Page 4 of Betting Her Curves

But things went kaput almost immediately. Instead of a dedicated dance space like they’d promised, we had to commute to a puny rehearsal studio downtown that hardly had enough room for all of us at the barre. Even crazier, management didn’t have a rehearsal schedule set up. Instead, we were getting together to do warm-ups to stay in shape, as opposed to working deliberately towards a specific routine. But the shit really hit the fan when management didn’t make our first payroll. That’s right. Thirty dancers showed up in Vegas, excited to join a new troupe, only to find out that the money wasn’t there.

Predictably, everything went to hell in a handbasket. How were we going to afford rent? Food? Medicine? How were we going to pay for PT and routine check-ups when there was no health insurance? Immediately, the girls began looking for other jobs. A couple became costume designers, while two ladies left to try and get their old positions back. Marlene signed up to work for Delta Airlines, but that still left a bunch of us grasping at straws.

That’s when Club Duality set in. It’s a new gentleman’s club in Vegas where billionaires do whatever they want. My understanding is they operate in a secret location, and that all sorts of debauchery goes on. Drugs, gambling, and drink are par for the course, but allegedly, their biggest vice is girls. Ladies from all over the world are auctioned to the highest bidder at Club Duality, and it’s not as bad as it sounds, from what the other girls tell me. After all, the club isn’t some humdrum strip joint with flickering neon lights. Instead, it’s luxe, exclusive, and very hush-hush, with membership offered only to the most handsome, eligible billionaires. Yes, I said billionaires. Rumor is that you have to prove ten-figure net worth to join, and that the minimum reserve at auction is a cool million. It’s crazy luxe and over the top.

But the club worked out for some of the ballerinas because they met wealthy and generous benefactors while performing at Duality. In fact, my friend Haley is now expecting twin boys as a result of a long-term arrangement. She was sold to a domineering alpha male at auction who paid for her live with him at his mansion, but then the unexpected happened: Haley also met his stepson, and began a menage with both stepfather and stepson. I know, it sounds so fucked up, right? But it works for Haley and her boyfriends, and all three are over the moon about the babies to come.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t perform at Club Duality because I have a bum ankle. Ballet is rife with injuries, and unfortunately, I’ve had nagging ankle pain since like forever. Years of PT, rehab, icing, heat, and stretching sometimes take the edge off, but rehearsing in that tiny space downtown was asking for it. I hit my ankle against the mirror one day because we simply didn’t have enough space, and the injury throbbed back to life. An MRI (which I couldn’t afford) showed a hairline fracture, and mydoctor ordered me to stay off it for six months. Walking is okay, but there’d be no ballet, no dance, and definitely no goingen pointe. As a result, I couldn’t partake in the billionaire auctions because the club wants the girls to dance in order to show off our lithe, flexible bodies. Ha! At this point, I’m practically limping around like an old lady.

But I’ve always been resourceful, and I took matters into my own hands. Bored one day, I wandered into one of the casinos off the Strip. They’re fun, actually, because they may not have the glitz and glamor of the Bellagio or the Palms, but there are a lot of solid card games and some real money to be had. I saw a bunch of drunk frat boys at a table, and like a woman in a trance, I sat down. Sure enough, I took those boys for everything in their wallets and walked out with five hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket.

That was the beginning. I graduated from the low ante tables to middling ones with geezers who were gambling their social security money away. Drunk frat boys became sober frat boys, which became gainfully employed corporate drones. Slowly, I moved up, refining my technique while honing my game. My presentation became more seductive too because high-ante games don’t exactly take place under fluorescent lights with country music twanging in the background. Instead, they’re exclusive, invitation-only events in private backrooms with top shelf alcohol on free flow. The men are clad in tuxes, while select women swan about in evening gowns cut down to there and up to there. But I don’t care about the clothes or the setting. All I care about are the chips on the table because there’s money to be made, and I need that cash to survive.

But I’m not playing today. I’m merely surveilling the Degas because there’s going to be a tournament here later in the week,and I want to get my bearings. Of course, I’ve been in the hotel before, but only at the public tables. The high-stakes poker I’ll be engaging in later this week is in one of the private rooms, and I’ve made it my mission to steal to the back and surveil the space even if it’s not open at the moment.

I look down and go over my outfit. Perfect. I’m dressed in a silky white blouse and a slim pencil skirt, with pantyhose and black high heels. A ladylike purse completes the outfit, and I’ve also put on some expensive earrings and my best gold necklace. The Degas is an upscale place, and it’s of utmost important to blend in, seeing that I’m basically casing the joint. I pat my gleaming blonde hair and take a deep breath before putting a smile on my face. Then, I stride towards the entrance with a bouncy step, and sure enough, a doorman immediately opens the double glass doors.

“Mademoiselle,” he greets while bowing slightly. “Bienvenueà l'Hôtel Degas.”

“Bonjour,” I lilt back with a smile. “Merci.”

That’s about the extent of my French but it’s enough because I know the doorman doesn’t care about what language I’m speaking. What he and all men care about are my elegantly sheathed curves; my long legs; and the plush pout of my pink lips. Oh, and the fact that I don’t look like a criminal one bit.

“Bonjour,” I greet various staff as I stroll to the elevator bank. They smile in return because I appear as a beautiful, innocent young woman likely joining her man for an afternoon date at one of the elegant restaurants in the hotel. But then, I see him. There’s an elegantly appointed man is standing next to reception with one black brow raised in an amused arch. He seems toknow what I’m up to despite the fact that I’ve done nothing to give myself away.

I turn my face, suddenly flustered. Is my plan already blown?

Stay calm, Ashley, the voice in my head whispers.He’s no one. Just a random stranger. Don’t lose your cool.

Reassured, I begin walking again without a backwards glance at the gorgeous alpha male. But I can feel him watching me. I can feel those crystal blue eyes sear my curves, and my insides go hot and wet in response.

Stay calm, the voice warns again.This is no time to lose your shit. There’s too much at stake.

Taking a deep breath, I resolve to continue on my path. Smiling sunnily, I step towards Le Café Fleur like it’s my final destination, but instead of entering the cute bistro, I swerve left at the last minute as if I’ve decided to go to the powder room. My blonde hair swishes as I disappear into a long, narrow hallway, and that’s when the intrigue begins.

Walking fast but not too fast, I make my way down the hall before pushing on an emergency exit door. As expected, the air stays silent because a lot of hotels don’t actually alarm the first floor exits. There’s too much traffic to have alarms going off every hour of every day, and it would disturb the folks gambling away their life savings in the casino.

Then, I make my way into the deserted hallway and steal down the narrow corridor. This is definitely reserved for staff only because there are no adornments. Fluorescent lights glare against bare cement walls, and to my dismay, there’s a security camera at the approaching door, the black half-dome ominous and silent. Oh shit, what do I do?

But confidence can work wonders. I lift my chin and smile brightly, like I have every reason to be here. My hair bounces as my shoulders straighten, and with a smile, I stride with sure steps past the camera before pushing on the next door and exiting the corridor. Whew! That was a nerve-wracking experience, and who knows how many more security cameras I’m going to face? But determination puts a spring in my step because I’m going to take them one by one. Surely, no one will call the cops on a lone blonde walking through the service corridors of the hotel?

Smiling like Miss America, I make my way into another maze of hallways, which again, are bare and unadorned. They’re almost eerie because they’re so silent, but it’s fine. According to blueprints I reviewed at the assessor’s office, I’m just about at my destination because the high roller rooms are right next to the auxiliary kitchen, the better which to dispense food and drink. It makes sense. Rich men don’t want to wait to be served; they want their appetites to be taken care ofnow.

Finally, I open a door leading to a small space with a heavy kitchen table in the middle and cabinets which look full of dish ware. To the right is said auxiliary kitchen, and to the left is another doorway. Ah ha, I must be in the butler’s pantry, which is a room that a server uses to make final touches to the food and drink before it’s presented. Perfect.

Gently, I pull open the door to the high rollers room, and there it is. It’s a luxe space which is large, but not over-sized. It’s double height with a second-floor gallery on top, where men go to relax when the game’s not on. A huge chandelier hangs from the ceiling, throwing sparkles in the dim gloom. Luxe carpeting covers the floor, and of course, in the center is a table with a flocked red surface surrounded by high-top chairs. But I knowthese aren’t regular chairs. These are special ergonomic chairs designed to look as if they’re made of wood, but in fact they’re constructed from a special synthetic material to provide the utmost back support and leg relief. After all, the casino wants to make money, and keeping a billionaire at the table for as long as humanly possible ensures that the dough keeps rolling in.

Quickly, I steal into the room, my heels soundless on the plush carpeting. A smile comes over my face as I pull a laser measuring tool from my bag and begin taking the dimensions of the space. Most laser measurers look like a walkie-talkie, but this is a special one that’s about the size of a large pen. It’s handy and compact, and I nod with satisfaction as a red beam shoots out from the end to stop on the other side of the room. Perfect. The space is sixty-one and a half feet on this side, give or take a bit. The pointers are accurate to about an eighth of an inch, so I’m in good hands, although I’ll have to circle a bit to get multiple measurements, seeing that the space is a bit oddly shaped.

But there’s a reason for my detailed analysis, and it’s because I like to get the lay of the land before sitting down for a serious game of cards. In poker, spatial awareness matters more than you think, and even something as innocuous as a mirror, or a particularly bright light, can throw a player off his game. For me, it’s of the utmost important to get familiarized with my surroundings before the game starts. Like a golfer, I always try to know the terrain, and to understand the topography of where I’ll be before actually placing any bets. It’s a comfort thing, and as a professional, there’s real money on the table. Losing isn’t an option.

Quickly, I move about the room, taking multiple measurements while logging them into my phone. A particularly sparkly crystal chandelier located above a mini-bar catches my eye, and I frown.Again, unwanted light can get in a player’s eye during the game, and distract him or her from the intensity of the situation. Hmm. Not great.

The chandelier isn’t too far up and I reach up to ping one of the crystals with a finger. To my surprise, it drops from its setting and rolls onto the ground.

“Oh shit!” I exclaim in a hushed whisper before getting to my knees to pick it up. But then, another sparkly gem drops onto my head before falling to the floor, and then another. What is going on? Is it raining crystals?

I look up with confusion and see that one of the wire chandelier’s arms has come loose, and as a result, the gems are literally slipping off the iron rod. Another crystal comes plinking down as I kneel on the carpeted floor, hitting me on the cheek this time, and I blink as it rolls on the ground, brilliant with internal fire.

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