I was in Vegas for two weeks—ostensibly to finalize a construction deal, but in reality? I was indulging. Deeply. Shamelessly. Libertinely. Fresh off an unexpected inheritance (my dear mother, rest her generous soul), I decided there was no better way to honor her legacy than by living like a Roman senator with Wi-Fi.
After a few unforgettable solo encounters and one mind-bending duo, I figured I’d properly kick things off with a dinner and show—accompanied by three women who could collectively cause a diplomatic incident just by walking into a room.
Enter: Heather D’Angelo, Holly Davis, and Valet Parker.
Dinner was at a quiet steakhouse tucked just off the Strip. Heather, a sultry brunette with curves that demanded their own ZIP code, was in a body-hugging wine-colored number. Holly, all California sunshine and golden laughter, wore deep forest green that somehow glowed under the dim lighting. And Valet Parker—well she was wearing a floor-length black dress like the final boss in a noir film. Red hair down, patent leather strappy heels, and an expression that said touch me only if you dare.
Every man in the restaurant watched me like I’d stolen something sacred. We laughed, we flirted, we clinked glasses over dry-aged ribeye and shared bites of dessert like we were in a very risqué French art film. And then came Absinthe.
The show was wild, raunchy, ridiculous—basically a preview of what was about to happen upstairs, but with more sequins and fewer liability waivers.
We returned to the suite after Absinthe ended. Spirits high. My imagination racing. And what followed… well, let’s just say it would make the devil blush, and the concierge double-check their NDA. But it’s Vegas.
