Playing Pretend by Cassie-Ann L. Miller
One
Liam
The night this shitshow started…
Lawyers get a law degree.
Carpenters get a carpentry certificate.
But the thing about being a 29-year-old self-made billionaire? Nobody gives you a fancy piece of paper to stick on the wall. There’s no academic degree to prove to cynical idiots that you know what the hell you’re doing.
On nights like tonight, I sure as hell wish there was one.
The flashing multi-color lights of the Strip illuminate the night, pouring through the penthouse suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows. The over-cologned, mega-trillionaire seated across from me flips through the stack of documents on the conference table and clicks his pen for at least the twenty-third time. It’s getting under my fucking skin.
I clench my fingers on the plush armrest of my sleek ergonomic chair. My jaw is tighter than a steel trap.
Somehow, I manage to pry my mouth open. “Talk to me, Mr. Varner. What will it take to get your signature on the dotted line? I want to send you back home to Chicago as the proud owner of a new Sin Valley luxury resort.”
The hotelier scratches at the piss-yellow hair at his temple. “Well, I’m not quite ready…” Lance Varner’s preoccupied voice trails off.
Not quite ready? Is this guy kidding me? We’ve been talking in circles for the better part of two hours. Hell—we’ve been negotiating this deal for six weeks now.
I’m trying to convince Varner to open his next five-star casino-hotel resort here in Sin Valley, instead of going the overdone, clichéd route in Las Vegas.
I’ve refuted each one of the hotelier’s concerns. I’ve addressed his ten thousand questions. I’ve thrown in additional guarantees. I’ve cut down the price. I’ve conceded on the projected timeline. I don’t know what more he wants from me! A pint of blood? An internal organ? A fucking lap dance? This is ridiculous.
As much as I want to tell Varner to go fuck himself, I can’t. There’s too much on the line. Closing this deal would elevate the Sin Valley Strip from merely a row of gaudy, over-the-top construction plunked down into a random, middle-of-nowhere backwoods town. This district would become a destination. The entertainment epicenter of the country. Blowing Las Vegas out of the water.
I hate feeling like the outcome of this project is outside of my control. It feels like everything hinges on Varner’s next move.
This day has been an endless clusterfuck. I wasted an hour and a half of my time at what was supposed to be one of my employees’s wedding. But Sera’s groom never bothered to show up. Then, I ended up going to one of my nightclubs with the rest of the wedding guests, mainly to ensure that Sera’s big brother—my buddy, Wyatt—didn’t hunt the runaway groom down and snap the asshole’s neck with his bare hands. And right when I was about to leave the club and drag myself to bed, I got a message from Varner saying that he wanted to meet and go over some final details of our proposed agreement. Now, here I am.
“I know you’re interested, Mr. Varner, because you’re still sitting here sipping my whiskey. But your head seems to be back in Las Vegas,” I say casually, like I don’t have millions on the line.
Varner flips through the paperwork some more, eyeballing the contract forward and backward and upside down, looking for loopholes that just aren’t there.
“I like you, Liam,” he says for the third time tonight, tapping his thick finger on the neat stack of documents. “You’re good people; I can tell. You could definitely teach Rocco a thing or two.”
My blood sizzles like bacon grease beneath my skin. I clench my jaw to suppress a grunt.
He’s talking about Rocco Romano, my competition. The infamous, womanizing party animal real estate developer from Vegas. He calls himself the King of Nevada.
Fuck that guy.
He’s been in Varner’s ear for the better part of the year. The fact that Varner would even consider doing business with Rocco is laughable. I’m clearly the better businessman. I’m bold, tenacious and innovative, but also discerning, level-headed. And my reputation is spotless.
Yet, the old hotelier is still tempted to roll around in the mud with an animal who can rarely wash the liquor stench off his skin and tuck his dick into his pants before noon. Not to mention the asshole’s ties to organized crime. In Varner’s mind, Las Vegas is a safe bet while Sin Valley is a gamble.
The worst part? The old man is trying to let me down easy. I can hear it in his voice. Butter me up with compliments, before striking with his steak knife.
I know that move well. It’s patronizing as fuck.
I smooth my fingertips over my tired eyes. I’m exhausted, dammit. My gaze pings to the heavy mahogany double doors at the far corner of the suite.
The minute this marathon meeting ends, I’m stomping across this room, I’m tearing open those doors and I’m diving face-first into the plush sheets of my luxury king-sized bed.
This particular building is one of the many properties I’ve established here in Sin Valley, and the room behind those heavy mahogany doors has been my makeshift bedroom for longer than I care to admit.
Wyatt and Jace give me shit for the fact that I spend most nights here when I own a massive freaking compound way up in the hills on the other side of town. But this hotel penthouse is in the heart of the Strip, only a few buildings away from the headquarter offices of my company. Merging my business and living accommodations has been convenient. Especially on nights like this when my only objective is keeping this massive deal from tanking.
At this point in my life, building my empire is the priority. Sleep and comfort and leisure can wait.
Maybe I’ve got an ego problem. Maybe I’m too invested in proving myself to my doubters. But there’s nothing that pisses me off like being underestimated.
Even still, I pride myself on my self-control. On keeping my cool when a weaker man would snap, allow his temper to flare.
Before I bark out something regrettable, I rise and stalk over to the liquor cart, pouring myself another drink. I toss back the measure of whiskey in a single gulp.
Through the wall of windows, I stare down at Sin Valley below. The small houses glowing like fireflies against the darkened terrain in the distant hills. The vibrant Strip cutting through the middle of town, lit up by a sea of taillights, blinking neon and revelling party-goers.
I see so much potential laid out in front of me. So many vacant plots surrounding the Strip. So much land to develop.
Sin Valley is more than just another American small town and the Varner project is more than just money to me. Closing this deal will not only put this town on the map, it will also finally prove my fucking worth, my competence. It will give significance to my family name. That’s why I’m still here, still beating this dead horse.
I drop back into my seat and prop both elbows on the table between us. “Hit me with it straight. What’s your biggest apprehension about this deal?”
He chuckles dryly. “A man with candor. I respect that.” After another pause, he pushes the unsigned paperwork across the smooth tabletop, and my jaw tightens. “You know I’m in your corner, Liam. I just can’t ignore the fact that Las Vegas is far more established than your district.” He sighs heavily. “You have something special here, son, but I don’t know if it’s a fit for my resorts.”
That’s what it always comes down to. Sin Valley is new. Still growing. Still maturing. None of the big boys in the industry want to take a chance on us.
“You’re a numbers guy. And you’ve seen the data.” I jab a finger into the documents. My patience frays with each word that leaves my mouth. “Look at the rate of growth in the past decade. Look at the projections. In the next five years, Sin Valley will have more tourists in a single quarter than Las Vegas will have in a year.”
Still, he’s hesitating. “I just…I…”
I glance at the mahogany doors again. Y’know what? Fuck this. I’m kicking this guy out and going to sleep.
Just as I’m about to throw in the towel, I hear Varner speak again. “That’s a community center, right?” I glance across the table to find him pointing to a rectangle on the hi-res colored satellite print-out on the table. “Who owns it?” The tone of his question irks me.
“The county owns the center,” I say cautiously. “It’s run by a partnership with a group of local charities. Why?”
I already know why. And I don’t like where this is going.
The center is on a plot of land adjacent to the proposed site of Varner’s resort. At best, the hotelier considers the building to be an eyesore for his luxury resort. At worst…
“It needs to go,” he announces conclusively.
Not happening.
I wouldn’t even consider it. Demolishing a kids’ community center? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’d get coronated ‘Asshole of the Century’ by Satan himself. Not a smart move for a real estate development company that is looking to flourish locally.
“We’re looking at a nine-hole course on the land around the hotel. If we’re going to make this work, it needs to be a traditional eighteen-hole golf course. I’d need that extra plot of land—”
“We’ll find an alternative for configuring the space,” I cut him off, “We can find another way to ensure you have the acreage you need.”
Varner eyeballs the plans skeptically, clicking his pen again. “Where are the parcel records for each of the neighboring plots?” He starts flipping back through the documents, though we both know those aren’t included.
Fuck self-control. I’m ready to chuck the man and his pen and the damn contract out the damn window at this point. He knows I know he’s not signing tonight.
Still, I reach for my laptop, tapping around in the password-protected folder that contains all of Varner’s documentation. As I search for the parcel records, the hotelier comes up over my shoulder, bringing his overbearing cologne along with him.
He’s crowding my damn bubble.
I want to bark at him to back the hell up. What is it with pompous assholes and personal space?
“Sensitive information on here,” I tell him diplomatically, scooping up the computer and circling to the other side of the table.
I finally locate what I’m looking for and double-click. An error message blinks at me. What…?
I try again and get the same result.
A glance toward Mr. Varner awards me with a raised brow. He’s growing impatient, but guess what? So am I. I’m pissed as fuck to be wasting even another second on this dead-end deal.
My lips flatten as I hold up a finger. I push to my feet, sliding out my phone as I stroll back to the wall of windows. My nerves flare at the mere thought of the person I’m about to turn to for help.
Chocolate eyes.
Sassy mouth.
More curves than I know what to do with.
My assistant is a damn handful and the idea of having to deal with that woman—and the way my body reacts whenever she’s around—at this time of night only adds to my annoyance. But if I want to save this deal, I don’t really have a choice.
I find her email address and tap out an urgent message.
From: [email protected]KlineSimmonsRealty.com
To: [email protected]KlineSimmonsRealty.com
Subject: URGENT!!!
Varner Resorts. Need parcel records for adjacent properties. All of them. Now.
I hit ‘send’ on the message.
And now, I wait.
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