One More Summer

by Burke, Dez

I glance over my shoulder at the scantily clad cocktail waitress standing behind me in the Imperial Hotel Casino and smile. “No thank you, I’m fine.”

  She shakes her head at me knowingly while balancing an empty tray on her hip. “Okay, if you say so. I’ll swing by in another hour to check back. It helps to take a break occasionally when you’re playing the slots. It’s not healthy to sit in front of the machines for hours straight.” She leans down and drops her voice to a whisper. “It can make a person crazy. Trust me, I know. I’m seen it happen plenty of times to other gamblers here in the casino.”

  “I’ll take a break soon,” I assure her.

  She raises her eyebrows at me in disbelief and walks away without another word. I wait until she’s out of sight before pulling my cellphone out of my pocket. After checking the time, I place it on the corner of the slot machine.

  It’s almost midnight and I’m exhausted.

  Being a compulsive time watcher, I’m irritated at the lack of clocks in the brightly-lit casino. The management tries to prevent gamblers from realizing the passage of time, so they’ve removed all the natural cues, including windows.

  Natural sunlight never shines inside these walls.

  Keeping gamblers sitting at the tables or slot machines is the number one goal and they’ll do anything to make that happen. Inside the loud Las Vegas casino, minutes can quickly turn into hours or even days.

  It’s too easy to lure the throngs of tourists wandering through to stop for only a minute to play. The sound of coins clinking, or the sparkle of fancy lights catches their eye and they’ll hesitate for only a second to drop in a coin.

  Just for fun they’ll tell themselves.

  After all it’s only a quarter.

  What can be the harm in blowing a few bucks and then moving right along to dinner or a fancy show? It’s well worth the money for the mere entertainment value of pulling the lever and watching the slot machine spin.

  The next thing they know it’s twelve hours later and they’re walking out with a thousand-dollar credit card bill and one of the worst hangovers they’ve ever had. The fun weekend away in Vegas ends up being a very expensive vacation they’ll be paying off on their credit cards for a long time.

  Luckily, I’m not one of those chumps.

  I’m not even a gambler.

  I’m a recent MIT graduate with a Master’s degree in Statistics and one specific goal in mind. Get in, make money fast and get the hell out. People say it can’t be done. That the house can never be beat in Las Vegas.

  They’re wrong.

  What few people realize is that almost everything in this world is based on patterns or mathematical equations. Even something as seemingly random as a video slot machine really isn’t. Not if you understand the probabilities and have the patience to work them to your advantage.

  And these days patience is my new middle name.

  Judy “Patience” Miller.

  The cruel fact is I need money.

  After seven years of attending an out-of-state private college, I’ve accumulated thousands of dollars in college loans. Even more importantly, I have a younger brother who desperately needs expensive occupational therapy.

  My Mom’s crappy HMO insurance refuses to pay for it and the only alternative is for her to take out another high-interest loan that she can’t afford.

  I’m not breaking any laws here in Vegas and the worst thing that can happen is the casino might ask me to leave.

  I’m not worried.

  As long as I keep losing money and the slot machine isn’t paying off in an irregular pattern, my activities won’t catch their eye.

  On the off-chance anyone might be watching, they’ll see a near-sighted, geeky-looking girl with big, thick glasses wearing a baseball cap, t-shirt, faded jeans and sneakers. My normal outfit that allows me to go unnoticed no matter what I’m doing. And the last time I checked they can’t kick me out for not being stylish.

  I’ll be okay.

  For now.

  Reaching around with one hand, I massage the back of my sore neck to work out the inevitable migraine slowing building up there. I’ve been sitting on this stool for hours, slowly and methodically feeding the same boring slot machine.

  I can’t imagine why people do this for fun.

  What’s the point of sticking money into a machine when the odds are overwhelmingly with the house and not with the player?

  Except for this player.

  The fact that I was born with an almost photographic memory helps. Being able to remember every sequence popping up on the slot machine in front of me and cataloging it neatly inside my brain is easy.

  Not even a challenge really.

  The longer I play this specific machine and remember the sequences, the better chance I have of predicting when the machine will pay off. Almost like counting cards except it requires more time investment and doesn’t involve a partner. I’ve always been a loner, so this is a perfect short-term gig.

  For my stay here in Vegas, I’ve rented a room for two weeks in a cheap hotel several miles from the strip. A clean place to shower and sleep a few hours a day is all I need. The rest of my time will be spent in the casinos either watching and waiting or playing the slot machines.

  I take the waitress’s advice and stand for a second to stretch my cramped legs.

  A noisy group of intoxicated people making their way across the vast room catches my eye. They’re trailing behind a handsome guy with blonde hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He’s wearing tight, black leather pants and a long-sleeved, white shirt unbuttoned almost to his waist underneath a dark blue blazer. The gaping hole in his shirt leaves none of his muscled six-pack abs to the imagination. A large pair of designer reflective sunglasses covers his eyes.

  The sun never shines inside a casino and it’s after midnight. Why is this jerk wearing shades? I guess his future truly must be bright.

  His arms are thrown around the shoulders of two petite, blonde-hair girls with ridiculously large boob jobs and plumped-up, pouty lips. Both are wearing red leather mini-skirts so short that I can see clearly that one has lost her panties somewhere along the way. I would love to hear how that happened.

  Three more blonde bimbos are teetering close behind on three-inch-high stiletto heels. One reaches over and places a possessive hand on the guy’s back. Another girl throws her a jealous look and tucks her arm under his. A massive bodyguard in a dark suit is sticking close by the man’s side too, ready to step in and shoo any other women away.

  I’m torn between being disgusted and amused by their silly behavior. It’s hard to tear my eyes away. This is damn good entertainment. I wish I had the time to sit and watch the freaky sideshow play out.

  Who is this sleazy Hugh Hefner wannabe surrounded by an entourage of sexy blondes and security personnel? In my mind, I’m already making up stories to go along with them.

  Maybe he’s a rich playboy from an Eastern European country here to play cards in one of the private rooms with a minimum buy-in of a hundred thousand dollars? Or a Hollywood actor who keeps a house in LA and one in Vegas? Or maybe even a porn star hanging out with his cast after a long shoot?

  My imagination is running away with me. The cocktail waitress was right. Staring at the slot machine for too long is making me crazy.

  I sneak one last look to see the guy running a hand through a thick lock of blonde hair that has fallen across his face. He turns around to say something to his entourage behind him, causing the group to break out into obnoxious loud laughter.

  What an asshole.

  I turn my attention back to the slot machine. I hope they don’t come my way. Now that I’m finally gaining an instinctive feel for the machine it would suck to be disturbed and have my rhythm broken.

  It’s not something I can explain.

  The numbers.

  The mental calculations.

  The gut feeling when I know the game is beginning to make sense.

  I stopped many years ago try
ing to explain how math works in my head to other people. It only solidifies their opinion that I’m different and weird. When I was in elementary school, I once tried to explain to my teacher how I sometimes perceive numbers as colors and vice versa. The conversation ended in me being pulled out of class and put through three long days of psychological testing.

  I never made that mistake again. It’s always better if other people don’t know.

  In front of me, the slot machine spins an arrangement of cartoon fruit while I mentally review the previous outcomes in my brain. I’m so deeply engrossed in my calculations that I don’t notice the group walking behind me until it’s too late.

  I gasp in shock when an ice-cold liquid suddenly spills down my back of my neck and a body falls heavily against me, knocking me off my stool.

  “What the hell!” I yell in surprise.

  I land on the carpeted floor in a tangled heap with one of the big-breasted blondes in the red mini-skirt. Instead of trying to get off me, she dramatically holds up an expensive, black shoe for her friends to see.

  “I broke the heel of my shoe,” she cries. “And I spilled my damn drink.” She tilts her empty glass in the other hand toward me. “You owe me another Screaming Orgasm.”

  “A what?” I ask incredulously. “Are you insane? Get off me! I don’t owe you anything.”

  I push against her and try to wiggle out from under her drunken dead weight. It’s hopeless. She’s sprawled across my body, pinning me down to the dirty casino floor where the remaining contents of her drink is now pooling underneath my ass. The strong smell of her perfume engulfs me and intensifies my building migraine.

  “Oh sorry,” she says with a giggle then leans forward, close to my face. “Hey, are you into girls? You look like you might be. Either way you owe me another drink. Unless I can lick this one off you. I can go both ways.”

  To my horror she leans down and licks the back of my neck. She’s smashed and my concentration is shot to hell.

  “Stop it!” I say, pushing at her again.

  The sexy blonde jerk is standing there watching us with his arms crossed and his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

  Or are they green?

  The color is somewhere between the two and for a split-second I’m mesmerized. I wonder if his eyes change color when he switches shirts. Then I snap out of it and my palm itches to slap that silly shit-eating grin right off his pretty boy face.

  “She doesn’t seem interested in giving you another Screaming Orgasm,” he says drily to the girl smothering my face with her DD boobs. “I, on the other hand, am totally up for it, babe. Any time.”

  His baldheaded bodyguard laughs loudly and slaps his leg. I shoot him a dirty look. Is he paid to laugh at this guy’s lame jokes? It wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve figured out by now a Screaming Orgasm is the name of the creamy alcoholic drink I’m covered in.

  “I bet you would be up for giving me an orgasm,” the blonde girl replies to the guy with a flirty, coy smile.

  Or at least she’s trying to be coy.

  It doesn’t come off quite that way since one of her extra-long, false eyelashes came loose during the fall and is now hanging on to the edge of her eyelid. Every time she blinks it looks like a butterfly trying desperately to gain lift-off. She’s too drunk to notice.

  The guy motions to his bodyguard behind him. “Get the girls another drink, Leroy,” he orders. “Whatever they want. And call a cab for Shirley to take her back to her hotel. I believe she’s had enough fun for one night.”

  “It’s Shelley,” she whines, pursing her lips and pouting at him. “And I’m fine. I don’t want to go home yet. I’m ready to party. The fun has just started. We haven’t even gone clubbing yet. You promised to dance with me.”

  She braces her hands on my shoulders, digging her long nails into my skin and tries to push herself up. She fails, instead falling back down hard on her ass. Her mini-skirt slides up around her upper thighs, showing the whole room everything her Mama gave her.

  Two sets of male eyes go straight between her legs.

  Ugh! Men.

  I’m disgusted.

  I’ve had it with this group of idiots.

  The remnants of her drink is sliding down my back and slowly oozing between my butt cheeks. My shirt is wet and sticky. If I plan to keep going tonight, I’ll need to grab a change of clothes out of my car and hurry back. Unfortunately, it’s parked several blocks away in a creepy public parking lot. If someone else grabs this machine while I’m gone, I’ll have to start the sequencing all over again.

  Their foolishness has cost me an entire night’s worth of work. Which means an extra night at the hotel, food and gas. Money that I can’t afford to spend.

  “Forget the drink,” I say quickly. “Just get her off me. Please. I’m leaving.”

  “Sure, whatever you want,” the blonde guy says as if he’s just now seeing me crushed underneath the blonde. “Leroy, give Shelley a hand, would you? Don’t just stand there with your eyeballs bugging out. You’ve seen pussy before.”

  I notice Mr. Bigshot doesn’t offer to lend a hand to help anyone.

  Then he does.

  He reaches down a warm, tattooed hand and gently grabs mine before I have a chance to jerk it away. With one strong tug, he pulls me to my feet and straight against his chest. I’m off balance and grab onto his arm where I feel his surprisingly hard bicep underneath my fingertips. He looks down at me and our eyes meet for a split-second.

  “Sorry,” I say automatically when I see stains on his sleeve left by my drink-covered fingers. “I’ve ruined your shirt.”

  Why am I apologizing to him?

  He should be apologizing to me.

  He glances down at the stain and shrugs nonchalantly. “I have plenty more shirts where this one came from. Are you sure I can’t buy you a drink?”

  I drop his hand and take a step back. “I’m sure. I need to go. My clothes are wet and sticky.”

  Reaching down, I grab my backpack from the floor and give the slot machine one last glance. It infuriates me that I’ve been interrupted just when I was entering the zone. Without a backwards glance at the group, I make my way through the crowded casino and toward the entrance. When I walk away, I hear the blondes laughing.

  Most likely at me.

  By the time, I step outside, my brain is already focused again and running complicated mathematical calculations.

  I push the man with the bluish-green eyes completely out of my mind.

  With any luck, I’ll never run into him or his group again.

  2

  Sugar

  As usual, my sleep is restless and fitful. By the time the first ray of morning light streams through the blinds, I’ve given up on getting any shut eye. The fact that it’s only been three hours since I hit the bed doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

  The fast life in Vegas doesn’t leave much time for sleeping.

  I stretch leisurely and roll over. My hand lands on a soft, warm ass. Keeping my eyes closed against the sunlight, I cup the flesh under my palm and try to remember exactly who this delicious piece of flesh belongs to.

  No clue.

  Not that it matters.

  I don’t need to remember her name to know that she’s blonde and big breasted, with a lush backside and a fine set of long legs that look fucking fantastic in a pair of ridiculously high heels. Preferably black or red.

  All the girls I find sleeping in my bed are the same.

  I have a favorite type of girl and make no apologies. Life’s too damn short to screw around. Know what you want and go get it.

  Or in my case let one of my guys get it for me.

  They know my preferences well. When it comes to the point in my illusionist show where I ask for volunteers to assist me, all I need to do is look to one of three reserved seats in the front row. Night after night, my guys make sure those seats are filled with the most beautiful women in Las Vegas. Hand-picked to my specific tastes.

 
; For entertainment value, I always make a big show out of pretending to search the audience for the perfect person to pull up on stage. When all along the girls will always be pre-screened, pre-selected and perfect for me.

  And in town temporarily, which is the best fucking part.

  Either on vacation to Las Vegas for a girl’s weekend away or a business convention. They’re thrilled when my guys upgrade them to a better seat and are over-the-top ecstatic if I pull them up on stage.

  As far as I’m concerned, the situation couldn’t be any better.

  Las Vegas is heaven on earth for a single man.

  Long, hot nights of intense, drunken sex and a quick, yet firm push out the door of my hotel suite in the mornings. Within a day or two they’ll be flying back to wherever the hell they came from never to be heard from again.

  Well…that’s not exactly true.

  I always hear from them again.

  They just don’t hear from me. Eventually they get the point.

  It takes longer for some than others to ‘wake up and smell the coffee’ as my Dad likes to say. A few women might even refuse to believe our one night together was nothing more than a one-night stand. They’ll leave tearful phone messages through the hotel’s answering service about the intense emotional connection we shared.

  The connection part is true. It’s the emotional part they’re wrong about. I hate it when that happens. It truly breaks my fucking heart to be cruel.

  I usually hand it over to Leroy to make a believer out of them. I’ve never asked exactly what he tells the women or how he makes them go away. He’s effective, so who am I to question his methods?

  His job is to protect me, and he usually does it well. Especially in the rare occasion when a woman rises to crazy, obsessive stalker status. Then he’s forced to put out a security alert and ban them from the hotel completely.

  Luckily that’s rare.

  My fingers trail up and down the back of the thigh of the girl sleeping next to me. I hope she isn’t a stalker type. They’re such a pain to deal with and more than a little bit scary. I wonder if she might be up for a quickie before breakfast.