Gilt: By Invitation Only (Gilt #1) Read online

  “Last day of school,” I remind him, cradling cans in my arms.

  “That’s right. I got my days mixed up.” He scratches his head, smiling sheepishly. “We should celebrate.”

  Dad tries, which is more than I can say for most parents around here. Most of my classmates were raised by the staff while their parents focused on the casino floor and keeping the whales happy. I wish I could say I was better off than the rest of them, but I’d spent the last five years holding our dysfunctional family together and keeping the business afloat.

  He’d never gotten over losing mom, but she’d followed the money away from signed records and sports memorabilia and all the other junk we gave a home to at Pawnography. Apparently a seedy pawn shop blocks from the strip wasn’t the kind of wealth she’d envisioned. Mom wanted more and she got it in the form of a new husband and a tasteful compound in Palm Springs where she spent her day sipping white wine spritzers. On her wedding day, she told my sister and I that all her dreams had finally come true. Becca gave her a pass, saying she was simply in love. all right My sister could see the big picture, including the doors his money would open for us. She'd jumped at the chance to ditch Las Palmas High School when he offered, but I'd wanted no part of her new life. I finally agreed to attend Belle Mére Prep on her dime only after Josie had gotten a scholarship there. I couldn't stand the idea of starting high school with both my sister and best friend there without me.

  I drop the cans in the recycling bin, ignoring the fact that he dumped his ash tray in it. As I open the blinds, the sun hits me and I wonder what mom is doing now. Probably sitting by the pool while someone else cooks her dinner. Or maybe she's already on the private jet heading here to grace me with her presence.

  “Where do you want to go? I know a guy over at the Rio who can hook us up at the buffet.” Dad rubs his hands over his hair to tame it. He looks like a lot of other men in Vegas at the moment: unshaven and unwashed in yesterday’s clothes. Unlike those other men, though, he’s handsome with a strong jaw and salt and pepper hair. I’ve had the displeasure of watching women fall all over him since I was a kid. It’s how he landed mom—looks and potential. It turns out looks can’t make up for failure.

  “Actually, Josie is dragging me out, so you are off the hook.” I cringe at the thought of graduation parties. They might be as dangerous as the all-you can eat seafood buffet that he’s offering me, but she’d made me swear I wouldn’t back out.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he suggests.

  “Sure.” I stay noncommittally. That way when he forgets tomorrow I won’t be disappointed. It’s a survival mechanism I’d adopted since the first time he forgot my birthday.

  Grabbing a few things from the fridge I start dinner. There’s always food in the house because I take care of that. I shop and I plan. Dad doesn’t bother to eat unless I put a meal in front of him, so there’s no danger of coming home to an empty fridge. I dump sauce into a pan and start boiling water for pasta. I can’t claim it's gourmet given the cheap ingredients, but I can produce spaghetti in under fifteen minutes. Take that Spago.

  “This is really good, honey.” Dad twists his fork, collecting another bite, and shoves it into his mouth.

  “I’ll put some in the fridge and you can heat it up for lunch.” It’s a lost cause. His entire diet consists of coffee, beer, and dinner if I’m around to cook.

  He nods. We talk about summer plans and the shop. I have to remind him that I’m going to graduate next year. After I clean up the dishes, I peek into the living room where he’s turned on a sporting event. I know this because there is a ball and men trying to beat each other up to get it. My father’s obsession with sports did not transfer to me. On the upside that probably means his sports gambling problem won’t either.

  “I’m going to grab a shower. Let Josie in?”

  He raises his beer in acknowledgment of my request.

  I stay under the hot water so long that my skin is tight by the time I abandon it. I can’t wash away my problems, but I can go out tonight and forget them. Wrapping a towel around my head, I wipe off the mirror with my palm. My cheeks are flushed which is the closest I get to having color. Unlike my peers I don’t spend all afternoon worshipping the god of skin cancer. Of course that means I have bluish circles under my eyes and every single blemish sticks out like a sore thumb.

  By the time I towel dry my hair and head to my room, Josie is waiting. A few shimmery scraps of cloth are scattered over my bed. I narrow my eyes as I pick one up. No matter how I hold it up, I can’t decide what it is.

  “Is this a scarf?” I ask finally.

  Josie snatches it away. “That’s mine thank you very much.”

  As long as she isn’t going to make me wear it, I have no further comment on the issue. She strips down and pulls it on over her thong. It’s a skimpy, black romper that dips to her naval.

  “I have no boobs,” she complains as she tugs at it.

  “Look on the bright side,” I say as I snag a pair of panties from my drawer, “if you did, you wouldn’t be able to wear that.”

  “I guess you’re right.” She twists around observing herself in my vanity mirror. “How do I look?”

  “Older than you are,” I say dryly. It’s the answer she wants to hear. Josie’s hair is a wild, mop of curls that mesh nicely with her high cheekbones and wide, espresso eyes. Her looks combined with that outfit will get her into any club in town. I’ll be riding her coattails or rather g-string to get myself inside. “Where did you find this?”

  “Frederick took mom to the desert for the weekend. I borrowed a few things.” She pushes a dress into my hands. Josie and her mom are as close as I have to female role models in my life. I’m not exactly preening myself to become a trophy wife like my own mother. So Josie and Marion Deckard are the closest I have to a girl squad. That’s definitely how it works between the two of them. Considering Marion is only thirty-five, the two of them act and look more like sisters than mother and daughter.

  “This dress is missing the dress.” I whip around to check the back of Josie’s pre-approved party apparel absolutely certain that my ass is hanging out.

  Josie shakes her head, pressing a finger to her mouth like she’s deep in thought regarding my ensemble. “Emma, you look hot.”

  “Perhaps,” I say slowly, because part of me digs the glittery, slip of fabric she’s talked me into, “but I’m going to have to walk with my thighs smashed together all night.” I demonstrate what it looks like to walk with my knees clamped together.

  “Stop it!” She tosses a throw pillow from the mound of decorative accents I keeps on my bed. “Make sure you have on cute underwear. Have you waxed lately?”

  I scrunch my nose up. “The state of my lady bits aren’t up for discussion.”

  “Your lady bits could use a little discussion,” she corrects me.

  “They have nothing to gossip about. California isn’t the only one with a drought.”

  A smirk curls Josie’s lips. “If you really want to end the dry spell, don’t wear anything underneath.”

  “The old no-panties trick? So 1990s. I thought I’d fake a fainting spell instead.” There were easier ways to advertise a vacancy than putting it on display. Besides in Vegas what’s one more vagina crying out for attention? “So what trouble are you getting us into?”

  “Nope.” She shakes her head as she holds out a tube of lipstick. “It’s a surprise.”

  I groan and press my hands together. “Please. I beg you.”

  She only smiles. Whatever she has planned can’t be good if she has to drag me there. “Do I get a blindfold?”

  “The party isn’t that kinky,” she says with a snort.

  “So it’s a party!”

  “No shit, Sherlock.” She rolls her eyes as she fluffs my hair. It’s a lost cause. We are the yin and yang of hair— her unruly, sexy curls and my stick-straight honey blonde locks.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” I ask her as she continues to make me up
.

  “That’s why you’re going easy on me,” she says. “Allowing me to put mascara on you isn’t going to get me to spill. I’m not that easy.”

  I stick my tongue out and immediately regret the move when she smacks it with a make-up brush. “That’s not what I heard.”

  “That all you got, Southerly?” She plants one hand on her hip and instantly looks just like her mother. I don’t mention this lest I get smacked with another make-up brush. “Because you need to bring it tonight.”

  That’s exactly what I was afraid she would say.

  Chapter Three

  It’s a bad sign when Josie wants to Uber. That means two things: she’s getting drunk and we’re headed to the Strip. It’s weird being a duo when we used to be a trio. Becca and Josie used to outnumber me all the time. Now that Becca’s gone, we’re more evenly matched. Josie still wins most times. I guess she’s luckier than I am.

  I once tried to see the heart of Las Vegas through the eyes of a stranger—the lights, the people, a million glittering attempts to grab your attention. But I couldn’t. Now all I can see is the reality. Behind the crowds of tourists and the Bellagio fountains, under the designer shopping and a-list shows, everyone is broken. It’s the ultimate twist of the American dream: pull a lever and you might have it all. Ride out another roll of the dice and you’ll become someone. Vegas was built on destroying people. It still is. I wish knowing that could save me, but you don’t get out of a town like this. Maybe my luck will change, but I’m not holding my breath.

  Our driver flies in and out of traffic so quickly that the neon becomes streaks of color outside the window.

  “So what’s tonight? Japanese businessmen or the no limits room?” I ask still looking out the glass. We don’t gamble, but I know exactly where she prefers to drift when she heads out.

  “Neither. Tonight we are young,” she announces. “Besides I can always call Richard later.”

  “The oil guy?”

  “No, he’s in finance.”

  “You need a therapist.” I abandon the view and turn to her. I’ve only told her this about a million times.

  “Only if he’s hot.”

  I groan. “And old. Where are we going?”

  Josie bites her lip and my whole body tenses. A surprise is one thing, but she can’t hide the guilt on her face.

  “Are you shanghaiing me?” I demand, grabbing for her phone. She holds it away and I resort to tickling her, nervous peels of laughter squeaking from her. But before I can elicit a confession, the car slows down. I stare at the doors to the resort.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask as a bell boy opens the door. I don’t wait for her to respond instead I walk the opposite direction back toward the street. There’s no way I’m going into the West.

  Josie catches me by the arm before I make it past the entrance, but I don’t stop. We’re both in impractically tall heels, which means one of us is going down. Spoiler: it won’t be me.

  “Em,” she pleads, “just hear me out.”

  But there’s no point to listening. “I thought you understood the social food chain, but let me make it easy. We’re on bottom. If my dad finds out I’m here he’ll disown me.”

  “It’s the end of the year party. Everyone will be there!”

  “Everyone who was invited,” I correct her. My name will never be on a West guest list and I’m one hundred percent okay with that, considering that the price of admission is your soul.

  Josie produces a small card from her purse and flourishes it inches from my face. “We’re invited.”

  “Where did you get that?” My anger ebbs into annoyance. That invite is probably enough to get us past security but that’s only the first test. The rest of the gauntlet is composed of Monroe and her bitchy minions.

  “It doesn’t matter. This party is going to be packed.”

  In Josie speak that means everyone is going to be there, including all the people she’d like to impress.

  “You do realize that even with that”—I point to the invitation—“we’re not welcome up there.”

  That finally extinguishes the hopeful glimmer in her eyes. I can’t call it a victory because now she just looks pissed. Josie crosses her arms, still clutching the invite, and glares at me. “Since when do you care what people think?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why not crash, drink their booze, and ruin their nights.”

  “Well-played.” Josie has a point. I can’t help but picture Monroe West’s face when she discovers the breach in her castle walls. It will be even better to see her horror in person. “Fine, but we stick together and we don’t stay long. I have to make a cameo at brunch tomorrow to appease the maternal monster.”

  I can think of about a million things I’d rather do than spend the evening with a bunch of Housers, including washing my hair, getting a pap smear, and tearing off my own fingernails. Girls just wanna have fun, right?

  Meanwhile Josie is positively vibrating with excitement. I let her take my hand and lead me to the entrance of the casino where we’re greeted by another uniformed lackey. If only he knew he was letting a Southerly walk inside the West empire. Yeah, we might have just cost him his job, but it’s not my responsibility to provide a PSA to the newbie.

  Emma Southerly, daughter of Jake Southerly, the mortal enemy of Nathaniel West, owner of the West Resort and Casino.

  It sounds melodramatic but it’s true. The feud between my dad and Monroe’s father goes back from before I was born. They’d been high school buddies. In college they scrounged up every penny they had between the two of them to invest in a start-up. When the start-up took-off, my dad assumed they’d both made it big until he found out Nathaniel had invested it in his name only. Nathaniel West became a venture capitalist super-star and left my dad to take over the family pawn shop. My father had instilled hatred of the type usually reserved for rival sports teams in me my whole life. Since I’ve never met Nathaniel, I do my part by loathing his daughter. Every one has a role to play after all. Plus Monroe is easy to hate.

  Inside the revolving door, the cacophony of the casino floor greets me immediately. Cigarette smoke, dealers calling for bets, hundreds of melodic slot machines. It’s enough to make me want to turn tail and abandon Josie but she marches us through the crowds toward the bank of sleek elevators on the other side before I can process any of it. But let’s face it, there is no processing it. It’s a world of distraction meant to keep you so overwhelmed that you don’t notice your savings account is slipping away. The lights, the noise—it’s guerrilla warfare at its finest.

  Josie walks directly to the elevator at the end and the bag of muscles stationed in front of it. “I’m a guest of Monroe West.”

  I refrain from gagging at that proclamation.

  The private elevator only goes to one floor: the top. Despite that being the seventy-fifth floor, the car travels like lightning, giving me no time to steel myself before the doors slide open to deposit us in a massive entry hall. Because the gold elevator wasn’t extravagant enough the entirety of the foyer—floor to ceilings is polished, black marble.

  “It’s not too late to leave,” I point out as the sounds of the party begin to seep toward us.

  “Take the chicken exit?” Josie arches her eyebrow.

  “Fine, lead the way.” My gaze travels up the wall and I catch sight of myself. It doesn’t look like me thanks to Josie’s wardrobe choices. The girl trapped in the marble is older, put together, sexy. Maybe it’s what I hope to be someday. Most days I’m lucky to have all the pieces to my prep uniform clean.

  “You cool?” Josie prompts and I realize I’ve stopped in my tracks.

  I tug at the hem of my dress and shrug. “I was just wondering if Nathaniel West read The Great Gatsby too many times, because truly he’s compensating for something.”

  “Not for his money,” Josie giggles.

  The elevator door dings and I realize that in the time it’s taken me to get a hold of
myself it’s traveled back to the lobby and up again.

  “Let’s go,” I urge her. There’s no telling who will be inside. We stand a much better chance of not getting kicked out if we don’t come face to face with one of Monroe’s minions. I was a Girl Scout. I know there’s safety in numbers.

  But before we can reach the hallway, footsteps fall behind us. Instinctively, I look over my shoulder and catch sight of Nathaniel West. He’s the same age of my dad but he’s obviously spent some money on looking younger. That or maybe stress and bitterness are prematurely aging my father. He studies us, a slight sneer creeping onto his lips. There’s no denying he’s good-looking, exactly the kind of guy Josie throws herself at. Square jawed and broad-shouldered with salt and pepper hair and an expensive suit. But the look he gives me chills my blood, freezing me to the spot. He’s a predator and he has me in his sights. One move and I’ll be at his mercy. I want to run or hide. Instead I can only shrink back still locked in place and hope his interest in me fades.

  Because more than the casual interest he’s showing me, there’s something in his blue eyes that’s flickers darkly. It’s what holds me in place: this terrifying magnetizing force. Does he know who I am? Would he even care? If Monroe West walked into the pawn shop I doubt my father would blink. He’d probably get a sick thrill out of buying whatever she offered, because it meant a West was in his territory. No doubt that Nathaniel would feel the same way knowing the Jacob Southerly’s daughter had found herself in his home.

  The men say nothing to us as they pass. Josie tugs at my elbow, urging me forward but before we can follow Nathaniel into the house, one of his bodyguards steps in front of us. He extends his finger, pointing to the opposite hallway.

  “The party is that way. This wing is closed to Miss West’s guests.”

  He’s firm but not unkind as he speaks. I bite my lip and nod. It takes more than a fair amount of authority to shut me up. This guy has it in spades.