Copyright © 2023 by Just Bae
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“Who the hell are the Hale’s Hounds?”
Samantha Gayle sat on the sofa in the employee lounge in the sub-basement of The Pines Resort and Casino. The plush, purple velvet Queen Anne was left over from the main lobby’s old decor, following a recent renovation that modernized the top Vegas destination. Rumor had it that members of Prince’s entourage, during a concert residence, once attempted to make off with it because the Purple One himself was so enamored with the furniture and wanted it at Paisley Park. A bullshit story, Samantha was certain, but she and her co-workers found the cast-off comfortable and enjoyed the urban legends attached to it.
Deanne Lopez, fellow blackjack dealer and work wife, sat opposite her, scrolling the same communications app for casino employee news. “Where are you seeing that?”
“The newest post under private party opportunities.” The Pines offered a variety of services to private parties within and beyond the property. High rollers, especially, preferred to have the gambling come to them in quieter rooms. One could rent a blackjack table or roulette wheel for the night, or arrange a private concert, but anything beyond that was considered unauthorized by the hotel group. Play at your own risk.
Samantha normally avoided the requests for private dealers. The rich and/or famous tended to preen around the “underlings” and get handsy. Samantha still bore the deep fingerprints of one former A-list action star on her bicep when he tried to tug her into his bedroom. He’d lost thirty grand at her table and intended to make it back under the sheets. Samantha liked to believe he still bore the dent in his balls made by her black suede pumps.
“Here we go,” Deanne said, and read off the posting. The Hale’s Hounds were a small fraternity, a group of seven men, in for a weeklong reunion. They had one of the executive penthouse suites for the duration of their stay and wished to host a private blackjack party tomorrow night. The Pines didn’t assign employees to these requests but accepted volunteers. Pay was the same, but the clients often tipped well. Not necessarily in Samantha’s experience, however.
Following her run-ins, casino policy now called for two employees to take turns at the private tables while one guard waited outside, for security purposes.
“We should take this job before somebody else claims it,” Deanne said.
“No way.” Hale’s Hounds sounded more like a biker gang than a fraternity. Samantha imagined walking into a disheveled room full of snarling pervs, all with their dicks out. Nobody looked like Charlie Hunnam in these scenarios. “I have my pride.”
“Do you have your price, though?” Deanne side-eyed her and flashed her phone screen to show a text thread with Shawn, their friend in concierge. “I thought that name sounded familiar. Shawn says they’ve been tipping him heavy all week. He’s pocketed four figures alone from these guys. We’re talking deep pockets, Samantha.”
Money. It made the world go round, and lord help her but Samantha needed some. Her job paid well, and the shorts and sandals crowd were moderately generous in slipping her chips throughout her shift. It kept her afloat, but she welcomed more.
Samantha thought of her little girl, Kiara, now with her babysitter. Samantha provided well for her, but room for improvement always existed, especially since Kiara’s pre-kindergarten teacher remarked on the girl’s natural ear for music.
Extra income could nurture that talent. Voice lessons, piano… Samantha pictured Kiara on stage at Carnegie Hall one day, performing to a sold-out audience.
Was it worth sacrificing her dignity, though? “I don’t know, Deanne.”
“Shawn says they’re nice guys. Just a pack of old farts roaming Vegas on a nostalgia kick,” Deanne said, her eye still on her phone. When she went quiet, Samantha asked what Deanne was texting Shawn.
Deanne winked at her. “Checking to see if any of them are wealthy redheads.” Samantha laughed. Deanne loved her gingers.
She re-read the posting. The party was scheduled during her shift hours, so keeping Shay on for extra time wasn’t necessary. It got her off the floor and away from the clattering and whooping of slot machines for a night, though Samantha was used to that particular white noise. The only caveat she noted in the post was the dress code. The Hounds had prioritized female dealers, wearing “something alluring.” The casino offered to provide an alternative uniform.
“They must be kidding,” Samantha murmured. She flashed back to her first job in Vegas, as a bunny-suited waitress in a diner near the Vegas Vic sign. It paid the rent and other expenses, but once she snagged this coveted position at The Pines she fell in love with the tuxedo uniform. It was cut to highlight her figure as well, so surely what she wore now offered plenty of “allure.”
“Samantha.” Deanne stretched her name out into several syllables. “Old guy heavy tippers. Maybe they’re senile enough to tip us every hour.”
“Maybe.” Samantha rubbed a patch of velvet on the sofa. Everybody did it for luck, invoking Prince’s name as one would a saint while asking for strength. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
Baby needed piano lessons.
* * *
“Hey, Vic.”
Victor pulled his sunglasses down his nose and peered over them at his friend. “Yo.”
Drew Keller kept his eyes closed, face tilted toward the Vegas sun. Triple-digit temperatures baked their skin, giving them more than their share of Vitamin D. “How much you think it costs to live here?”
“In the hotel, or Vegas in general?” Vic rested back on his lounger. “‘Cause this place has done spoiled me. If I were going to live anywhere, I’d want ‘round the clock room and maid service and walking distance to showgirls.”
Drew laughed. “I’m just thinking I might not go home,” he said.
“You’re not a gambler, Keller. Hell, I’m surprised you even agreed to Vegas for the reunion. We appreciate it and all, but we know it’s not your scene.”
Vic told no lies. Drew would have much preferred a retreat in the Rocky Mountains or Yellowstone Park. He was the outdoorsy one of the old group, forever dragging somebody on a hike or spelunking excursion during the school breaks. Yet, get-togethers with his old buddies happened few and far between these days, and considering all seven of the Hounds were still around to enjoy each other’s company, Drew conceded to the casino jaunt when their mutual, Lenny, suggested it.
Heaven help him, he was having a good time. They tore through the standard Vegas bucket list -- the boxing matches, Cirque Du Soleil, the five-star dinners. Drew did finagle one trip with the guys to the Hoover Dam but drew the line at the Bunny Ranch. Vic stayed behind with him that night while the others got their tail on.
“I know,” Drew said, “but Vegas is growing on me. It’s quieter here.”
Vic was sipping on some kind of juice and rum concoction and sprayed it. “Quiet? Compared to what?!”
Drew held up his phone and showed his friend the home screen alert to twenty-five notifications. “This is just from the last hour,” he said. “My kids haven’t given me a moment’s peace since we got here. They’re all convinced every con man and gold digger from here to Reno is out to fleece me of their hard-earned inheritance.”
“All of them, or just the pain in the ass one?”
No point in asking for clarification. The guys all knew. “Him, yes. The others just tell me to wear condoms and read things before signing, but they still annoy me.” He shook his head. “I tell you, Vic, if this hotel had resident rooms I’d be moving in today.”
“They do. I saw brochures in the lobby.”
Drew looked out at the expansive pool, designed like something out of a Disney park. It had a waterfall and slides, and guests floated past on transparent inner tubes. Others, like them, lay out in the sun and rehydrated with boat drinks in giant, plastic bone-shaped containers.
A pair of young ladies in mesh cover-ups over revealing swimsuits strolled past their loungers, offering them flirty, perfunctory glances. Drew heard a term slip between them. GILF.
Grandfather I’d Like to Fuck
It earned them a chuckle. Drew looked down at his body, his tanned chest and abs, nicely defined for a man of sixty-five. He intended to hang on to see his grandchildren into adulthood, so he took care of himself. With the first one on the way, he had to stay awhile.
Drew watched the sway of the ladies’ retreat. Beautiful behinds and calves. Not a tan line in sight. “Vic, I have a good mind to marry a Vegas girl one-third my age and bring her home,” he said. “Just to enjoy the fallout.”
“No shame in that. Some of those show ladies are right smart. I met one the other night; she’s studying for her MBA.”
“Or maybe one of those acrobats from Cirque.”
“I want to be there when you do that.” Vic sat up, facing him with a devilish grin. “Especially when that red-headed stepchild of yours sees her.”
Drew smiled. His son, Jacob, wasn’t a step or adopted, but merely the victim of deep recessive genes on his late wife’s side. The boy -- well, a man now -- had a reputation for going apoplectic over every little thing. His other children were mellower, like him, but nonetheless would freak at the prospect of a stepmother their age, or younger.
Alerts popped up on his phone. Twenty-six notifications. Fuck me. All he wanted was a nice vacation without having to call home like a recalcitrant teenager on the edge of curfew. He opened up the family text thread and checked in. I’m fine. I’m not broke. Still coming home tomorrow but today I’m in bed with Celine Dion. She says hi. Leave me alone.
Vic slapped his thigh. “Okay, bud. Get up. Last full day in Vegas, and we’re making it count.”
Right. Lunch at the rooftop restaurant, then a late afternoon tee time. After that, a catered buffet dinner in the suite along with private blackjack. Lenny had set that up and promised some eye candy in the dealer department.
It mattered not to Drew. He hadn’t come here to get lucky in that respect. His wife, Kathy, had been gone for many years. Despite the reluctant blessings of his children and the aggressiveness of a flirty neighbor, he had no interest in romance at the moment. It would take a special lady, much like his late wife, to turn his head and tempt his libido.
So far, she hadn’t shown herself, if she existed.
Keller siblings group text thread
An hour into the private party, Samantha relaxed enough to concede all concerns about the Hale’s Hounds were unfounded. Upon their arrival, she and Deanne received many appreciative smiles and a few hand kisses -- with consent -- and that’s as far as it went.
She did wish, however, the wardrobe department at The Pines had given her more modest attire. Deanne said she thought Samantha’s white dress draped nicely over her form, and the low-cut bodice and high side slit offered no more exposed flesh than what any of these men might have seen on the main stage of Canto's signature revue. Deanne could talk, though. Her red bandage mini-dress accentuated her every curve, but Deanne didn’t look like she was about to fall out of it.
Thankfully, though, gentlemanly behavior prevailed. The Hounds came to play blackjack. If any of these so-called old farts entertained lustful thoughts, they kept them -- and their hands -- to themselves.
She and Deanne came to the game each with their shoe, or box of cards. As they traded off throughout the evening, she learned the Hounds comprised a subgroup of a major fraternity at Darling University. Seven best pals who stayed in touch over forty years, supporting each other through peaks and valleys, marriages and divorces, and widowhood, either in person or long distance. Now all in their mid-sixties, they’d come together to celebrate several milestones.
Lenny, the de facto party planner, had recently sold his security business and retired.
Victor, an architect, had designed his one-hundredth project and it recently broke ground.
Stanley, a class action lawyer, had recently won a nine-figure settlement for his clients against a pharmaceutical company.
“How about you, cutie?” Deanne asked the tallest and best-looking one in the group. Drew Keller sported fewer grays than his “brothers” and less body fat. Whiskers straddling between distinguished and untamed territory, the kind a woman wouldn’t mind tickling her in private places. Sam Elliott is hot, as Deanne might describe him.
Drew acted as anchorman for the group, the last player in line at the table. One of the Hounds had called him their good luck charm, as his presence tended to get them out of various scrapes.
“So you’re a lawyer, too?” Samantha asked. She sat on the sidelines while Deanne dealt out the round.
Drew -- he wouldn’t let either Samantha or Deanne call him Mr. Keller -- grinned. “I am a pediatrician,” he said. “Rather, I was. I’m semi-retired, and my younger son runs the practice now. But that’s not my reason for celebrating.” He pulled out his phone to show off an ultrasound photo. “I just met my grandson today.”
The table erupted in applause and catcalls for “granddaddy.” Vic, next to Drew, clapped the man on the back. “There you go. Future Heisman winner for Darling right there.”
Samantha’s heart lifted on seeing the man smile big. Of all the Hounds, Drew most defied his age in terms of looks and demeanor. He didn’t put up a rowdy front or slip out to the balcony to smoke like the others. He had a smoldering, bourbon, and golden-age sex vibe about him that kept Samantha’s stare pinned. She never saw herself as the type to go for older men, especially one twice her age, but for Drew Keller, she’d consider bending that rule.
“Yeah, my baby’s having a baby.” Drew’s voice took on a wistful tone. “Seems like yesterday I was holding Alice in my arms,” he said. “I only wish Kathy was here to see it.”
Vic nudged him and pointed skyward. “She is, bud.” That earned a sadder smile. Samantha turned away a moment, lest she begins crying. Deanne’s expression cured that notion, though. Her friend’s predatory stare screamed single hot doctor sugar daddy up for grabs.
“Deanne?” Samantha prodded and crooked her head toward the cards. The Hound called Hank wanted a hit.
“Sorry.” Deanne laughed and finished the round. Drew had stayed at eighteen and won. The rest had busted. “Okay, I hear you,” the dealer said. It was clear Deanne had a cold deck for all the losses in the previous hour. “I’ll call up for a new shoe, but in the meantime, Samantha will treat you right.”
So it went through the night. Samantha’s cards ran hot for the Hounds, and as their allotted time neared a close most of the men had earned their money back. Some broke even, while Drew ended up a few thousand to the good. On the last hand, the dealer had an Ace, and Drew held a Jack. He peered at his other card.
“What say you, anchorman?” Samantha asked.
Drew winked at her. “I’m going to double down.” His tablemates whistled. Drew had quite a bit riding on this hand, and Samantha hated to take his money.
In the end, Drew had a blackjack and the dealer eighteen. Luck was on his side once again.
“Gentleman, it’s been a pleasure,” Samantha said, packing up with Deanne. Both ladies graciously accepted chips and cash tips from all the men. Samantha especially tried not to boggle at all the hundreds given to her. She calculated what she could get Kiara with the extra dough. With school almost out for the summer, maybe they’d have a nice vacation for once, or she could enroll the girl in a music camp.
“Can we convince you, ladies, to stay just for one drink?” Vic asked. “We’re all flying out tomorrow. Gotta have one last toast and you are most welcome to join us.” The others chorused the invitation and promised to stay on their best behavior. Like they had a choice, with one of Canto’s top security guards on the other side of the door.
Deanne already had her flute in hand. Samantha teetered toward yes but thought of taking up more of Shay’s time. When she voiced her concern, Drew handed her another hundred. “This should cover your extra sitter fees,” he said. “One drink.”
Samantha met Drew’s dark, soft gaze. Oh, if only they’d met earlier in the week. “Sure. One drink.”
* * *
Drew had tried not to stare at her all evening. The second Samantha Gayle stepped into the suite, sexy as all hell in that white pin-me-to-the-wall-and-fuck-me-standing dress, his heart stopped. Samantha looked so much like his wife had forty years ago when they first met.
Everything, from her chestnut hair to her pert bustline to the smattering of freckles across her cheeks, reminded Drew of the great love of his life. He almost addressed her as Kathy and had to pull back lest he make a fool of himself.
His buddies had noticed the resemblance as well if he correctly interpreted all the furtive glances directed at him. It’s likely how the other woman -- Deanne, certainly a stunner herself -- gained the lion’s share of the flirting from the group. Drew took comfort in having Samantha sitting close to him all evening, chatting about her work and his, and any topic coming to mind. He swore he aged back ten years, too, when she agreed to stay for a nightcap.
When the bottle of Dom was finally passed around to them, Drew poured her glass first, then his. “Thank you,” she said. “So, how did you come up with the Hale’s Hounds name? It sounds like a death metal rock band.”
“That's a first.” Drew grinned at her. “I always thought it sounded more Tolkien. To answer your question, Darling's mascot was a Hound, the Mighty Hounds. Our frat house was located on Hale Street, so there you go. Not very creative, I'm afraid.”
Lenny, who overheard, chimed in, “But what we lack in smarts we make up for in looks. Ain't that right, Kris?”
Samantha arched an eyebrow at him. “You have a nickname, too? I could have been calling you Kris all night.”
“Whoa, no.” He laughed now to sluff off his discomfort. He'd birthed the Kris moniker in college while on the radio station staff. Kris hosted a Sunday night show and stuck around until Monday morning when Kathy arrived to read the news. Didn't seem like the right story to tell while flirting poorly with a beautiful lady.
“You've heard plenty about us old folks,” Drew said. “I wouldn't mind knowing more about you.”
“I live in Vegas and deal blackjack at a casino. What more is there to tell?”
You’re gorgeous and smart and a damned delight, and I wish I’d spent the week with you instead. ”You said you had a daughter?”
“Kiara. She’s four, and the light of my life,” Samantha said, though that light didn’t quite reach her eyes as she talked. Drew guessed the woman had a rough time of it, which Samantha then confirmed. “Her father was never really in the picture. She started pre-K this year, and my elderly neighbor watches her in her apartment while I work.”
Being a pediatrician, Drew knew children made for an excellent topic of conversation. He further greased the skids by asking about the young girl’s interests and found another segue when Samantha talked of the pre-K teacher’s assessment of Kiara’s musical abilities. “I hope you can get her into a camp. My sister is a concert pianist. Also conducted the Darwin Symphony Orchestra for years, but now she teaches and does camps herself,” he said. “She always says get them involved early.”
Samantha crossed her fingers. “That’s the hope.”
“Well, enjoy her while she’s still young, too, and get her regular check-ups. I’m speaking as a dad and a doctor.” Drew called up his gallery app and showed Samantha a snapshot of his three, taken a few months ago. “They grow up so damn fast.”
They were sitting on the long, leather sofa in the common area. Samantha lounged on the arm near Drew and leaned in for a closer look. The shift in position moved her neckline to show off more of her creamy white skin and the slightest tease of one nipple. Drew’s pulse quickened; a lesser man would be reaching for his heart pills now. As it was he stiffened, and not in his joints.
“They all look so different,” she said.
“That’s genetics for you.” Drew pointed around the photo. “Alice is purely my mother’s side. You put older pictures of my mother next to her and you’d swear they were twins. Trent is a mix of me and his mother, but he favors her more the older he gets.” He huffed out a laugh. “Jacob is my oldest. The family used to joke he was switched at birth. I wonder sometimes if he wants to believe it since he clashes with his siblings often. Kathy had a redhead way back in the family, though, so I like to call him my once-in-a-blue-moon boy.”
Drew realized he said the magic word to bring Deanne to their side of the couch. “What’s this, rich and handsome ginger? Oh my.” He laughed when the woman whistled deeply. “Is he a doctor, too?”
“Tax accountant.”
Deanne raised an eyebrow. “So he’s good with money.”
“Not to mention tight with it,” Drew said. “He’ll pinch a penny so hard to make Lincoln cry.”
“But he’s single, right?”
Drew huffed. “He’s tight with money. Of course, he is.”
Deanne’s reaction, to him, resembled a challenge to ponder and win. She drifted away when Vic called, right about the time the devil himself pinged his phone.
“Damn it.” Drew shoved his phone back into his pocket. “My kids haven’t left me alone all week, and he’s the worst offender. I have to check in every twenty minutes to assure them I’m still alive.”
Samantha laid a hand on his shoulder. He wore his dinner jacket but felt the connection all the same. “I think it’s sweet,” she said. “So many people I know have tenuous relationships with family, and while they aggravate you they care. I have no blood family aside from my girl. Enjoy them while you can. Speaking as a mother and a know-it-all.” She winked.
“Oh, I love my kids, don’t get me wrong.” Drew sipped his Dom. “It would be nice to have one of them call and not reverse roles on me, you know? Come to me for advice like they used to. Now, Jake bugs me every time he sees a weird charge on my bank statements, Alice wants to make sure I’m staying hydrated in all this heat, and Trent…” Lord help him, Trent. “Trent sends me links to articles about the benefits of CBD as a topical cure-all for libido issues brought on by advanced age.”
Samantha covered her mouth and laughed hard.
“I’m not a dinosaur, for fuck’s sake.”
“Most definitely, you are not,” Samantha said and crossed her legs. Oh, those legs. Lean and luscious and made to hook at the ankles around a man’s neck. Drew shifted in his seat. Nothing wrong with his libido right now.
“They’re all afraid, at different levels, that I’ll come home either broke or with a trophy wife.” Drew smiled at her. “Can you believe that?” He expected the young woman to laugh along with him, but Samantha turned suddenly thoughtful.
“Why is that funny?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend --”
Samantha cut him off, shaking her head. “You didn’t. It’s the way you said ‘trophy wife,’ like you don’t think you’re a catch, because you are. I'm not just saying that because you stuffed my hands with hundred-dollar bills tonight.”
“Am I a catch? I’m about to be a grandfather, and my romantic life revolved entirely around one woman.” The mere thought of Kathy touched a special place in his heart he rarely showed to people. “I wouldn’t know what to do if a woman at any age gave me the eye.”
“I refuse to believe that,” Samantha said and nodded toward Deanne. “You held your own well with my partner tonight.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Everybody at Canto calls her the Barracuda.”
Drew glanced back at the woman in the red dress, who now held court over the other Hounds, laughing and jabbering. Back with Samantha, he said, “Bear in mind, I’ve had a few drinks, and my buddies tend to buoy my confidence. Alone at home, I’m quite different.”
Samantha pursed her lips. “Let me ask you this, then. How long has it been since…”
Drew finished her thought. “Seven years.”
Samantha’s features softened. “You haven’t dated since?”
Drew shrugged. “Well, I’ve gone out a few times.” Indeed, one year and one day after Kathy’s death, the age-appropriate divorcees and spinsters began sniffing around his favorite haunts. There were dinners, blind matches set up by well-meaning friends, and the great Tinder Disaster of 2017 that were entirely Trent’s fault. None of them tugged at his senses like Kathy had, though.
Or, to some extent, this woman sitting next to him who now stoked a fire in her eyes.
“I just had a wicked thought,” she said. “You’re fed up with your kids meddling over petty things. Why not go big?”
“I’m afraid to ask.” Yet, inside, he thrummed.
Samantha beckoned to Deanne and told Drew to set up his camera. “Take a picture of us,” she instructed, and Deanne fired off a few shots of Drew in his rumpled Sunday best, an empty bottle of Dom hanging in his loose grasp, with gorgeous Samantha draped on one side of him. He thought he resembled that guy from the beer commercials in this pose when Deanne showed him the results.
Stay thirsty, my kids. And eat your fucking hearts out.
“Don't we look suave?” Samantha remarked. “Flash that around, let them come to their own conclusions.”
Drew loved the picture. Hollywood sexy, bound to inspire a myriad of reactions. He preferred, however, to start with three. But not yet. Something this spectacular required strategy.
It's Vegas, Keller. Take a gamble.
He drained his glass and met Samantha's eyes. “Are you sure you can't stay a while longer?” he asked. It was well past one in the morning, and the Hounds all had bags out at six. He probably wouldn't sleep until the plane, so why not spend the remainder of his trip creating a memory to spice up his dreams?
Samantha's facial tics -- the quirk of her lips, the twitch in her eye -- revealed her entertaining such a thought. “I mean, I could,” she said, “I just hate to put out my sitter.”
“Ask her if two hundred more would keep your girl longer. Cash.”
He waited while Samantha fetched her phone from her bag. The sitter readily agreed to keep Kiara until morning. No rush. Drew doled out two more bills for Samantha so he wouldn’t forget later. “I'm quite fond of that little jazz club on the third floor… I'm wondering, though, if your partner will be alright. Not that I'm insinuating my friends --”
Samantha put a finger to his lips. “I have good news all around for you,” she said. “I adore that jazz club on the third floor, and if anything your friends ought to watch out for Deanne. She teaches Krav Maga on the side.”
Ooh, barracuda. “Duly noted.” Their accompanying security guard, she added, would return all the chips and equipment. “Excellent. Shall we go dance?” he asked.
Samantha took his hand and tugged him upward. “We shall.”
Texting Alice
Texting Trent
Texting Jacob
Samantha closed her eyes and floated. Drew Keller was a six-foot-and-change wall of solid muscle, yet soft and yielding when he took her in his arms and guided her in slow circles on the dance floor. She let the heady mix of Dom and woodsy aftershave further dizzy her senses while the band played a slow jazzified version of The Cure’s “Lovesong.” She failed to recall when she’d last enjoyed the company of a man so much.
The only point of discomfort, and it was a minor one, was Drew’s phone pressed hard against her hip. Theft wasn’t the concern here, though. After a drink and more small talk upon their arrival, Samantha watched while Drew dashed off three very different texts to his children. She tempered her laughter with each one and nearly howled at the text sent to his eldest child. “Oh, you are going to get an earful in the morning,” she warned and wished to witness it.