Page 2 of Russian Roulette
She raises her eyebrows at me while balancing an empty tray on her hip. Her vintage black flapper dress is tight, short, and low-cut. Long sequined gloves, strands of white pearls and a silver headband complete her outfit. She could easily pass for a cigarette girl in a forbidden 1920s speakeasy.
“Okay,” she says, giving me another bright smile. “I’ll swing by in another hour to check back. It helps to take a break occasionally when you’re playing the slots. It’s not healthy to sit in front of the machines for hours straight.” She leans down closer to my ear and drops her voice to a whisper. “It can make a person crazy. I’ve watched it happen plenty of times to other gamblers.”
“I’ll take a break soon,” I assure her. She walks away without another word. I wait until she’s gone before pulling out my cellphone. After checking the time, I place it beside the slot machine. It’s after midnight and I’m exhausted.
In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve been kidnapped by the Russian mob, shot at, almost drowned, and then drove my old car from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. My arms are sore from the long swim and covered in bruises where the thugs roughly manhandled me.
But I’m alive, and that’s all that matters. Plus, now I have a name and a description to go on.
Natasha.
A tall, blonde, Ukrainian girl who stole from Dimitri, a prominent figure in the Russian mafia. She has something they want and if my suspicions are correct; she has something I’d love to get my hands on, too.
Unfortunately, my skills are hacking and coding, not speaking Russian. I could only comprehend basic words and phrases the mobsters shouted on the boat. Coupled with what I translated from their hacked communications, it’s enough to give me a head start. If Natasha is in Vegas, I’ll find her.
First, I’ll warn her they’re coming, then try to persuade her to link up our talents. Meanwhile, I’ll visit casinos and play slots to earn some extra cash. I’m no ordinary gambler because I know precisely what I’m doing. People claim the house can never be beaten in Vegas.
They’re wrong.
I’m not breaking any laws, and the worst-case scenario is the casino asking me to leave. As long as the slot machine payouts remain normal, I won’t draw attention.
Should anyone be observing, they’ll see a nearsighted, geeky girl in a baseball cap, T-shirt, faded jeans, and sneakers. My usual outfit that allows me to go unnoticed no matter what I’m doing. They can’t kick me out for lacking style.
I reach around and rub my sore neck, trying to alleviate the impending migraine. Exhausted, I heed the waitress’s advice and stand to stretch my legs.
The Imperial Casino buzzes with activity, filled with the sounds of slot machines, clinking coins, and loud conversations. The floor is packed with tourists eager to experience the excitement of Sin City.
Gaming tables draw excited crowds, who cheer on the roll of the dice or huddle around roulette wheels in anticipation of their lucky number. Sophisticated card players fill the blackjack and poker tables, while the high rollers seclude themselves in private rooms.
A man weaving his way across the crowded floor catches my eye. My gaze lingers on him as he comes into focus, his sandy-blonde hair neatly trimmed and a short beard framing his chiseled jaw. His dark blue blazer contrasts with his tight black pants and unbuttoned white shirt that reveals a hint of muscular chest.
The man is pure sizzling sex on a stick.
I’m mesmerized by his striking appearance and the way he moves with effortless grace across the room. Suddenly, he turns his head as if he’s pulled by an invisible force and glances in my direction. I feel a jolt of panic as our eyes meet, but I can’t look away. For a moment, time stands still as we hold each other’s gaze.
Oh crap! Why did I make eye contact with him?
When you’re trying to be inconspicuous, the last thing you want to do is make direct eye contact with anyone. Hastily, I lower my eyes and feign interest in the slot machine before me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch until he disappears through the casino’s glass revolving door.
My cheeks are hot and flushed. Maybe from embarrassment that he caught me drooling over him. Or from the heat that instantly flooded my body when he turned those piercing emerald-green eyes right on me.
As I attempt to refocus on the slot machine, my mind keeps drifting back to the handsome stranger. After a few frustrating minutes, I give up, realizing that one glance from a sexy man has thrown me off for the evening.
I’m exhausted, anyway. It’s best to pack it in and return to the fleabag hotel room I’ve rented for a few days. A good night’s sleep will have me ready to explore more Vegas casinos tomorrow. Besides, it’ll provide me an opportunity to scour the internet for more information on the mysterious Natasha.
If the Russian thugs find her before I do, things will get ugly fast.
3
JADE
Early the next morning, I’m on my way to the casino armed with a backpack full of protein bars and energy drinks. In the hours before sunrise, the Las Vegas strip is eerily quiet. Without the sparkling bright lights and excited crowds, the strip is sad, almost bleak. At night, Las Vegas is an explosion of lights and color, while in the daytime it’s a dull black-and-white, silent film.
“Hey lady!” a bearded, homeless man sitting on the grimy sidewalk yells out to me. “You got a dollar to spare?”
His clothes reek of sweat and alcohol. I avoid making eye contact and speed up to move past him. He tears off a piece of the stale bread he’s eating, and offers it to a stray cat hanging around a nearby trash can.
The skinny cat cautiously approaches and takes the bread from him. The man chuckles and gently strokes the cat’s scrawny body. I spin around and dig into my backpack, finding enough change to buy his lunch and a can of cat food.
