by Holly Rayner
I’m a businessman. I command respect.
My favorite casino is just a block away from my apartment. I like it because the staff there is great, and because the noisy slot machines are situated well away from the blackjack tables, which is where I prefer to spend my time.
I make my way down the street, taking in the sights. A couple of drunk girls who look barely out of their teens stagger by, giggling and sharing a massive drink. Across the road from them are what appear to be college boys. They swagger, their shirts unbuttoned, crushing beer cans in their hands as they walk and shooting them into trash cans as if they’re playing basketball. I meet the eye of another well-dressed man across the street and a moment of understanding passes between us. Children.
The hotel lobby isn’t too crowded, which is a good sign. It’s never fun to be out when the casinos are overcrowded, and if it was packed here tonight, I was going to have to find someplace else to go. Fortunately, it looks as if I’m in luck. It’s a moderate crowd, and that’s certainly acceptable to me. After all, you don’t want a casino to be empty, either.
“Ah, Mr. Oliveira!” A balding man in a suit rushes over and wrings my hand. He has a name tag pinned to his lapel that reads Michel Hernandez, Manager. I’m momentarily impressed that he knows who I am—I don’t believe I’ve ever met him before—until I realize that the only possible explanation is that the casino keeps photos of its regulars somewhere and makes the staff memorize them. I can’t decide if I’m pleased—it’s an impressive level of service—or creeped out.
Hernandez is still talking. “Welcome back to the Castello. We do love to see familiar faces return.”
“Nice to be back.”
In all honesty, I’m not really paying attention to him anymore. My attention has been caught by someone far more interesting than a balding hotel manager.
She has blond hair that cascades down her back in gentle curls, the kind that makes me long to touch it. She’s surrounded by a group of women, all of whom are chattering loudly, but the one who’s caught my eye is quiet. She’s an observer, looking around the place and taking it all in. She has the look of someone on her first trip to Las Vegas, but unlike most tourists, she doesn’t strike me as annoying.
She turns, and just as I’m registering that she’s significantly younger than I am—maybe by about ten years—she catches me looking at her.
I can’t look away. I’m entranced.
She’s far away from me, all the way across the room, but I want to say something. I mouth the word hi. I don’t know if she understands. I should go over there. I should talk to her normally.
Before I can make a move, though, a woman in a hot pink sash and a cheap-looking toy veil grabs her by the hand and pulls her away, into the crowd. Almost instantly, the blonde is gone. I didn’t see what was written on the sash her friend was wearing, but I’ve lived in Las Vegas long enough to know a bride-to-be when I see one.
This is a bachelorette party. Which means my chances of seeing the blonde again are basically zero. For one thing, there must be a thousand bachelorette parties in this city tonight—I’d be willing to bet on several dozen in this very hotel. And even if I could find them, they wouldn’t exactly welcome my presence. I live in the bachelorette party capital of the world, so I’m familiar with how they tend to operate: in nine cases out of ten, the women have a no-men policy in place. Not only will they have forbidden each other from talking to their husbands or boyfriends over the weekend, but those who are single will be vehemently discouraged from getting to know any men who aren’t being paid to take their clothes off.
And anyway, I don’t want to spoil their party. The woman was very pretty, and when we made eye contact, I felt electrified, but what’s a little chemistry? I’m sure that if we got to know each other, we’d find we had nothing in common. After all, she’s young, and she’s a tourist. She’ll be going home in a couple of days, and I’ll be here. There’s nothing at all worth pursuing.
“Mr. Oliveira?”
I turn my attention back to Michel Hernandez. He looks somewhat concerned. “Is there a problem, sir?”
“What?”
“You have an expression of…consternation on your face.”
“Oh, no, it’s nothing. I was distracted. I apologize. What were you saying?”
The poor man looks anxious. “I wondered whether you’d like a glass of your favorite shiraz? Or perhaps some of that scotch you so enjoyed on your last visit?”
“The scotch is fine,” I say, scanning the room. “And I think I’ll start my evening over at table three, if you’d like to have someone bring it to me there.”
“Very good, sir.” Michel Hernandez says, and scuttles off.
I make my way over to table three, where two other people are currently playing blackjack. I prefer to play alongside others, so it isn’t just me and the dealer squaring off every time, but not with a packed table, so I stand a chance at learning the tells of my tablemates.
I take a seat and place a bill on the table. The dealer swaps it for a stack of chips and deals me into the game. Then, I accept a tumbler of scotch from the waiter and study my tablemates.
The woman on my left is probably about seventy years old. She has rings on her gnarled fingers and is wearing a dress with so many sequins that I wonder whether she’s going to be singing on one of the hotel’s stages later tonight. She drums her long fingernails on her cards and peers over them at me, as if I’m going to wink or nod or give her some other kind of clue as to what I’m holding—which, at present, is a six with a nine showing. Not a good hand.
On my right is a heavyset man of about my own age in a flannel shirt and jeans. He tosses some chips into the pot and glances my way, daring me to bet. I meet his raise. If I can convince them all that I’m holding nineteen instead of fifteen, I might stand a chance here.
The woman scowls and shoves her cards back at the dealer, relinquishing the hand. The man raises the bet again. I match him and increase.
He chews on his lip like it’s a cigar, grins, and shakes his head. “All yours, partner.”
I sweep up my winnings and set about stacking my chips in an orderly fashion, returning my cards to the dealer for the next hand.
A woman joins our table. I see a flash of blond hair, and before my mind even has a chance to catch up, my nerves are on alert, my heart beating double-time.
It’s her!
But it isn’t. I’m shocked that I could have been so wrong. The new girl at the table is a pretty blonde, but I feel no heat, no chemistry, when I look at her.
I can’t sit here anymore.
I push my chips at the dealer. “Cash me out, please.”
He hands me a printed ticket listing the amount of my winnings.
I take the ticket in one hand and my scotch in the other, get to my feet, and wander away from the blackjack tables, feeling aimless. Of course, there are plenty of things to do on the casino floor, plenty of games to play, but few of them are my sort of thing. Craps is too rowdy, too much hollering and shouting. Slots are a children’s game, all luck and no strategy, mindless button-pushing with no skill involved. And I’m about thirty years too young for keno.
Lacking direction, I make my way toward the poker tables, thinking that maybe a little five-card will scratch the right itch today. After all, it was in a game of poker that I had my last big win, three months ago—fifty thousand dollars, which I promptly added to my stocks.
I used to enjoy spending money on frivolous things, but ever since the divorce I’ve found myself more cautious—in all areas of my life. It’s been five years now, but the experience has haunted me ever since.
As I pass the rattling roulette wheel, I’m jerked out of unpleasant thoughts by a flash of blond. It’s her!
This time, it really is. She’s sitting inside a cluster of other people, although I don’t see the woman with the tacky veil anywhere nearby. The table’s far from packed, though, and I’m moving toward it even before I’ve co
nsciously made a decision.
Chapter 3
Dani
“Hey!” Rhonda leans so far back on her stool that I’m afraid she might fall off and waves energetically at a passing server. “Can we get some more vodka cranberries over here?”
The server nods and disappears into the crowd to fetch what will be our third round, not counting the champagne we drank in the room before coming down. I’m definitely feeling tipsy, and Sandy is outright drunk. Molly’s gone quiet, which is how she usually responds to liquor, and Melanie is flirting with the croupier between spins of the roulette wheel. Liz, meanwhile, is still quietly nursing her second drink and watching the rest of us like an indulgent parent.
The server returns with a tray bearing six drinks. Rhonda lifts them down and passes them around, then pays him. She raises her own cup, prompting the rest of us to do the same.
“A toast to Sandy,” she says theatrically. “All grown up and getting married.”
“Hear, hear,” I echo, clinking my cup against hers.
“Ian’s great, isn’t he?” Sandy says, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “I feel so lucky just to have met him, you know? Some people go their whole lives without meeting the right person—” I feel her eyes stop on me as she says this— “and Ian and I are lucky enough to just wander into the same antique store one Saturday. How cool is that?”
“It is a pretty great meet-cute,” Melanie agrees.
“Place your bets,” the croupier says.
Hoping to turn the conversation away from this tired topic, I place a large bet on black. My strategy works—the size of my chip stack is immediately noticed by the others.
“You sure about that, Dani?” Liz asks. I can hear the disapproval in her tone.
“I’m sure,” I say. “I brought enough money to have a little fun with. Don’t worry about me.”
The croupier spins the wheel and we all wait with bated breath. Eventually, it shudders to a stop and lands on number 11. Black. Around me, the others erupt into cheers as the croupier pushes a substantially increased pile of chips back over to me. Rhonda, who also won this round with a small bet on the correct number, accepts her winnings, and we all begin pondering our next bet.
“Going big again, Dani?” Rhonda asks.
Maybe it’s the alcohol, but for whatever reason, I feel reckless.
“Why not,” I say, and place a quarter of my chips on zero. I know it’s a much less likely outcome than simply black, but if I win, this stack of chips will be enough to ensure that our bachelorette weekend reaches new levels of awesome.
Still, I’m as surprised as anyone when the ball actually comes to rest on zero. Sandy and Melanie shriek with delight as the croupier pulls up my winnings and passes them over. The pile of chips in front of me is now substantial, and I’m seriously considering cashing out and treating everybody to a nice steak dinner. But then, Sandy falls right off her stool in her exuberance, reminding me that now is probably not the right time to visit a fancy restaurant. Tomorrow, maybe.
I flag down the server and order another round.
“Can we get those light-up plastic ice cubes I’ve seen in other people’s drinks?” I ask. “The ones that flash alternating colors?”
“You have to pay extra for it,” the server says. “Is that okay?”
“Absolutely,” I reply. For the first time in my life, I feel flush with money, and I’m pleased to find that this new luxury is making me benevolent. I’ve always wondered what my personality would be like if I was rich, if it would ruin me or make me unbearably selfish. And while these winnings aren’t exactly riches—they’ll probably only last me through the weekend—it’s enough largesse to make me feel more comfortable throwing money around than I ever have.
The server brings our drinks. Until now, he’s been serving us cheap plastic cups, but these drinks are served in what I immediately recognize as expensive plastic cups. They’re molded to look like actual stemware, and they’re clear instead of blue with the logo of the casino stamped on them in gaudy pink. Through the clear “glass,” I can see the ice cubes I asked for—another plastic item—lighting up first green, then orange, then purple, then blue.
“Wow,” Sandy says, staring mesmerized at hers. “Wow, Dani. This is prettier than those other drinks.”
Liz laughs. “You sure you haven’t had enough, Sandy?”
“It’s my bachelorette party,” Sandy reminds us, and tosses back a huge gulp of her drink. “I’m supposed to get loaded, you guys.”
“Can’t argue with that, right?” Rhonda grins.
“Guess you can’t,” Liz agrees.
Now, Sandy has her cell out and is tapping away at the keypad.
“Who are you talking to?” I demand, calling everyone’s attention to her.
“No one,” she says petulantly.
“You’re texting Ian, aren’t you?”
“Well, I just want to see how he’s doing! We’ve never spent a night apart, you know.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Melanie says. “You’ve spent thousands of nights apart.”
“Yeah, before we met, but ever since we’ve started spending nights together, we’ve never been apart. When you find your soulmate, you just want to be together all the time.”
Liz rolls her eyes. “You know that’s not what marriage is actually like, right?” She’s been married for four years, which officially makes her the expert in the group. “It’s not going to be all sunshine and romance. You have to be practical and level-headed to make a marriage work. Right, Melanie?”
Melanie looks surprised and completely put on the spot.
“Don’t look at me,” she says quickly. “I’ve only been married for six months. Things are still pretty romantic for us.”
“See?” Sandy says. “Romance can survive in a marriage.”
“I’m not saying it can’t, I just…” Liz turns to Rhonda. “Will you back me up here, please?”
“What?” Rhonda says. “I’m not married.”
“I know that, but you and Vic have been together since college. If anyone understands how logical you have to be when you’re approaching a long-term commitment, it’s you.”
“You might be barking up the wrong tree, there,” I tell Liz. “I’m not sure Rhonda’s ever taken a logical approach to anything in her life.”
“Hey, Dani?” Sandy says. “Do you think marriages can stay romantic?”
“Sure I do,” I say, mostly because I know that’s what she needs to hear right now.
“Dani’s not even in a relationship, though,” Molly says. “What does she know about it?”
The table goes silent.
Molly looks stricken. “Wow. That was really mean. I’m really sorry, Dani. I don’t know what I’m saying. I need to stop drinking.”
“Hey, no,” I say lightly, trying to laugh it off. “It’s not like I didn’t know I’m single.”
“We should totally find you someone on this trip!” Sandy crows.
“Sandy,” I say, “we are several hours away from my home. I don’t want a long-distance boyfriend. I don’t think I even want a boyfriend.”
“But you haven’t had a relationship in years,” Sandy says.
“She’s got a point,” Melanie says. “The last guy was that idiot with the dogs, right?”
“The dogs were nice, though,” I point out. I don’t like this line of questioning. I don’t like it when they bring up the fact that I’m the only one in the group who’s still single, like I’m some kind of problem for them to solve. At this point, it feels like they’re more interested in pairing me off so the job will be done than in helping me find the right person. If that’s even something I want. Truth be told, I haven’t thought about relationships in a long time. I have plenty of other things going on.
“Listen,” I say. “I know getting married—or partnered—and settling down was really important to all of you. And that’s great, and I’m really glad things are going so well. Con
gratulations again, Sandy. Really. Ian is wonderful, and he’s so lucky to have you. I mean that.”
“Thanks, Dani,” she says as I continue.
“But I just…I don’t know. I don’t think I have that same need, you know? Not in the way all of you do. Having a boyfriend is nice if it happens, and I’m not saying I’m opposed, per se, but I have so much going on in my life. I have the business to run, now that Dad’s retired, and that’s a lot harder than I ever anticipated. I mean, thrilling, but not easy.”
“We have jobs, too,” Liz says. “It’s the twenty-first century, Dani. You don’t need to choose between a love life and being successful in your career. You can have both.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“What are you saying?” Rhonda asks.
I feel, suddenly and inexplicably, like I’m going to cry. When did this night become all about me? Why are these girls all staring at me while I struggle not to break out in sobs? This is supposed to be about Sandy, about her impending marriage to Ian, and we’re supposed to be laughing and celebrating. Instead, somehow, the conversation has become group therapy for my nonexistent love life.
I take a breath and steady myself.
“I’m just saying that I’m okay. I don’t want you guys worrying about my happiness. I have plenty of great things in my life right now, and it’s okay that a man isn’t one of them.”
A distraction arrives, thank God, in the form of a round of shots. The server informs us that they were sent to us by a group of gentlemen at a nearby poker table, and he points them out. The men wave, and we wave back and do our shots.
“Should we go over there?” Melanie asks.
“Definitely not,” Molly says. “They could be serial killers, luring us to our deaths.”