I whisper into the night, “I’m back, motherfuckers, and ready to continue building my wealth. You ready?”
Falling asleep on a mattress I bought online that wasn’t a hand-me-down or from the secondhand store in downtown Detroit was one of the best things I did here. This bed was made for a king. It’s hypoallergenic, a must for me. I am allergic to dust, apparently, which was why I spent so much time at the doctor’s as a kid. I’m sure it’s also the reason Momma didn’t go often herself.
She had set up a payment plan when I was younger, and the old man bitched about the bills. Five bucks a week was what it was. Five bucks a week, and I paid that shit off with my first big win.
The description read “California King: plush pillow top with cool foam.” I saw “King,” and I saw cool. Then I looked in the mirror and gave myself a wink. It was made for me, so I one-clicked that bitch. I’m so glad I did, too. I love this damn bed.
No more sleeping on an old mattress on the floor. I was sleeping king.
I love being king, but in Vegas, I wasn’t a king. Here in Vegas, I am Aces. I walk into any casino, and they know who I am. I have a nice ride, and I’m dressed to impress. I’ve always had to fake it till I actually make it, but looking around my room, I’d say I made it.
I wake up early in the morning and stretch, wanting to get a jump on the day, starting with a run. My body needs to be tired so sitting inside a casino for hours doesn’t drive me insane.
I head into bedroom three, turn on the Bose surround sound, and jump on the treadmill, also bought online and delivered to my door. Hell, I even had them set up the treadmill. I didn’t want to fuck up a five-thousand-dollar piece of machinery.
After my run and shower, I throw on a pair of gray dress pants, a white wifebeater, and a blue button-down, collared shirt. Blue makes my eyes pop. Then I stand in my walk-in closet, checking out my look in the mirror.
“Spot on, of course.”
I go into the bathroom, towel off my hair, grab some gel, and make sure every hair is in place—the look isn’t complete without that. I shave, something I slacked on back in Rock City, then grab my silver Rolex off the counter, strap it on, step back, and admire the reflection in the mirror.
I busted my ass to become who I am today. Baller, high roller, or Aces, call me what you will, but it all comes back to where I began.
Before leaving my kick-ass pad, I grab my wallet and a condom. I need to grab me some high-society tail today.
The first four hours, I hit the California, Binion’s, El Cortez, and Golden Gate for blackjack to ensure my pocket is padded, and I make two grand in four hours. Not a bad fucking day at all. The edge is off now. I have two grand to play and two grand back in the wallet. Why two grand? I always keep two grand tucked away to get me home—always.
I head back to stash it in the safe and take a breather.
I flip on the eighty-inch, wall-mounted flat screen and sink down into my leather recliner, my throne. Hitting the remote to the chair, the massage begins, and then I sit back, listening to the news.
Later, I wake up feeling like a new man, like a winner. I swear I smell hundreds, and those bitches have my name on them.
Tonight, I roll up to the valet and toss my keys at him.
“Be gentle with her,” I say as I hand him a twenty. “If she comes back looking the same, that’ll be bigger.”
“I know it will, Aces.” The kid winks at me.
This is a gamble—handing the keys over to someone you don’t even know. It tears at the Rock City boy, but no one knows how hard those wheels were to come by. No one knows I’m not just some entitled little punk who’s burning away his trust fund and youth by playing cards, driving cars, and hanging at bars. No one knows because they can’t see my tells. I’ve buried those bitches deep, as deep as the emotions I feel watching someone getting in my prized possession.
As I watch the kid jump in my car, I see a smile on his face. I know that motherfucker wants to burn rubber as sure as I know I wanted to do the same thing the first time I sat in her black leather seats. And, fuck yes, I did it, but that rubber was paid for by me.
His grip tightens on the wheel—his tell—but he won’t do a damn thing. Why? He needs this job. He earns bank, then goes and plays the game, hoping someday to be a baller, just like me.
I know all their tells, even the dealers. I don’t count cards; I count on instinct. I trust my gut. Momma didn’t raise a fool. Momma also didn’t raise an entitled prick. My only tell: I refuse to treat people who have the same damn dream I do like they are less than. Hard work is not foreign to this guy.
From the moment I roll up in my ride, I smile at the pimply-faced kid who takes my keys. I hand ’em over, and I give him respect in the form of trusting him with my ride.
They all know me ’cause I treat ’em well. I tip, I talk, and I treat them with respect.
Chapter 4
Hailey