3. Alina
3
Alina
Two months later
Emergencies only.
That’s what I told Markus when I gave him my new phone number last week. And then I’d reiterated that I was being serious that he call me only if he had no other option. The night I’d fled the casino and Enzo had been a turning point for me. No more bad boys. And that included my brother. I love him. He’s the only family I have left. But I can’t let him bring his bad decisions into my life.
It’s halfway through my shift when I feel my phone buzz in my apron pocket. It’s an old phone, no screen, no call display, but I know it’s Markus since he’s the only one who has the number. I’d changed it the morning after Enzo hit me.
I quickly drop off a trayful of drinks at a table full of middle-aged businessmen, leering at me as if they fully believe I’ll be the next one on stage, swinging around the pole with my tits and ass fully on display.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it—for half a second, anyway. Money’s lean right now. I’d make a lot more of it working on the Strip, but this place, despite the scumbag clientele I’ve experienced since I started here, feels safer.
And I’m all about safety these days.
I’d originally taken the job waitressing at the Emerald—an off-Strip gentlemen’s club—because I thought Enzo was less likely to find me here. But since the night he hit me, I haven’t seen Enzo or a single face I recognize from my time with him, which I consider a very good thing. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I never want to see him again. Turns out that I might not need to worry. Enzo’s disappeared. The night I’d taken off after he hit me was the last I’ve seen of him. Once I’d made it back to my tiny apartment, I’d double locked my door and hidden out for a week, but he never came after me. I still haven’t heard from him. No call, no text, no explanation.
Gut instinct is telling me he’s dead, that someone put a bullet in his head. Or worse.
Still, I’m lying low. He took me places—clubs, restaurants, a couple of parties. People saw us together. I’m connected to Enzo, which means I could be in danger. What if one of his associates thinks I know something valuable? I could swear I’ve felt someone watching me when I leave the club at night, but no matter how often I look around, I never see anyone. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe not. I would have left Vegas— should have left Vegas—but I don’t have any money, and no family to fall back on. Just Markus.
And here we are.
By the time I lose the tray and grab the phone, it’s stopped buzzing. At least, for all of five seconds before it starts again.
“I can’t talk,” is the first thing I say when I hold it to my ear.
“Hey, Sis,” Markus says. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
I wish I could say the same. “I’m at work.”
“I know. But I need you to do something for me.”
I groan. “Markus, I said only emergencies—”
“This is an emergency,” he cuts me off. “A big fucking emergency.”
I finally hear the strain in his voice. It’s usually covered really well by the bravado and easy confidence he slathers on like butter. Markus doesn’t like to look weak to anyone. And he doesn’t like to ask for help.
Unless it’s a big fucking emergency.
Shit.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
He lets out a sigh then, a shaky, wavery sound that only ramps up my anxiety and concern.
“Go to my place. There’s a spare key hidden in the cracked flowerpot to the left of the door. Under my bed is a black duffle bag. I need you to bring it to me.”
“Should I ask why you can’t go get it yourself?” I ask, voice tight.
“I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“Markus, what the fuck is going on?”
“Just…just do it. Please, Sis. Just do this one thing for me without a fuckton of questions, all right? Do this and I promise this is the last time I’ll ask you for a favor like this.”
I don’t believe him. I’ve learned the hard way never to trust a drug addict with a gambling problem. I’d trusted him in high school when he told me he could double the money I’d saved from my part-time job flipping burgers. I never saw a penny of that money again. I’d trusted him my first year in college when he begged me to get him out of the hole he’d dug for himself. I’d given him what I could afford, and some I couldn’t. He’d promised he’d pay me back, and he had…two years later. I’d had to take the graveyard shift at a gas bar to afford to eat for the rest of that semester. I’d trusted him when we each got a tiny inheritance after Mom and Dad died and he begged to borrow mine to pay off his debts, swore he’d pay me back every penny. He’d started out strong, sending money every month. Until he didn’t. I’m still waiting for the rest.
“What casino are you at and how much do you owe?” I ask grudgingly.
“How the hell do you know I’m at a casino?”
I roll my eyes. “Let’s call it a lucky guess.”
He lets out another shuddery breath. “Like I said, this is the last time.”
“Sure.” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but it’s a gift-with-purchase when it comes to being an audience member for a lifetime of Markus’s issues. “Where are you?”
“Are you going to bring me the bag?” he presses.
“What happens if I say no? Got someone else to call in town that you trust?”
“Do you?” he asks softly.
My jaw tightens. “I asked first.”
There’s a grudging silence. We both know the answer to that. Neither one of us has anyone else in the world who gives a single shit about us. Anyone we can trust with our darkest secrets. It’s a sad realization, but that doesn’t make it any less true.
I wait. It doesn’t take long before Markus tells me where he is.
I wave at Susan—the closest thing I have to a friend in Vegas—and gesture to let her know I’m leaving. She nods, mouths call me later and blows me a kiss, then points toward the boss’s office, but I shake my head.
No sense trying to give some lame excuse to my boss about why I’m leaving early. He’ll tell me I have to stay. So I just leave, knowing I’ll have to find another dive to work at tomorrow.
It’s okay, there are plenty of them in Vegas.