Page 81 of Scattered Glitter

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 heslips 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.

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