Chapter Text
“Whisky, neat.”
“ID please.”
Ronan scoffs. The bartender doesn’t waver, just raises his eyebrows at him before placing a lime on the rim of a cocktail glass and serving a woman seated further down the bar.
When he sees Ronan is still staring incredulously, he approaches with a polite, “Sir, I need to see your ID before I can serve you.”
Ronan hangs with Kavinsky so he’s had a fake ID since he was thirteen, but he shouldn’t need to use it in this particular casino. Bartender must be new.
“You’re not 21,” Ronan shoots at him.
The bartender pins Ronan with a flat gaze. “Yes I am.” Through the hazy smoke and dim lighting, there’s something almost otherworldly about those deep-set, watchful eyes.
“No.” Ronan says it definitively, because he may be wasted but he’s still like ninety-nine percent sure this guy isn’t any older than Ronan himself is.
The bartender assesses Ronan for a moment longer, then says, “I’m not serving you.” He unearths a damp rag and begins wiping down the mahogany bar.
“So you lied on your resume?” Ronan guesses loudly. He doesn’t care for lying.
The bartender, whose name is Adam (Ronan belatedly remembers the staff at the Dream Hotel & Casino wear nametags) grimaces and glances around to ensure no one’s overheard them. It’s a quiet Tuesday evening, though, and it’s dinnertime. Most guests are out eating or catching a show at this hour.
“Oh, no one gives a shit,” Ronan says, waving his arm at the sprawling casino floor behind him and almost falling off the bar stool.
“Yeah, I’m definitely not serving you.” Adam isn’t smiling, but he isn’t not smiling, either.
Ronan counts it as a win. He grips the bar to straighten himself and catches sight of Declan striding down a row of blinking slot machines towards the elevators. He’s speaking seriously with a distinguished-looking man three times their age: Kavinsky’s dad.
Ronan scowls, his insides twisting with anger. He doesn’t want to know what kind of Bulgarian mobster bullshit Declan’s gotten himself into; this is why Ronan stays away from the Dream, these days.
“Look at him,” he spits bitterly, eying his older brother. “Marching around like he owns the place.” If he had his whisky, he’d throw it back in one go and slam the glass down to make his point.
Adam won’t serve him, though, so Ronan just crosses his arms instead.
“He does own the place,” Adam notes wryly.
“Yeah, well. He’s not the only owner.”
“Not technically,” Adam admits, tossing a few used water glasses into the sink below the bar. “Though the one brother is only like fifteen, and they say the other one-“
He breaks off abruptly. Ronan looks back, unease growing.
Adam has gone very, very still. He’s staring at Ronan, his expression morphing into something distant and closed off. Without a word, he spins, carefully pours a glass of top-shelf whisky, and places it in front of Ronan.
“What do they say about the other one?” Ronan presses, his voice low. He doesn’t actually care what anyone says about the infamously fucked-up middle Lynch brother, but he wants Adam to turn those dark blue eyes on him again. Wants some kind of assurance that his last name isn’t going to drive a wedge between them.
Adam is looking past Ronan though, his jaw set. “I need this job,” is all he says. Ronan supposes it’s an apology, sort of, for refusing to serve him earlier. Or maybe it’s a request not to unleash that infamous Lynch fury for the slight.
Niall Lynch had earned his reputation around town, after all. Ronan wishes people would stop treating him like they treated his dad. Like he’s someone to respect.
Someone to fear.
“Relax,” Ronan snaps, mood darkening at the chasm rapidly forming between himself and Adam. “I won’t tell my brother you’re risking the Dream’s liquor license by serving a minor.”
Adam presses his lips together and nods tightly. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Mr. Lynch.” And then he’s gone and Ronan is left staring into his whisky glass, alone.
*
Adam doesn’t really mind Henry Cheng, a fact that surprises himself.
It isn’t that they’re friends. It’s more that Henry doesn’t act like he’s better than the staff, unlike most of the wealthier patrons at the Dream. Henry and his mother (a formidable older Korean woman named Seondeok) live like royalty in the Dream Hotel’s penthouse suite, but Henry often spends his mornings seated at the bar, sipping mimosas and regaling Adam with stories of his previous night’s escapades.
Adam (who has learned that making small talk, while excruciatingly painful, results in better tips) asks, once, how long Henry and Seondeok plan to stay in Vegas.
“My mother has business with many fine patrons at the Dream,” Henry answers, studying his reflection in the spotted, antique mirror behind the bar to adjust his hair. “And we shall reside here until that business concludes. Perhaps that will be years from now, during which I shall proudly see you graduate with full honors from university.” He says it with such confidence (like this is a given, of course Adam will graduate from college in a few years, how could anyone think otherwise?) that Adam feels a rush of quiet pride.
Henry continues: “Or, perhaps, my mother and I will be gone by tomorrow morning. There’s really no way to know. Such is the nature of her business.” He sounds a bit deflated at the uncertainty of it all, so Adam tops off Henry’s mimosa with champaign and the young man perks up immediately.
He never asks what Henry’s mother does for a living, but Henry shows him a photo on his cell phone, once, of an oil painting featuring a group of panicked men on a sinking ship.
“My mother sold this one the other night,” Henry says, swiping through close-ups. “Original Rembrandt. Quite a sale.”
Adam possesses little knowledge of art, but even he has heard of Rembrandt. He looks the painting up later: The Storm on the Sea of Galilee was stolen from a museum thirty years ago. It was never recovered.
This is the first hint Adam receives that not all the regulars at the Dream Hotel and Casino are exactly above-board. He gives it some thought though and ultimately decides he doesn’t care that Seondeok sells stolen art from her penthouse or that she does it with Declan Lynch’s tacit blessing. He also ignores the rumors about the Lynch clan’s connections to the Irish mob, and he doesn’t entertain petty gossip about what illegal substances the Kavinskys sell to the high rollers who swagger in and out of the Dream’s back rooms with regularity.
Adam wants to keep his head down, avoid unwanted attention, and make enough money in tips to afford the private college he hopes to attend in the autumn. And for his first month at the Dream, he manages to achieve exactly that.
Until Ronan Lynch.
After their disastrous first meeting, Adam keeps his distance from the middle Lynch son: the one who inherited the late Lynch patriarch’s temper, the one with a death wish, the one destined for a life in prison (to hear his co-worker Blue Sargent tell it, anyway).
As part-owner of the Dream, Ronan is technically Adam’s employer. Has the power to fire Adam at any moment, to lay waste to all of Adam’s meticulous plans. And Adam—much like the patrons playing blackjack at the card tables—spends every moment of his life evaluating and calculating possible risks. Ronan doesn’t feel dangerous, but Adam can’t risk it.
And even if Ronan isn’t the type to fire Adam for a minor offense, Adam doesn’t allow himself to have friends. Not yet. When he’s moved out of his parents’ trailer and is set up at a good university with a respectable, paying internship… maybe then. But for now, he needs to focus on his future.
So Adam plays nice with Henry and patiently absorbs the hotel’s gossip from Blue (who works at the front desk and takes her breaks with Adam), but he keeps them both at arm’s length. And he certainly doesn’t try to get to know Ronan.
The problem, though, is that Ronan starts to spend a lot more time at the Dream. He’s usually trailing behind Joseph Kavinsky on their way to the invite-only, high-stakes poker games in the back or loudly arguing on the casino floor with his older brother Declan, and Adam feels justified in his decision to keep his distance.
If only Ronan would stop looking at Adam from across the casino floor, his gaze dark and heavy and burning straight through to Adam’s core.
If only Adam could convince himself he wasn’t intentionally looking back.
*
Boyd’s Bar is a cramped, seedy little dump far enough off the Strip that tourists would never wander this way, and with good reason. There’s a trio of homeless tweakers camped out on the street corner and the dilapidated motel next door has a flashing RENT BY THE HOUR sign beneath the red VACANCY.
Neither establishment is a place Ronan frequents. The only reason he’s there at all, seated in the passenger seat of this ostentatious white Mitsubishi, is because Kavinsky wanted to swing by and resupply Proko, who deals drugs out of one of the motel rooms on weekends. Judging by the amount of time Ronan’s been waiting, they’re probably sampling the product.
A city bus pulls up in front of the tweakers and a lone figure gets off, his features dark and shadowed in the gathering dusk. Ronan sits up, watches with interest as Adam’s slim frame traipses down the street and enters Boyd’s.
He texts K: im out. lmk plans 4 later tonight.
The inside of Boyd’s Bar is, as predicted, miserable and claustrophobic. A bored stripper entertains two old men who smoke at a table in the corner. A man seated near the entrance snores loudly, a collection of empty bottles in front of him. Behind the bar, Adam holds a glass up to the light and grimaces. He’s wearing a faded t-shirt and camo pants; unlike the Dream, Boyd’s clearly doesn’t have much of a dress code.
“Whisky, neat.”
Adam pauses, turns slowly. He considers Ronan flatly for a moment, and Ronan wonders if the bartender will continue ignoring him the way he has for the past week.
But then—yes, there it is, an expression on Adam’s face that energizes Ronan in a way Kavinsky’s drugs never have: exasperation accompanied by a subtle curl of his lips, blue eyes flashing bright and alive when a moment before they’d been dull and tired. Ronan knows, then, that he won’t be leaving to meet Kavinsky anytime soon. He takes a seat at the bar.
Adam holds up the empty glass and, with a very pointed glance at Ronan, fills it with Coca Cola.
“On the house,” he says, sliding the Coke towards him.
“Wow. Fucking generous.”
Adam does ignore Ronan for awhile after that, bussing the few occupied tables and serving a pair of scantily clad women who end up joining the two old men in the corner. Adam brings them a round of shots and the four of them cheer; it’s all pretty sad.
“Why do you work here?” Ronan asks once Adam returns to the bar. He’s genuinely curious. The Dream desperately needs some remodeling done and Declan is always bitching about the shoddy plumbing, but it’s a goddamn palace compared to Boyd’s.
Adam shrugs. “My friend’s cousin used to dance here, she got me an interview. I’m only here the days I’m not on schedule at the Dream.”
He doesn’t seem as wary around Ronan as he usually does. Ronan supposes that Boyd’s is relatively neutral territory for them. Or maybe he just feels more comfortable in his own clothes, rather than the stiff button ups employees are required to wear at the Dream.
“Is it always this dead?”
Adam tosses a rag over his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“How the hell do they stay in business?”
The question is rhetorical, but Adam tilts his head, considers Ronan for a moment. “You really wanna know?”
“Sure.”
Adam opens his mouth, then closes it abruptly as two men in cheap suits enter the bar, looking remarkably out-of-place amongst the grungy clientele. One of them (dark hair, rat-like face, sunglasses) is clearly the ringleader. The other man (blonde, mid-20s, untucked shirt) has a port wine stain covering one cheek. Ronan’s pretty sure he’s seen them at the Dream before, though he can’t remember the context.
The stripper perks up at the newcomers, shimmies around the pole so that her sequined bikini catches the light, but the men walk directly around the bar and towards the door behind it. The blonde guy gives Adam a friendly wave before he disappears after his boss.
“That’s how,” Adam mutters disapprovingly.
Ronan looks after the men, frowning. It’s bothering him, how vaguely familiar they look. “They own the place?”
“Not exactly.” Adam seems hesitant to say more, but Ronan waits him out. Finally, Adam relents, “The bank wouldn’t issue Boyd any more loans. So he went to those guys.”
Ronan feels a twinge of unease that has nothing to do with whatever shady shit Boyd is up to. “What’re their names?”
“Their names?” Adam repeats, brow knitting. “The blonde one’s Noah. The other is Barry- or maybe it’s Harry, he’s never exactly introduced himself.”
Barrington Whelk and Noah... last name was Russian, or something. The names accompany a hazy memory that swims to the forefront of Ronan’s mind. Maybe six months ago, he’d been arguing with his older brother—nothing new—and those two guys had shown up for an unscheduled meeting, cutting their argument short. Ronan had actually talked to Noah for a bit, afterwards, though he’d been pretty fucked up at the time so he doesn’t remember anything other than the fact that Noah has a tattoo of Casper the friendly ghost on one forearm.
Ronan doesn’t pay attention to how the Dream operates, despite Declan’s repeated attempts to educate him. Now, though, he wishes he knew a bit more.
Like why the hell Declan is receiving visits from loan sharks.
Barry and Noah emerge from the back a few minutes later. Barry’s shirt is now disheveled and he’s shaking out his hand like it hurts. His expression as he exits, though, is grimly satisfied.
“We’ll see you in two weeks,” Noah chirps at Adam. Ronan hastily looks away so that Noah doesn’t see his face; he doesn’t quite know why.
When he turns back, Adam is eying him curiously.
“Pssst.”
A rotund, middle-aged man with a whispy goatee is peering around the back room door, looking frantically around the bar. He’s holding a bag of frozen peas to his cheek. “Are they gone?” When Adam nods, he slumps in relief. Ronan figures this guy must be Boyd.
Boyd scurries towards the exit, pulling on an oversized jacket and muttering distractedly to himself. Ronan catches the words “-knew I shouldn’t have bought that Mazzarati-“ before he, too, has disappeared out the front door.
Adam and Ronan exchange looks, eyebrows raised. “Jesus,” Ronan comments, and Adam exhales a laugh.
“Yeah, I know. That barely scratches the surface. He could pay Barry back but instead he just keeps buying stupid shit. Wait til they find out about the time share in the Bahamas…”
“People like that make me feel better about myself,” Ronan says.
“It’s definitely an ego booster,” Adam agrees. “Like, as bad as things get, at least I’m not fending off creditors and wannabe mobsters and the IRS.”
They both grin and maybe it’s shitty to be laughing at Boyd’s misfortune but whatever, the guy clearly brings it on himself.
“Hey, Adam!”
A pair of young adults have entered the bar and are now settling themselves on stools. Judging by the stripper’s baffled expression, Boyd’s has never been so busy before.
One of the newcomers is Henry Cheng, who Ronan unfortunately went to prep school with (before Ronan dropped out, anyway). The other is a pint-sized girl who works at the Dream. Ronan doesn’t know her name. She’s smiling brightly at Adam, though, and he feels an irrational rush of dislike.
“Blue? Henry? What’re-“
“I know, I know,” Cheng cuts Adam off, looking around the bar with obvious dismay. “What’s a nice girl like me doing in a place like this?”
“You said you were working tonight,” Blue reminds Adam. “Orla told me how dead it is here. And because we’re so wildly popular and cool, we have nothing better to do with our Friday night and figured we’d come keep you company.”
Adam seems momentarily thrown (maybe he and Blue aren’t as close as she seems to think they are) but he recovers quickly, opening a bottle of wine for the pair and fetching them a small bowl of peanuts. Honestly, Ronan is surprised Boyd’s even has a decent bottle of red laying around, but there’s a fine layer of dust on it so it must be strictly for ‘in case of emergency’ situations.
It’s then that Blue notices Ronan. She narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose, clearly less-than-thrilled to have run into one of the Dream’s owners on her night off.
Cheng follows her gaze and gives a cry of surprise. “Now this, I was not expecting,” he says candidly, leaning over and clapping a hand to Ronan’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re a frequent patron of this fine establishment.”
Ronan scowls as Adam says, “He’s a regular. Really fits in with the clientele around here.” The sleeping guy near the entrance chooses that exact moment to yawn and belch loudly, revealing he’s missing about half his teeth.
Blue snorts into her glass and Henry says, “A man of mystery, our Ronan. Even in school, he was full of surprises. To see him in his leather jacket, sitting here looking like a punk, you would never know that he made the varsity tennis team our sophomore year.”
“Shut it, Cheng,” Ronan snaps, heat rising to his cheeks. But Adam has exhaled a huff of surprised laughter and Ronan finds he can’t stay angry when Adam looks so amused, even if it is at Ronan’s expense.
And then Joseph Kavinsky swaggers inside, Proko close behind him, and Adam’s expression immediately closes off. Anger hardens in Ronan’s gut.
“Lynch, what the fuck? Let’s roll,” Kavinsky calls out. “Night’s a-wasting.”
“I fucking told you I’d meet you later.”
Kavinsky approaches Blue, pushing his sunglasses up for a better view. Ronan knows this won’t lead anywhere good, and sure enough Kavinsky goes, “Well hello there, pretty lady.”
Blue visibly recoils in disgust. “Keep walking, buddy. We’re not having a conversation.”
“Aw babe, don’t be like that…”
“Babe?” Blue says shrilly. Henry winces. “Men who infantilize women usually have deeply unresolved mommy issues. Ring any bells?”
Adam’s tone is ice-cold: “Please take a seat at a table or leave, Mister Kavinsky.”
Kavinsky doesn’t even acknowledge Adam. He’s still eying Blue up and down. “Feisty! Why don’t you come back to mine and we can work out my ‘mommy issues’ together?”
Ronan’s seen enough. He may not care much for this Blue girl, but she doesn’t deserve Kavinsky, especially not when he’s high. “Knock it off, K,” he seeths.
“Make me,” Kavinsky says, still leering down at Blue, so Ronan steps in front of the short girl and does exactly that.
“Holy-!” Henry Cheng exclaims as Kavinsky staggers backwards, sunglasses askew, nose gushing blood.
Kavinsky grins widely because there’s nothing he loves more than provoking Ronan and Ronan knows this, he falls for it every fucking time—
Proko slams into Ronan and then it’s a proper fight, pure fire coursing in Ronan’s veins. Someone’s shouting, and then Ronan’s head is being slammed into a table but he recovers quickly, twists and lunges for Proko as Kavinsky whoops with glee—
And now Cheng is trying to drag Ronan away and Proko’s sliding out from Ronan’s headlock and Kavinsky’s high-tailing it out of there, and it isn’t until Ronan notices the flash of blue and red outside and realizes Cheng is being dragged away by a uniformed officer that he fully comes back to his senses, panting heavily.
The bar patrons are staring, mouths open in shock. Blue looks furious.
Adam, though, is staring at Ronan with an expression so terrifyingly blank that Ronan wishes he’d never stepped foot in this fucking bar. And then a cop materializes, grabbing Ronan’s arm and dragging him towards the exit.
Fuck.
*
“Adam, my good man,” Henry greets him magnanimously, then practically collapses onto one of the Dream’s velvet bar stools. He’s still in the clothes he’d been wearing the night before.
Adam is flooded with relief. The last he’d seen Henry, the other teen had been in handcuffs in the back of a police car outside Boyd’s.
“What happened last night?” Adam asks, taking in Henry’s haggard appearance and immediately reaching for the champaign and a carton of orange juice. “I tried calling the station after you guys were arrested but they wouldn’t give me any information.”
“Your concern is noted and appreciated,” Henry says, blearily watching Adam pour his mimosa. “I am happy to report I was not arrested, merely held for a few hours before I was summarily released. There were no charges filed.”
“That’s good,” Adam says, and then hesitates before asking: “And Ronan Lynch…?”
Henry shoots Adam a superior, knowing look that Adam doesn’t want to interpret. “His father was friends with the police commissioner, apparently, so he was not charged either. He did make for an entertaining cell mate, though.”
Adam nods. He’s glad Ronan wasn’t arrested, that’s all. His interest doesn’t go any further than that. Yes, he’d let his guard down around Ronan the night before, had even enjoyed their conversation, but that wouldn’t happen again.
“It was misguided,” Henry muses, “But also rather noble of Ronan to punch Kavinsky the junior to defend Blue Sargent’s honor, don’t you think? And ‘noble’ is not a word I would have ever applied to the young man. Perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye.”
Adam presses his lips together and Henry surmises, “You disagree?”
“There were better ways to handle the situation. Blue doesn’t need him to fight her battles for her. He acted irrationally, he’s-” Adam cuts himself off. He’d wanted to punch that slimy bastard Kavinsky, too. Was it really fair for him to hold a grudge against Ronan for doing what they’d all been too cowardly to do themselves?
“I didn’t realize you had a problem with Ronan.”
“I don’t,” Adam says stiffly, snatching a damp rag to wipe down the bar. “I just… don’t want to get too mixed up with him. Or his family.” Adam feels the back of his neck warm; he’s said too much, revealed too much of himself, somehow.
Henry tilts his head in acquiescence. “Ah. Perhaps you should have considered that before accepting a job at the Dream. Well, I shall now retire to my rooms where I will attempt to avoid a hangover by never fully sobering up. Ta-ta.”
*
“Mister Parrish. A word.”
With her no-nonsense attitude, purple talons and hefty build that she throws around with impunity, Calla Lily Johnson would be terrifying even if she wasn’t the single most powerful person at the Dream Hotel and Casino (aside from the Lynch brothers, of course). She takes her role as operations manager deathly seriously. Adam has never seen her fire anyone directly, but he’s witnessed the emotional aftermath enough times to know Calla doesn’t waste time and she certainly doesn’t mince words.
She waits for him to make eye contact before jerking her head towards her office.
Adam follows, racking his brain for any offense he might have committed. He’s always on time, he would never drink on the job, he doesn’t take more than his allotted 30-minute breaks.
Inside the office, Calla settles herself behind her desk, the cracked leather of the chair squeaking as she peers at a piece of paper Adam recognizes as his resume. He clenches his hands on his lap to stop them from shaking. Ronan Lynch must have said something. Probably told Calla he suspects Adam lied about his age and experience to get this job (which of course Adam had). He's been waiting for this moment for weeks, really, ever since that initial mortifyingly awkward encounter with the Dream’s part-owner.
It’s been a few days since the fight at Boyd’s. It’s a night Adam tries not to think about. It isn’t just that he saw Ronan punch a guy, though that’s part of it (living at home, Adam has enough violence in his life already. He doesn’t need to invite more.)
It’s worse than that. It’s the way Ronan makes Adam feel: wide awake and alert and like he wants to learn everything there is to know about the enigma that is Ronan Lynch; like laughing at dumb shit and sharing inside jokes and, absolutely worst of all, he’s pretty sure Ronan… feels the same way.
Which is ridiculous to even think about, so Adam doesn’t. Can’t afford to. There’s too much at stake, too much that could go wrong.
He’s gone back to avoiding Ronan entirely. It’s the only way he can think of to make the problem that is Ronan Lynch just… go away.
This meeting with Calla, he realizes as dread pools in his stomach, is probably Ronan’s payback.
He schools his expression to one of detached professionalism, forcibly unclenches his fists. If he’s about to get fired, he’ll accept Calla’s decision with dignity. He’s an easily-replaceable part-time bartender who gets paid under the table; it’s not like he has any power here.
“My goddaughter speaks highly of you,” Calla says abruptly. Her tone is harsh, but then, she has a way of making everything she says sound like an accusation. She must sense Adam’s confusion because she clarifies, “Blue Sargent. Her mother and I grew up together.”
Adam didn’t know Blue had such a close connection to the Dream’s operational manager but he's not surprised. Blue is related to practically half the Dream staff. Her mother is the casino’s longest-employed Blackjack dealer and her cousin (the one who introduced him to Boyd) emcees the weekend burlesque shows.
Calla continues, “Blue says you don’t drink?”
Adam sees no reason to lie. “No ma’am.”
“No drugs? And weed is a drug,” she says, her tone indicating that she expects Adam to argue with her.
“No ma’am.”
“All right. I’m not gonna ask how old you are, because I don’t ask questions I don’t want the answer to,” Calla says. “And I’m definitely not gonna ask how much of this resume is bullshit, either.”
She eyes him for a long moment over templed fingers, but she didn’t ask him a question, so Adam doesn’t say anything in response, just feels the steady thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears. If he keeps this job, he’ll definitely have enough money to move out of his parents’ trailer by the end of the summer. If not, well… he’ll figure something else out. Pick up more shifts at Boyd’s, probably, though the dive bar is a miserable place to work and Adam’s pretty sure it’ll get shut down by the Feds for money laundering any day now.
Unexpectedly, Calla smirks, purple lipstick stretching briefly. “You’ve got a hell of a poker face, Mister Parrish.” She pushes his resume away like it personally offends her. “What matters to me is your job performance so far and your ability to keep your mouth shut. So. I’m moving you to VIP.”
It takes Adam a moment for her words to sink in, to realize he isn’t being fired. In fact, it’s the opposite. The VIP lounge is where employees make real money at the Dream; one cocktail waitress allegedly had enough for the down payment on a house after only six months working VIP.
Adam’s never been allowed inside it, but he’s seen enough familiar faces (Hollywood actors and swaggering athletes and once, a Congressman he recognized from C-SPAN) entering and exiting through the discrete alley entrance to know it’s the real deal. The jackpot for the high-stakes poker games can run into the millions of dollars, according to Blue.
“When do I start?”
“Now. But Mister Parrish? Please understand we're paying you for your discretion, not for how well you can mix a cocktail. I don't want to find out you're bragging online about who you meet or how much money is wagered and won. Our guests’ privacy is very important.”
“Yes ma’am.”
”As you already know, we require our staff to remain a professional distance from our guests at all times. That can get difficult in VIP. We’ve run into problems in the past, employees drinking with guests or trying to establish romantic connections for their personal gain, but it is very important you maintain that distance. Even if the guest is the one initiating the contact. Got it?”
Adam could laugh. He wants nothing more than to maintain some distance between himself and everyone else at the Dream: guest, employee and owner alike.
“I understand, ma’am. That won’t be a problem.”