Fighting Fate

CHAPTER ONE Idiots. The word kept going around in Ivy Dune’s mind. Five men sat on velvet couches in the rounded window of the Vegas high-roller suite. Idiots. Seven women danced and drank with the idiots. Either the females were stripper-hookers or hooker-strippers. With the fondling and oral on top of the floor show, they had to be one of the two. When she took on the role of private attendant at the GoldSpring Hotel, she’d expected glamour. Those illusions were shattered pretty fast. er The physically demanding role required a lot of running around, lots of stairs, and ample heavy lifting. Anything the customer wanted, they got; that was her job. This brand of i***t was more common than glamorous starlets or millionaire businessmen. Though, of all the idiots she’d pandered to, this gang took the cake. They snorted cocaine from the ample selection of fake boobs and took tequila shots from generous cleavages, leaving chaos and carpet stains in their wake without a care or consideration in the world. Everything that happened there stayed there. It was Vegas after all. So long as no one was brandishing a weapon, anything went, that was the basic rule. At her post, by the door, inside the suite, she was on hand for client convenience. Her shift ended in less than an hour and she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there. The idiots drank more and more, their intoxication increased by the second. All except one. The black-haired male closest to the window held a heavy crystal tumbler on the high arm of the couch with his fingertips. The Scotch in it had barely been touched. None of the others noticed his disinterest or cared he wasn’t indulging like they were. The black-haired male had glanced her way a few times earlier and now openly stared. Yeah, keep dreaming, Hotshot. Ignoring him, her focus was supposed to stay straight ahead. Except her eyes insisted on sliding back to his. What was wrong with her? His electric blue eyes were so crisp and clear, she could absorb their intensity from the other side of the room. Something about them was fascinating. What was their fascination with her? The worst of the bunch, the sandy-haired i***t, next to the black-haired man, snapped his fingers at her. “You! Maid!” Ivy crossed the room. “Yes, sir?” “Have a drink,” he said, raising a bottle of tequila, sloshing it on her shoes. “No, sir, thank you.” “Coke then, come take a line.” “No,” she said, maintaining her neutrality. “I’m still working.” “What time do you finish?” he asked, then waved. “Doesn’t matter, I’m the guest, I’m always right. Take your shirt off.” “No, sir.” “Don’t be a drag,” he said, grabbing her arm, hauling her toward the couch. “I’ve always wanted a naked maid.” She stumbled, landing on top of the sandy-haired i***t, her face in the lap of the black-haired man. The sandman smacked her ass, then grabbed the hem of her skirt. Scrambling away before he could pull it up, she found her feet and started to retreat. “Hands off what doesn’t belong to you,” Ivy said. The others laughed. “Can you believe that s**t?” Sandman declared to his posse before addressing her. “Do you know who I am? I’m Trystan Stark. I have more money in my wallet than you’ll make in a lifetime! I own anything I want to own!” An angry, disrespected man, high on drugs, and with an audience, was volatile. “Just take your shirt off,” one of the girls chirped as if it was no big deal If she was going to take fashion advice, it wouldn’t be from a woman wearing only a trail of playboy jerk drool over her n*****s. The other girls began to jeer along. Trystan turned to the black-haired man. “Can you believe her?” he asked. “Seriously?” The black-haired man looked at the wristwatch under his shirt cuff. “Her shift ends in thirty-eight minutes. If you want me to do something about her attitude, it’ll have to wait until her colleagues think she’s gone home.” Making a threat without using a single negative word was quite a feat. He’d achieved it without even bothering to look at her. “No,” Trystan said. “No, Dax, I don’t need you to do a f*****g thing. I’ll do it myself.” Launching up, he snatched hold of her to wrestle her onto the couch. Flailing around, fighting for freedom, her efforts were futile. With his body, he pinned her down, and forced his mouth onto hers. Wailing in resistance, she turned her head to escape the kiss. The fucker took that as an excuse to give her a hickey. His friend, at the end of the couch, was no help. He moved to immobilize her ankles, resorting to sitting on her feet, screwing her real good. “You’re going to like me,” Trystan said. “Yeah, you are. No one says no to me and gets away with it.” Snatching the tequila bottle, he poured alcohol on her sealed mouth, soaking her in the potent liquid that burned when it ran up her nose. “You want a drink, don’t you?” He held her nose for long enough to force her mouth open. The searing alcohol flooded her tongue, drenching her gullet until she choked, spraying it over them both. By what she heard, the others, thought it was hilarious, and goaded him on. “Now you’re in the party mood,” Trystan said. Blinking alcohol diluted mascara from her eyes, she missed his action of switching both her wrists into one hand until it was too late. Her shirt was ripped open. Buttons flew. She screamed as white powder was scattered across her breasts. Burying his face in the mess, the fucker snorted the dispersed powder and laughed, looking to his friends on the opposite couch for approval. Her shrieking was ignored. Her legs were still trapped. And everyone else laughed. “You want some?” Trystan asked, rubbing a moist finger over her breasts then forcing her lip up to smear the grit over her gums. “Yeah, see, you like that. We’re going to be up all night you and me. You’re in for a real treat. Tonight is your lucky night. It’s time for some real fun. Want me to f**k you now?” “No!” she spat out. “Yeah?” he said. “You asking me to f**k you? You all heard that, right?” His troupe chorused in agreement. “No!” Ivy tried again. “Open those legs for me, Lucky,” he said, lifting his hips to undo his belt. His buddy, Dax, held her ankles apart for Trystan to settle between her thighs and grind himself on her. Her struggling didn’t make any difference. The strength at the end of the couch forced her to do its bidding. “Got some roofies, want ‘em?” someone called. Trystan licked her face. Sick f**k. “No,” he said, digging his teeth into the back of her jaw until pain fired through her. “I don’t need ‘em, she wants it. Oh, she’s going to want me bad.” “No,” Ivy said, bucking and thrashing, trying to shove him off. He whooped. “Oh, yeah! She’s riding.” More shouting ensued. Everyone’s cheers motivated him to keep going. She wouldn’t give up fighting. No. Never. She wouldn’t let him take what she didn’t want to give. He got her skirt up, his friend still held her legs. This could be it. Her fight could be for nothing. When Trystan’s attention switched to laughing with his friends, she jolted her head up, sinking her teeth into his cheekbone, biting down until she tasted blood. Skin came loose on her tongue, and he roared out, releasing her. Not hesitating for a heartbeat, she scrambled away and ran at full speed for the door. “You b***h! I’ll f*****g kill you!” Better dead than violated. She ran out of the suite to the employee elevator and headed straight for her manager’s office.