Drunken deal sealed in love

Scarlett Ellison wiped down the bar counter for what felt like the hundredth time that night. Dragged a damp rag across the bar counter, the sticky residue of spilled cocktails clinging stubbornly to the polished marble. The glowing lights of Las Vegas shone through the glass doors, splashing red, blue, and pink across the floor. Her feet ached in her workout sneakers, her back screamed from hours of standing, a relentless reminder of the ten-hour shift she had just endured, and the sound of slot machines buzzing from the casino floor only made her headache worse. A bachelorette party earlier had screamed their way through four trays of tequila shots, leaving behind glitter, lipstick-stained glasses, and one girl’s heartbroken sobs in the restroom. Scarlett had cleaned it all up with a tight smile. Vegas was full of dreamers losing their last chips. "That’s it, I’m clocking out,” she muttered under her breath, untying her apron with one hand while checking the wall clock; it was past midnight. Another ten-hour shift gone with drunk tourists, half-hearted pickup lines, and forced smiles for tips that barely covered her rent. She untied the black apron, already dreaming of the moment her head would hit the pillow in the small apartment she shared with Luisa. “Scarlett!” a voice called from behind. Scarlett turned to see Luisa, her best friend and roommate, sliding through the crowd. Luisa’s dark curls bounced with each step, and her cheeks were flushed from what Scarlett guessed was her third margarita. In her hand, she dangled two glittery wristbands, the kind that screamed exclusive Vegas rooftop parties. “You’re not going home. You’re coming out. You need this.” Scarlett raises a tired eyebrow, tossing the rag into a sink full of dirty glasses. “I need sleep, Lu…” Luisa slid onto a barstool, smiling, “No, what you need is to forget your ex, the bills on our counter, and the fact that your boss thinks tipping you with leftover casino chips is ok. One rooftop party. Music, drinks, and maybe some rich guy who doesn’t know how to take a clue,” shaking her eyebrows, holding out a wristband like it was a golden ticket. Scarlett snorted, but something heavy in her chest. A restlessness she hadn’t admitted out loud. Maybe it was the weight of being twenty-eight and stuck in a job she never wanted, in a city with promises but delivered mostly heartbreak. Maybe it was the sting of seeing her ex two weeks ago at a restaurant with a blonde, his arm slung around her like Scarlett had never existed. The sting still lingered, sharp and raw. And maybe it was the desert air, thick with heat and recklessness, or maybe it was the way Luisa’s eyes sparkled with infectious energy, but Scarlett felt a pull toward something reckless, something alive. “I’ll come for one drink,” she said, already regretting the words as they came out of her mouth. “Then I’m out.” Luisa whooped, practically dragging her to the employee locker room to change. Twenty minutes later, Scarlett found herself at the rooftop, the city glittering beneath her in a thousand colored lights. Music was beating through her chest like a second heartbeat, and the air smelled like cologne, champagne, and poor decisions. Scarlett adjusted the hem of her borrowed black dress, Luisa’s, naturally, a size too tight and a touch too short. Sipping a tequila shot, the burn waking her up more than she wanted to admit, laughing at something Luisa said. Luisa was already lost in the crowd, dancing with a guy, her laughter carrying over the music. Scarlett leaned against a glass railing, the city’s glow stretching endlessly below. Vegas was beautiful from up here, a glittering lie that hid the struggle of her everyday life, when her eyes caught a man standing by the rooftop edge. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit with the top button of his shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a statement. His dark hair was slightly messy, as if he had run his hand through it one too many times. He held a glass of brown liquid, whiskey, she guessed, something expensive, and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. His eyes were dark, sharp, and a little dangerous. Their eyes met, and something electric sparked in the space between them. Scarlett didn’t usually approach strangers; she preferred her walls high and interactions brief, but her heels were already moving, her tequila-brave feet were moving before her brain could catch up. He watched her approach, sliding through shaking bodies with curiosity across his face, until she stood a few feet from him. “ “Rough night?” she asked, offering a half-smile. Her voice was light but with curiosity. He turned slightly, studying her with a look that was half-amused, half-conscious, like he was sizing up a chess opponent. “You could say that I came to Vegas to seal a business deal. So far, I’ve sealed two drinks and zero contracts.” Scarlett laughed, the sound surprising her. “Sounds like you need a better distraction.” He raised his glass, a faint frown tugging at his lips. “Are you volunteering?” The words hung between them, playful but with something heavier, something that made her pulse quicken. She didn’t know his name, didn’t know his story, but there was a pull, magnetic and undeniable. “Maybe,” she said, “if you can keep up.” His name, she learned, was Dante. No last name was offered, and she didn’t ask. The music increased, the drinks kept coming—tequila for her, whiskey for him—and the night started to blur, like a camera losing focus. Her laughing at his dry humor, his hand brushing hers as he passed her a drink, the way his eyes softened when she teased him about his too-perfect suit. They danced, her body moving closer to his than she meant to, his hand steady on her waist. The city lights were rotating, or maybe that was her head, the alcohol loosening the knots in her chest.