Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
We leave the testing facility into the bright late afternoon sun, the Strip buzzing around us, the chaotic energy of tourists and locals blurring together.
Hottie stretches his arms over his head, and a grin spreads across his face as he looks at me.
“Well, we’re both in the clear. Gotta say, Sparkle, knowing that is hot as fuck. ”
I laugh, shaking my head at him. There’s something about him that makes even getting tested for STDs kind of fun.
I’m not used to this, to laughing at life, even the shitty parts.
But he just rolls with it, no matter how ridiculous the circumstances.
And even though my head is still pounding, and I’d kill for a drink, having him here makes it all a little more bearable.
“You know.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Hanging out with you is almost not terrible.”
He lets out a mock gasp, placing a hand over his heart. “Almost not terrible? Damn, I must be doing something right.” He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out his phone. “Here, give me your number.”
“Why?” I ask warily, almost regretting my positive thoughts about him a second ago.
“How else will you text me for late-night booty calls?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and I can’t help but laugh.
Doing so frees something inside me just enough that I only hesitate for a second before taking his phone, typing in my information quickly, with the name Sparkle, of course, and handing it back to him.
He studies the screen after he takes it, but before I can ask him to text me his number, his phone pings.
His expression loses some of its light, his brows furrowing and shoulders slumping as he reads whatever text he received.
Hottie sighs as he looks at me, a mix of frustration and apology in his eyes.
“I’ve gotta go do something for my brothers. Should I drive you home first?”
I shake my head, waving him off with a casual smile that feels more forced than I’d like.
“Nah, it’s fine. I was actually thinking of grabbing a bubble tea and calling an Uber.
Might be nice to enjoy some time alone for a change.
” The lie rolls off my tongue easily enough, but inside, that lonely girl screams for him to stay, his sunlight to linger, even as hurt briefly flickers across his face at my easy dismissal.
Internally, I wave that off too. I can’t have him seeing how much I don’t want him to go.
Which is so fucking crazy.
What the hell is he doing to me?
His face shifts, that flash of disappointment disappearing. Then he smooths his expression and nods with a smile that is tighter than all the others he’s had today.
“Okay, baby.” He steps closer, cupping my cheek as he leans in. His lips brush mine gently, and I close my eyes, letting myself sink into it for a second. He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine for a beat. “See you soon,” he whispers, then steps away.
I watch him walk to his bike, disappearing into the crowd, and I let myself smile.
The street feels quieter once he’s gone, even with the chaos of Vegas swirling around me.
I linger there for a few seconds longer, watching the world move.
People laugh as they pass, their footsteps blending into the steady hum of the city.
Then I turn on my heel and head toward the small bubble tea shop down the street, weaving through the crowd as I go.
My mind buzzes with thoughts of him, replaying how his lips brushed mine, and his thumb traced the edge of my jaw.
Fuck, Nova, stop that shit.
The bubble tea shop is bright, and I order my usual and wait, tapping my fingers on the counter to the beat of some pop song playing over the speakers, smiling to myself at the thought of Hottie vibing to the Backstreet Boys on his bike right now.
By the time I’ve got the cup in my hand, the memory of his touch is starting to fade, but I work diligently to replace it with the familiar comfort of sugar and caffeine.
So damn good.
Stepping outside, I walk down the Strip and sip my bubble tea, savoring the burst of sweetness.
The cold drink helps soothe my headache, and I’m about to lose myself in the joy of tapioca pearls when my phone vibrates.
My heart does a traitorous flip when I think Hottie has already texted me, but opening the text from an unknown number makes me realize it’s not Hottie at all.
Unknown Number
Ready for your test today?
Levi?
No, but a friend of his.
Okay?
Thanks for giving out my number like candy, Levi.
I’m intrigued, so I type out a response one-handed while continuing to sip my tea.
Ominous. What do you want?
Where are you right now?
I look up and around. What does he want? An exact location? Nah.
What’s next? Want to know what I’m wearing?
You’re not as cute as you think you are.
I disagree wholeheartedly. Want a selfie?
I’m neither interested nor do I have time for your shit.
Where are you?
Wow. Asshole.
I answer anyway, keeping it vague.
The Strip. How about you answer one of my questions and tell me who’s asking, exactly?
Perfect. I’m gonna give you some tasks to see if you have what it takes.
I snort. What is this? A new season of MasterChef?
And who exactly are you to decide if I have ‘what it takes,’ Mr. Unknown?
Someone better than you at what they need you to do.
Humble much? If you’re so great, why don’t you do it yourself then?
Test one: Steal an Elvis impersonator’s sunglasses.
What in the world…
Really?
Really.
You have a weird shopping list, but sure. That’s all?
For now.
I slip my phone back into my pocket, scanning my surroundings. The Strip is packed as usual, and Elvis impersonators are as much a part of Vegas as the neon lights and endless noise. Finding one shouldn’t be too hard.
Finishing and disposing of my bubble tea, I mosey farther down the Strip, keeping my eyes peeled until I spot an Elvis impersonator posing for photos with tourists, his white jumpsuit sparkling like a beacon in the sunlight.
He’s got the whole look down from the slicked-back hair to the oversized, rhinestone-encrusted sunglasses.
I watch for a moment, assessing the situation. He’s busy, a group of giggling tourists huddled around him, snapping selfies.
Perfect.
Slipping closer, I blend into the crowd and wait for the right moment. He hands off his guitar to one of the tourists to hold, and that’s when I make my move.
“Can I have a picture, please?” I call out as I step forward, and he turns, flashing me a wide grin.
“Of course, darlin’,” he drawls, striking a pose. I step in close, and he slips an arm around my shoulders when I hold up my phone in front of us and snap a quick selfie.
“Thank you.” I smile, looking at the picture and making a face, tilting my head slightly.
“Oh no, your collar is a mess. Let me just…” He chuckles, leaning down toward me.
I reach up, appearing to adjust his collar, but instead, I gently nudge the arm of his sunglasses.
They slip off his head, falling to the ground.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” I say, dropping down to grab them.
He starts to bend down, too, but I’m faster. My fingers close around the sunglasses, and with a practiced flick of my wrist, I make them vanish into my bag before he even realizes what’s happened.
I straighten up, holding out my empty hand as if I’m still searching for them. “Did they fall under something?” I ask, glancing around, playing up the confusion.
He looks around, too, scratching his head, clearly puzzled. “Damn, must’ve rolled off somewhere,” he mutters, still looking. I take that as my cue to step away, and I melt back into the crowd easily.
Weaving through the tourists, my heart is pounding as I put distance between us. Once I’m far enough away, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the sunglasses in my hand, sending it to the unknown number.
Way too easy.
Just a moment later, my phone vibrates.
Agreed. Ready for the next one?
What now? Want me to steal a child’s candy?
What’s the use of this anyway? The twins know I have sticky fingers.
Let’s see if you’ve got the tricks to outplay the players.
Find the guy on Fremont Street running a Three-Card Monte game. I want the ace of hearts from his deck.
When I read which card he wants me to steal, I swallow hard and take some deep breaths.
I can do this. It’s only a card.
Piece of cake.
Less talk, more action.
I’m already halfway there, and when I get to Fremont Street, it’s alive with its own kind of energy—vibrant colors, live music, and the hum of people looking for trouble or a good time.
It doesn’t take me long to spot the Three-Card Monte table.
The con artist, a tall guy with slicked-back hair and a sly grin, is shuffling the cards expertly, his hands a blur as he moves the queen around.
I watch from a distance, taking in his rhythm. He’s good, but I’ve seen better. He’s got a small crowd gathered, tourists eager to try their luck, and I can already tell he’s fleecing them without breaking a sweat. Edging toward the outskirts of the group, I keep my eyes on his hands.
The Three-Card Monte is one of the oldest scams in the book.
It’s a classic street hustle where the dealer shuffles three cards—two black, one red—making you bet on finding the queen.
It looks simple, but that’s the point. A game like this isn’t built on sleight of hand alone, though his fingers are quick. It’s built on psychological pressure.
The setup is almost as old as the trick itself.
The operator works with a team, even if you don’t see them, bystanders who appear as random players, hyping up the game, pretending to win.
It’s all about planting the seed, building your confidence, making you think you can win.
Every toss at the start? It’s straight. The queen lands exactly where you think it is.
You watch them win over and over, and FOMO kicks in hard.