Casino Girl

by Leslie Wolfe

  The door opened, and Brandi stumbled in, out of breath.

  “There you are,” she said, “want to grab some drinks tonight?”

  “Leave me the hell alone,” Roxanne replied.

  She wasn’t in the mood for company. She wanted to be by herself, so she could drop her mask for a few minutes and be who she really was, who she wanted to be.

  “All right,” Brandi replied defensively. “Didn’t mean to upset you. Just tell me what I can do for you. I know she was your closest friend; it can’t be easy.”

  Roxanne shook her head as if to get rid of a bad memory. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

  Brandi looked at her for a moment, then grabbed her purse, jeans, and a T-shirt and left without saying another word.

  Roxanne breathed again as the look in her eyes became steeled, vicious, and bloodthirsty. If Crystal weren’t dead already, she’d gladly put two bullets in that lying, two-faced heart of hers. Hell, if her rotting corpse were there, she’d still put two bullets in her chest. No, she’d unload the entire magazine, slowly, feeling the weapon’s recoil soothe her rage, the sound of every shot an echo of her heartbeat.

  She got rid of her stage outfit, ripping it off her body, and put on fresh lingerie. She put on a long, red, backless dress and matching pumps with three-inch heels. She combed her long, blonde hair until it crackled, then parted it low on one side so it would fall over her shoulder in waves.

  She counted her tips for the evening. It had been a slow night; not even four thousand dollars.

  Cheap bastards.

  She stuffed the bills and chips in her purse and threw herself another look in the mirror. She looked just like one of them; she’d belong and be treated with respect, even if stupid Farley would recognize her immediately. But he couldn’t touch her on her time off, because her money was just as good as anyone else’s at the green table.

  Roulette was her game.

  Not because she happened to dance on the stage between the roulette tables and she wanted a different perspective on life; no.

  Roulette was exotic, with the croupier making announcements in French, with the high payouts, and the spinning wheel that crushed more dreams than she could count, right there at her feet, night after night.

  Roulette had charm, had a little je ne sais quoi, something indescribable that drew her in again and again. Before she’d met Paul, she gambled most of the money she made, knowing one day Lady Luck would smile her way and she’d finally be free. Rich, to live a life of plenty, without a care in the world.

  Then Paul came into her life.

  The lying son of a bitch.

  When she exited the dressing room, she was someone else. She walked straight, slowly, with dignity and class. No one could tell, by looking at her, that she was just another casino girl, one who wiggled her butt for a living when she wasn’t waiting on gaming tables.

  After making a stop at the cashier, where she got three-thousand dollars’ worth of chips, she sat at one of the roulette tables, ignoring Farley’s mockful smirk. Screw that filthy asshole; he’d never be more than an idiot who had to threaten women to get laid, and even so, he wasn’t scoring much. But undoubtedly his right hand worked wonders for him in his lonely moments, in the staff men’s room.

  “Madame?” the croupier called her elegantly to attention, although he knew her well. He was respectful and kind. Otherwise, she would’ve been tempted to take her gambling elsewhere, to another casino where people didn’t know who she was.

  She put some chips on the table.

  “One thousand, thirteen, black,” the croupier announced.

  Another gambler placed a chip on the table.

  “Five hundred, twenty-one, red. Les jeux sont faits, rien ne va plus,” he announced, no more bets, and the ball started spinning against the wheel. As it slowed, it bounced around a little, then settled on the number thirteen.

  “Thirteen. Madame wins,” he announced, his smile genuine. “Payout is thirty-five thousand dollars,” he added, pushing a small tray filled with chips her way.

  That was more like it. Lady Luck was beginning to smile her way. As for Paul… screw him too. He’d soon be sorry, the cheating son of a bitch. She smiled, a smile loaded with the promise of vengeance, of ending the game her way.

  From across the room, a man stared at her intensely, seated casually in a lounge chair. She caught his heated gaze right when she was thinking of him, of how to make him pay, and that startled her, as if the man had read her mind.

  Paul.

  She held his fiery stare, feeling the electricity in the air, seeing it sparkle. She bit her lower lip provocatively and batted her long eyelashes a couple of times. He clenched his jaw and her smile bloomed, while her teeth still pressed against her lower lip, her head tilted forward, studying her effect on him.

  He fidgeted in his seat, a sure sign her charms were starting to have a physical effect on him. Good.

  “Seven. Red wins,” she heard the croupier announce in the background, but she didn’t care anymore, her eyes locked in a remote seduction game with Paul. She eventually nodded, smiled once more in his direction, then collected her chips and headed for the cashier, while Paul left the gaming room using the main entrance.

  While she waited for the cashier to count the chips, a man approached her in a brisk walk, and then grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. She barely recognized him dressed like that, in simple jeans and a golf shirt, and wearing a fifties Fedora.

  “Why?” the man asked, and she winced under his strong grip.

  “Ellis, let me go,” she said, trying to free her arm from the man’s grip.

  “Why did you kill her? What did she ever do to you?” he said in a tearful voice, pulling her to the side, where the cashier couldn’t hear them. “She only meant to help you, to keep you safe. Do you know what someone like Paul could do to you if he found out what you’re doing?”

  “I didn’t kill her, I swear,” she said between tears of frustration and pain.

  Great… Now Ellis knew everything, because stupid, self-righteous Crystal couldn’t keep her big mouth shut. She should’ve known better; those billionaires stuck together and helped one another, no matter what. Girls like her meant nothing when the big boys closed ranks. What if Ellis told Paul about it?

  A wave of weakness rippled through her body as fear turned her blood into frozen sludge. “I didn’t do it, Ellis,” she repeated, her words weak, carried on a trembling breath.

  “I don’t believe you,” he replied, letting go of her arm with a shove. “Who else? There was no one else in her life; just you and me.”

  “And I swear I didn’t kill her,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “You have to believe me. She was my friend.”

  “Is there a problem here?” one of the floor security officers asked, approaching them quickly. They must’ve seen the loaded interaction on video, or maybe the cashier had called him. The cashiers hated any sign of turbulence next to their windows, especially when customers carried large amounts of cash on them.

  “No, there’s no problem,” Ellis replied and quickly walked away, keeping his head down under the brown Fedora.

  She breathed, leaning against the cashier’s counter for support, because her knees were unexpectedly weak. She thought of sitting in one of those large armchairs for a while until she felt better, but she couldn’t be late. Paul was waiting for her outside, and she couldn’t afford to make him angry. Not now, when she realized he might know what she’d done, courtesy of that dead, rotting bitch and her big mouth.

  Ripping through her gut with renewed anxiety, memories flooded her mind. She recalled Paul’s burning look, his intensity, the gazes she’d assumed were only loaded with desire. From that distance, could she be sure it wasn’t something else? If he knew what she’d done, she was as good as dead.

  She somehow found the strength to breathe deeply and walk toward the exit, shoving the thirty-five-thousand-dollar check in her purse.
When she stepped onto the porte-cochère, gripping the skirt of the floor-length gown in her hand, a long, black, deeply tinted limo pulled up at the curb. She opened the door and climbed in.

  Before she could close the heavy limo door behind her, one of the parking valets grinned when he heard a man’s sultry voice saying to her, “You drive me crazy, baby... What the hell are you doing to me?”

  30

  Extracurricular

  As I usually did on such occasions, I was a little concerned TwoCent might recognize me. Earlier that day, we were in the same courtroom together, albeit I was dressed as any of the thousands of cops out there: light-blue shirt, navy slacks, my hair in a tight bun, a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators on my face. A far cry from the hot chick in the little black dress and Zanottis who walked down TwoCent’s street, carefully casing the place. Chances were he wouldn’t recognize me, not tonight, after our conversation, not even tomorrow, if we happened to run into each other at the courthouse. I looked nothing like the cop I was during the daytime and, on nights like these, I almost didn’t recognize myself.

  Okay, the heels were a mistake, but they went well with the part I had to play.

  I didn’t want to approach TwoCent’s house from the street, risk tripping a sensor and have emergency lights go on, while I was in plain view. Instead, I entered the backyard of the house behind TwoCent’s crib and spent some time observing. Not a sound from anywhere, not a light turned on, not a single movement. I’d walked barefoot the entire distance from where I’d left my car, on a parallel street where the sodium lamp was broken and under a big tree it was pitch black. There, my white Toyota didn’t stand out one bit, tucked between the usual residents who parked at the curb, its rear plate safely shielded from view.

  Now, staring at a six-foot concrete wall I had to climb to get inside TwoCent’s backyard, I didn’t have many options. If my plan failed, in a few short hours I’d have to take the stand and, with a few fateful words, bring my career and Holt’s to an abrupt end, or go to prison for perjury. Neither scenario worked well for me.

  I threw the Zanottis over the wall and they landed without making noise, most likely on a patch of grass. I tied my hair in a loose knot, to keep it from getting caught in the rugged masonry, then I lifted my skirt all the way up, so I could move freely. Good thing no one was watching, or they’d have a show to remember.

  I tried to grab the upper edge of the wall to pull myself up, but I couldn’t reach it without doing some real damage to my dress, the fine fabric an easy prey for the rough, gritty finish of the wall.

  “Bollocks,” I whispered, letting go of the wall’s edge and rubbing my hands together to clear the dust and the rubble that had stuck to my skin. “Infinite, endless, massive, bloody bollocks.”

  I looked around, trying to find another solution to get over the wall, some object I could use as a stepladder, anything. The perfectly maintained yard didn’t offer such opportunities, unless I was willing to leave the shaded areas behind the trees and step into the lights surrounding the pool, to grab one of the lounge chairs. A bad idea.

  I stopped for a moment, thinking hard. Sure, I could take the main street and approach the property directly, but even if Fletcher could somehow cut the proximity lights on TwoCent’s home, there was no guarantee I wouldn’t trip a neighbor’s lights, maybe get caught on their surveillance camera, and that would be a disaster, especially if things went south and an investigation followed.

  I heard a sound, nothing other than some leaves rustling in the yard next door, but I froze. I looked hard but couldn’t see anything, and I wanted to kick myself for leaving my thermal imaging camera at home, a tiny device that worked with my phone and found the heat signature of any warm-blooded creature in the dark.

  After a few seconds of silence and not seeing anything, I breathed; maybe it was some animal, a cat, or maybe a rat. The thought of a rat made me smile; maybe that would help me get over the wall quicker. If I saw one at my feet, I’d fly over without so much as touching the edge.

  One option was to ruin the dress I was wearing, damage it beyond repair. Another option was to risk a few scratches and bruises, but it seemed like the logical thing do so. I drew air into my lungs to conjure some courage and took off my dress with one quick move, pulling it over my head. Then I hung it over the wall as gently as I could, concerned that any inch of contact with the coarse surface would cause irreparable pilling to the fine fabric.

  I heard a dog barking angrily in the house behind me. A light went on and a man’s voice saying groggily, “All right, shut up already, we’re going. Good boy, yeah, let’s go.”

  I didn’t have much time, nor could I back away anymore. I was trapped.

  I grabbed the edge of the wall and pulled myself up, pushing with my toes and the soles of my feet against the rugged surface, and managed to throw myself over the barrier just as the dog was let outside. It came rushing toward me, raising hell, but by the time it reached the wall, I’d already taken my dress from the ledge and put it back on.

  “What the hell are you chasing?” the man muttered, his low, raspy voice so close to me I was startled.

  I stayed in place, not breathing, standing close against the cold wall, and listened to the dog bark angrily, inches away from me, on the other side. Eventually, the owner got tired of the noise and took the dog inside while it still barked, desperately trying to get at me.

  It took a few minutes for my heart rate to drop back to a relatively normal level after the dog went away. I listened some more, and the neighborhood seemed as fast asleep as it had been before Cujo had done its number.

  It was three in the morning, when sleep is the sweetest. It was time to move.

  I picked up my shoes from the grass and put them on. I pulled out the burner phone from my bra and texted Fletcher.

  “Still no guests for tonight?” my message said.

  A quiet vibration alerted me of his reply. “No, he’s sound asleep, and so was I.” A sad-faced emoji ended the message.

  “You got access to the security system?” I asked.

  “Taking the fifth,” came the answer.

  “Is the system armed right now?”

  “Yup.”

  “Could you please change that?”

  I held my breath, hoping, praying, willing it to happen. Last thing I needed was an alarm going off and cops showing up.

  Finally, the phone vibrated. “It’s done. Ping me when you need me to arm it again.”

  “You’re the best,” I texted back and slid the phone back inside the left cup of my bra.

  I sneaked carefully alongside the house and found the side entrance. I tried it gently, but it was locked. Without skipping a beat, I pulled out the lock picking kit from my right cup and worked the lock in under twenty seconds; not a personal best, but still impressive.

  I took one last look around and listened intently for a few seconds, still having an uneasy feeling that I wasn’t alone, that someone was watching. I pulled out my Sig and went inside.

  31

  Backfire

  Roxanne let Paul’s hands guide her body and she sat on the bed, smiling with her mouth slightly open while he kneeled in front of her, inhaling her fresh scent. She’d put a touch of pheromone perfume on her body, and it seemed to work well. She wore a silk, burgundy nightdress she’d put on earlier, while she had him wait for her to get into something more comfortable, as she liked to call it, when she was getting him taut, ready, eager with anticipation, burning with desire.

  She’d tied the satin sash around her waist with a double knot, knowing it would give him trouble untying it and increase his eagerness. She’d kept on her high heels, although she’d made him wait while she took a shower, getting ready for the night ahead, but he didn’t seem to mind, seeing how he caressed her tense calves.

  She relaxed under his warm hands, relishing their exploration of her body, while her eyes stayed firmly open and locked on his. Waves of memories came crushing in and for a moment s
he looked away, as if afraid he’d see into the depths of her dark soul.

  She’d met him only three months ago, after having tried to cross his path for a while. At first, she didn’t like him too much, despite his strong appearance, his elegant, attractive features, and his raven black hair. She had to force herself to keep her eyes open when they were making love. He was but a stranger, a powerful, intimidating, fierce stranger with such intensity in everything he did or said that she was afraid of him, although he never hurt her nor said a harsh word to her. But she’d seen him in the presence of others and knew what he was capable of. She knew how his staff trembled in front of him, and for good reason; Paul Steele wasn’t a forgiving man. He was passionate in everything he did, ambitious, a fighter who’d never lost a battle in his entire existence.

  Before she’d taken him to bed the first time, she’d researched him thoroughly, afraid of what she might discover. Although his father had built the Scala, Paul was a self-made billionaire. When he took over the hotel from his dad, the place was in shambles, about to file for bankruptcy, and his father fighting for his life after a heart attack. But then the recent MBA graduate took the reins and turned the place around swiftly, merciless with anyone who didn’t obey his orders, didn’t do their jobs, or didn’t give their absolute best every day.

  By the time he’d turned thirty-five, the hotel was debt-free. When he celebrated his fortieth birthday, Forbes listed his assets as exceeding one billion dollars. But he didn’t stop there; he always wanted more, because what he had was never enough.

  Merciless.

  That was the word that best described Paul’s disposition if anyone did wrong by him, as substantiated by the famous team of enforcers he kept on payroll, tasked to beat the thought of cheating, counting cards, or stealing out of anyone thinking it in any way, shape, or form. Since Paul had taken over the Scala, card-counting gamblers, pickpockets, and crooks of all flavors had moved their business elsewhere, afraid for their lives and limbs.