Forever is the Sweetest Con

Chapter One

While I might be considered a liar, a scammer, a woman of questionable morals, one thing I’m not is lazy.

Which is why, at the bar where my dreams die a slow death, every bottle in the beer fridge stands at attention in an orderly row, every glass is streak-free, and every bill in the till is stacked president-side up.

I do what I can, even though it’s never enough.

The Last Chance Bar and Casino, so far from the glitz of the Strip that it can barely be considered Las Vegas, is depressing at the best of times, but on a slow Saturday night, it’s downright demoralizing.

Without bodies filling the space, you can’t help but notice the fraying seat cushions, the crack in the mirror behind the bar, and the way half the letters in the Coors Light sign have burned out, spelling “Cool it.”

I shudder, fighting to keep the imagery out of my head. “I’d rather remove my own toenails with a butter knife, if that’s an option.”

One of the Farm Boys swivels his head toward me. He picks up his nearly empty beer bottle by the neck and wiggles it, lifting his chin.

“Go work your magic,” Cori says, a wink in his voice.

I plaster on a smile as I saunter over with my tray.

“Another round, fellas?” I ask, clearing their empties.

For once, I wish they would order complicated cocktails, something to kill some time, but it’s just two more bottles of beer.

One of them hands me a crumpled twenty. I slip it into the pocket of my apron and lean toward him.

I squeeze his meaty bicep, my fingers sinking into his flesh.

“You didn’t need change for that, did you, babe?

” He pauses for a second, looking first at my hand on his arm, then at my face.

It’s more than he’d regularly tip, but he won’t want to lose face in front of his buddies.

He shakes his head, and I split before he can change his mind.

“Have you no shame?” Cori says as I approach the bar.

“None,” I say, stuffing the bills into my bra.

“How about this: Fuck, Marry, Kill—Customer Edition,” he says, running his tongue against the edge of his teeth.

“Have I not suffered enough?” I moan, swatting his arm.

The doorbell chimes and a pack of guys, red-faced and glassy-eyed, lurch through the doors. They’re in various states of disarray—sweaty hair, untucked shirts, ties pulled loose. A bachelor party, if I had to guess.

“I’ll let you take this one,” Cori says, grimacing. “I don’t feel like getting hate-crimed tonight.”

The bachelors crowd the bar, talking loudly over one another. Do I love large groups of extremely drunk men intent on out-bro-ing one another at every turn? No, but I know an opportunity when I see one. And this is like shooting fish in a barrel.

I’ve never liked that saying, always found it too visceral, but it’s all I can think of as this pack of Frat Bros, with their glassy eyes and cheap suits, crowds the bar in front me.

If there’s anything the shitshow of the last three months has taught me, it’s that you have to look out for number one at all times, and number one needs to dig herself out of the hole she finds herself in, by any means necessary.

It’s not that I like ripping off my customers, but sometimes it’s just too easy.

Bang! That ten-dollar bill you’re owed is actually a one. Too bad you’re too cross-eyed to notice.

Pop! There’s no G in your G&T. Consider it a public service.

Crack! If you’re too lit to question why you didn’t get any change, then that’s on you.

And not to make excuses for my questionable behaviour, but when you come to a place like this, what do you expect?

“Drinks are expensive here, huh?”

Somehow, in the scrum of drunk bros in bad suits, I failed to notice this guy, a certified weapon. He has a jawline that could cut glass. Golden skin and full lips. Dark brown eyes, perfectly framed by thick eyebrows. Thick chestnut waves, slicked back—

Oh wait. It’s not slicked back. It’s pulled back. In a ponytail.

And just like that, I’ve got the Ick.

It’s not that he’s not good-looking—he looks like he’s straight from central casting for the next major romcom—but long hair on guys is an immediate deal breaker for me.

Which is good, because otherwise I might be intimidated by this almost hot stranger insinuating—correctly—that I’m ripping off his friends.

“Expensive?” I say, tilting my head like a terrier.

One side of his mouth lifts slightly, like he’s trying to hold back a smile. “My friends didn’t get any change.”

I feel a little flush, an unfamiliar sensation reserved for when I’m attracted to someone, which, due to the tuft of hair gathered at the back of this guy’s neck, is definitely not the case.

“How odd,” I say, holding his gaze.

He squints a little, as if he’s trying to figure me out. But I just stand there, smiling sweetly, silently imploring him to be cool, to not call me out. That explains the flush—just nerves that I’d been caught.

“How about,” I say slowly, leaning closer, close enough that I can see the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, close enough that he’s got a great view of my cleavage, “your drink is on me, and we won’t worry about your friends’ change?”

For a moment, he doesn’t react, and I’m convinced he’s going to ask for the manager. But then he shakes his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”

Takes a hustler to know a hustler. “Understood,” I say, tapping my lip like I’m thinking. “How about all of your drinks, all night long, are on me?”

He nods. “Now you’re talking.”

There’s a little flutter in my stomach. He might have bad judgement when it comes to hairstyles, but I respect his game. I feel his eyes on me as I mix his rye and ginger. My fingers graze his as I hand it to him.

“I lied to you earlier,” he says, his voice low and conspiratorial.

“Excuse me?” I heard him, but I’m distracted by his brown eyes, which are so dark and deep, flecked with amber and gold around his irises.

“Those guys aren’t my friends. I barely know them.”

I open my mouth to ask him about it, but he’s already sliding off the bar stool. He raises his glass to me, tilting his chin, and retreats to the table of his not friends.

Cori sidles up beside me. “Hot,” he proclaims, his eyes following the long-haired guy.

I shake my head. “Not for me.” I hold my breath as I wipe up the spilled shots of tequila the bros left behind. I bet hell smells better than Jose Cuervo.

“I’ll take him then.”

“You’ll take who?” Lucinda has appeared out of nowhere, as she tends to do.

“I’ll take those bottles off that table right away,” Cori says with forced enthusiasm.

Lucinda raises an eyebrow. “Cleo, take your break. Then Cori, you can go.”

Cori pouts for my sake, but I can tell he’s secretly thrilled. And I can’t blame him. This is a side hustle for him. He only took the bar job to build his nest egg, with the eventual goal of being a freelance makeup artist. He doesn’t complain, but he must be exhausted.

The break room smells of stale cigarettes and rancid beer.

Against one wall, there is a metal folding chair and a card table with an over-flowing ashtray.

I sink into the chair and kick off my ugly, heavy-soled shoes.

They’re stiff with newness, and maybe a half-size too small, but they were on sale for seventeen dollars, which makes them perfect.

If this job has one singular perk, aside from Cori, it’s the free wifi.

I connect and open my socials, but I regret it immediately.

Social media is a minefield. I clench my teeth as I scroll past the images of my old friends showing off their new outfits and workouts and beauty routines.

I have none of those things. And what do I have?

An ex that ghosted me and left me for broke, an ever-growing stack of unpaid bills, and no plans or hopes for the future.

But none of those things look good on the grid. Maybe my inbox will be less depressing.

Or maybe not.

Sales for stuff I can’t afford—delete. The monthly newsletter from the UNLV School of Theater, Film and Television, which for some reason, I’m still subscribed to—delete. Notifications from Backstage for auditions I can’t attend—delete. Remnants of a life I used to know—delete.

The only message addressed directly to me is from Michael Kateb at the First Union Bank, the scammer who has been hounding me for the last three months, who has somehow found my email address in addition to my phone number.

My loan payments are late, they’re going to confiscate my assets, blah blah blah. Delete!

Who falls for this shit? It’s so sloppy. I don’t have a loan or any assets. But their commitment to the grift is admirable, I’ll give them that.

I’m jolted back to reality by the sound of the Frat Bros ringing out in a raucous chorus of “BAHMP BAHMP BAHHHHM” to the Neil Diamond song playing on the jukebox in the corner.

I’ve been scrolling for fifteen minutes—time goes so fast when you’re having an existential crisis.

I throw my shoulders back and enter into the fray.

Cori, who has already changed into his civilian clothes, gives me a peck on the cheek and hightails it out of there, like he’s afraid Lucinda will change her mind.

I’m wringing out my bar mop when I notice I have a new customer at the end of the bar.

He has a swoop of thick, white hair, and his beard, equally white, is neatly trimmed.

He’s wearing a dark blue suit, perfectly cut to frame his broad shoulders.

His white shirt is impossibly crisp, and is open one button too many.

A Silver Fox. A dime a dozen on the Strip, but a rare species around these parts. Known to be big spenders. My favourite.

I stretch my face into my sparkliest smile as I approach him. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll take your finest whisky, on the rocks,” he says, his voice low and lilting, with an accent that brings to mind green rolling hills.