Chapter 1 #2
Repeating the same process, I make it to the first floor. It’s easier this time and soon, I’m dropping to the ground.
Sneaking into the bushes that line the building, I wait, letting the cameras sweep back my way.
Softly, I count, timing it out until the cameras swing away again, before I dart out of the bushes and into the street.
The air whooshes from my lungs as adrenaline fills my limbs.
I’m free.
For the first time in my entire life, I’m the master of my own destiny.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is only step one.
Step two is to actually acquire enough money so I can get somewhere that no one will find me.
Not my father. Not my brother. And not my sister’s new family.
The Smith brothers can all go to the devil. And Ryker in particular, is a man I don’t want to know. I met him once and he made me feel…uncomfortable.
The thought steels my spine, though I know the next part is much harder than the first as I couldn’t do much to prepare.
I step out from the side street and onto the strip.
Lights flash, people laughing as they crowd the sidewalks, raising giant cocktails to one another. It’s jarring and I shrink away.
I can feel that I don’t match their energy, that I’m going to stand out because of it.
I’ve never been good at putting on a face. Katarina can smile and laugh with a knife at her back, but I can’t pretend like that.
I stop at the fountains at the Bellagio as they begin their hourly show, the spray from the water misting my skin. I could go inside, but a place of that quality will have security of the highest caliber.
Knowing that I’m giving off vibes of desperation, I keep walking toward old Vegas, where I’ll fit in far better.
The strip is one giant party. Old Vegas is for hard-timers. People who want their drinks without umbrellas and their dinners two-for-one.
But I’m going there because the security is also a lot laxer. They are not places for high rollers.
I move past the bachelorette parties and frat gatherings and keep making my way toward Fremont Street.
It’s a further walk than I thought and I can feel the sweat dripping down my back, even in the cooler night air.
My feet already ache and my makeup is starting to run.
That’s when the Palace comes into view.
Removed from the rest of the new casinos, it’s got a different vibe from the new Las Vegas Strip.
For a few seconds, I just stand there, indecision making me rock as I nip at my lip.
Drawing in a breath, I make my choice and cross the street, entering the massive lobby.
It’s easy enough to find the casino floor. Cashing in my money, I take my pile of chips and search for a table.
I’ve decided that five-card draw will be my game. I’ve been thinking about what sort of dealer I should choose, and I’ve decided on an older man. Women are shrewd, and older men are frequently protective rather than suspicious of young ladies.
Counting cards is a delicate art, believe it or not. You have to figure out where the deck is at, start keeping track of the cards that have been played, find the rhythm before the deck turns over and gets washed.
You also have to have enough money to buy your way through the learning, without arousing suspicion.
I’ve played poker with my guards since I was a small child, and my memory for tracking cards is flawless.
But the nuance of reading the dealer and keeping the proper temperament, I trust myself way less.
I’ll have to do my best. I choose a dealer who is younger than I hoped, but he’s washing a fresh deck. With no automatic shuffler, my job is much easier since there will only be one deck to count.
After watching as many hands as I think I can get away with, I take a seat, doing my best to not look scared out of my mind.
Which isn’t really a stretch. But I’m going for innocent-worried rather than guilty-as-hell and frightened-out-of-my-wits.
He deals a single card to each player to determine who has first betting rights and when I’m dealt a king, I know I’m off to a good start.
It doesn’t take me long before I win, knowing that the likelihood of the dealer getting the ace he’d need was nearly impossible.
And then I win again. And again.
The dealer goes from smiling to suspicious over the course of four hands, which is my cue to stop.
Collecting up my winnings, I pick a new table.
I’ll do one more table, cash in my chips, and move on to another casino.
I pick my mark, watching several hands before I take a seat.
I blow out a breath, the dealer is giving me a weird look. Should I have already left the Palace after one table? Looking around, I swear one of the security guards is eyeing me.
I feel my anxiety rising, a problem I’ve struggled with my entire life. Rolling my shoulders, I clasp my hands under the table and then I start tapping my fingers into my palm, and then against my legs.
It’s an exercise one of the nannies taught me to control my fear and calm my nerves, but it’s not working here.
What’s more, I watch one of the guards speak into walkie talkie as he looks at me, his gaze taking in my fingers tapping on my legs.
I blink my eyes, and clench my hands into fists, losing focus on the hand and the cards at play.
Still, somehow, I win the hand and then another. I know I need to leave soon, but I’ve just gotten a handle on this deck and for the work I’ve put in, I’d like a few more winning hands.
But that was a mistake. I win one more, determined to make the next hand my last at this table, and this casino, when I get a tap on the shoulder.
This is completely different than the tapping I’m unconsciously doing on my knee.
I turn to see a very stern-looking security guard glaring down at me. “Come with me, miss.”
My mouth opens and then closes as I do a quick calculation of the chips in front of me. I’ve barely been here an hour, and I’ve already made over fifty grand.
It’s a lot, but is it really enough to get me in trouble? I start to gather up my chips, but the guard’s hand comes to my shoulder. “Leave them,” he rumbles gruffly.
“But I won them,” I cry, ignoring the shifting of the other gamblers even as the dealer pulls out a fresh deck. “They’re mine.”
Another guard joins the first, his hand coming to my other shoulder. Cold fear trickles down my spine. “Bag them up,” he says to the dealer. “Mister Smith can decide if she gets to keep them or not.”
My muscles turn to jelly. “Mister Smith?”
“That’s right, girlie. Ryker Smith wants to see you.” And then he yanks me up by my upper arm.
My legs don’t work, and I start to go down before the other guard grabs my other side and the two of them start dragging me across the casino floor.
If my brain could function, I’d ask myself how I managed to be in one of my sister’s fiancé’s casinos.
Then again, I should have known. In Vegas, the Smiths are real-estate gods—and criminals besides.
They are above the law, which means that Ryker Smith can do with his thieving little sister-in-law whatever he wishes.
What will he choose? I’m about to find out.