Working Class Vegas Vamp is a free urban fantasy serial, usually publishing on Tuesdays. It is unedited and subject to change. If published later, it may differ significantly, and will probably include additional material. Typos and English errors are likely; feel free to leave a comment or write me at am {AT} amscottwrites.com (revised as a standard email address. Pesky bots!) Available for a limited time only!

Chapter 1

A rock fist knocking the shiny black bar under my polishing cloth was my first warning. The second was citrus, incense, and ginger with a strong undernote of rusting iron wrinkling my nostrils and sinking my spirits. I kept the rag moving and reinforced my pleasant, welcoming expression, then looked up.

Klaus Theoden slid onto the stool in front of me. Lucky me. My least favorite customer first thing tonight—for the third time this week. The hot billionaire had a hard time understanding the word no. I suspected that “playing hard to get” was my primary attraction—even though I wasn’t playing at all—so I tried to be bland and slightly servile. But the Night King of Vegas rankled me too easily. “What’s your poison tonight, Mr. Theoden?”

“Call me Klaus and you, of course, Charlene.” One corner of his lush lips rose, but I knew he wasn’t smiling. He never did.

I slid the list of top shelf liquor on the bar in front of him, adjusting my tone to bored. “Not for sale. What would you like off the menu?” He might be rich and gorgeous, but he was sadly predictable. He probably looked up the most exclusive drinks, cologne, and clothing so he knew what to demand. Or told one of his lackeys to figure it out—that was more likely. Either way, expensive didn’t equal tasteful.

I reached for the Pappy Van Winkle Reserve, our most expensive bourbon whiskey, kept just for him. Occasionally some other rich dude trying to impress ordered it, but even at the hottest drag show in Vegas, few would pay $500 a shot. Sure, that was double what it would be elsewhere, but this was the Vegas Strip. A few months ago, a tech bro had bought a bottle, and tipped me a glass. After a single sip, I’d passed the rest to Troy; he’d raved about it all night long. It hadn’t tasted all that different to me, but I wasn’t much of a drinker. Of alcohol, that is.

I turned back to Theoden and raised the bottle along with a single eyebrow. When he didn’t say anything, I shrugged and pulled a fresh cloth to polish the bottle. He liked to play games. I didn’t. I finished, and put the bottle back, then grabbed the next, an equally expensive tequila. I shined bottles while Theoden attempted to burn a hole in my back. Laser eyes not being one of his long list of advantages, he didn’t succeed.

Troy didn’t bother approaching—he’d get nothing but disdainful sneers. Theo was here for me.

Turning me was a rare mistake on Theoden’s part. Caught in the crossfire of a mob shootout in the Starlight Casino in 1966, I’d dragged my dying body out the back door to see the lights of Vegas for the last time. Of course I told the blond hottie with the ice blue eyes that I wanted to live—who didn’t? But even as a regular, he didn’t know the real me.

He’d seen a middle-aged woman fighting the effects of age with makeup and moisturizer, making perfect drinks, and entertaining her customers. He, like so many of the businessmen leaning on my bar, probably believed I made my real living on her back. But they were wrong.

Flattery got you a long way if you did it right, and Char Flammen had perfected her shtick. I kept the banter light, with just enough bite to intrigue and get the big tips. Theoden wasn’t the first man who’d followed me out a door after a shift, thinking I’d actually been interested. Most of them took the “no, thank you” with grace. The few that didn’t got my spiked high heel through their foot and a punch between their legs—if security didn’t get them first. These days, I used a taser—much less effort, more effective, and less likely to end in a lawsuit—and an official escort out the unmarked employee exit after each shift.

Too bad for Theoden that his first genuine conversation with me was the last gasps of a dying woman. And too bad he hadn’t taken the time to demand the usual assurances of undying eternal loyalty, because I would have turned him down flat. I’d been chained to a man before—I’d literally rather die. His sloppiness cost him, and he kept trying to rectify the mistake without admitting he’d messed up. In reality, his ego kept me alive.

Fool.

But in return, I had to fight his constant attempts to bring me back under his control with brains, not brawn. Or money. He had billions, a legion of beholden and besotted followers, and he wasn’t stupid, just arrogant.

Pity, that. Stupid men were easily led.

Theo remained at the bar, silently watching me all night. Even during the most crowded hours, the stools on either side of him stayed empty. Women approached occasionally, but he never acknowledged them, just stared at me, no matter what I was doing.

At closing time, he dropped a stack of cash on the bar and walked out without a word. I put the cash in the shared tip jar, although management would take half of it, since he hadn’t bought anything. But they knew better than to throw him out—the rules didn’t apply to men like Theoden.

***To be continued***

Working Class Vegas Vamp Copyright © 2024 by AM Scott. All Rights Reserved.