Which means an extra night at the hotel, food and gas. Money that I can’t afford to spend.

  “Forget the drink,” I blurt. “Get her off me. Please, I need to go.”

  “Sure, whatever you want,” the blonde guy says as if he’s only now noticing me crushed underneath the girl. “Leroy, give Shelley a hand, would you? Don’t stand there with your eyeballs bugging out. You’ve seen pussy before.”

  I notice Mr. Bigshot doesn’t offer to lend a hand to help anyone.

  Then he does.

  He reaches down a warm, tattooed hand and gently grabs mine before I jerk it away. With one strong tug, he pulls me to my feet and straight against his chest.

  I’m off balance and grab onto his arm where I feel his rock hard, muscular bicep underneath my fingertips. He gazes down at me and our eyes meet for a split-second.

  “Sorry,” I say automatically when I see stains on his sleeve left by my drink-covered fingers. “I’ve ruined your jacket.”

  Why am I apologizing to him?

  He should apologize to me.

  It’s hard to think straight when I’m gazing into his blue eyes.

  He glances down at the stain and shrugs nonchalantly. “I have plenty more. Are
you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

  I drop his hand and take a step back. “I’m sure. I’m leaving. My clothes are soaked.”

  Reaching down, I grab my backpack from the floor. It infuriates me that I was interrupted when I was entering the zone.

  Without a backward glance, I make my way through the crowded casino and toward the entrance. When I walk away, I hear the girls burst out laughing.

  Probably at me.

  I don’t give a damn. I’ve spent a lifetime hearing silly girls giggle behind my back.

  By the time I step outside, my brain is already laser focused again and running complicated mathematical calculations.

  The man with the bluish-green eyes is gone from my mind.

  With any luck, I’ll never run into him again.

  Sugar

  As usual, my sleep is restless and fitful.

  By the time the first ray of morning light streams in through the blinds, I’ve given up on getting any shut eye. The fact that I hit the bed only three hours ago doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

  The fast life in Vegas doesn’t leave much time for sleeping.

  Stretching leisurely, I roll over to read the glowing red numbers on the clock. Nine-thirty, which means it’s time to get to work.