Page 30 of Rogue

I wanted to find out what her pussy tasted like and how quickly I could make her cum. I wanted that smart mouth of hers on my cock, wanted to watch her going down on me for all she was worth. I wanted her under me, begging for me. To feel her clawing my back and hear her begging me to fuck her, take her, and know she was mine…

“Err… Fuck!” I grunted. Dark spots flashed before my eyes as that one thought triggered a release so intense it was almost painful. My breath came shallow and ragged as the waves crashed over me full force, and great shots of my seed splashed across the tiles. Only when the pulsing sensation down at the base of my spine had dissolved into a low throbbing did I dare risk moving.

My legs shook a little, but by some miracle I didn’t fall flat on my arse. So, with my lust stated and once again able to think straight, I shut off the shower and stepped out onto the mat. Wrapping one ready towel around my midriff, I patted myself down with the other as I moved through the bathroom to the kitchenette.

Breakfast was far and away from the fry up I’d been looking forward to last night. However, as most of the ingredients were probably still lounging around on the Walmart floor, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

If nothing else, at least I had the tea.

So, finally able to think and with a brew on, I fished out Mr Ritter’s list of names, and got ready for work.

After a trip to McDonalds for a Double Sausage & Egg McMuffin.

My third and final target was a serious cluster fuck in the making.

Alphonse Fungabera was definitely not any sort of local small fry.

Like me, his family had emigrated to the States when he was just a boy, only from Rhodesia, rather than the UK, where they had been cattle ranchers. Then the bush war came, and the eventual fall of the white government saw 150,000 white landowners get persuaded to leave their homes. However, Alphonse’s family had avoided the exodus. Instead, they had emigrated, or ‘taken the gap’ as they put it, after selling everything they owned to a foreign consortium, just before the conflict went completely tits up.

Rather than moving out to Texas and resuming the family cattle business, however, they instead went out west, and opened a Casino, The Lion’s Den. And I meant a casino. One of the huge monster profit machines that sat on the strip with all the extras. Even bi-weekly Siegfried & Roy performances that included the white tiger act.

The Lion’s Den had sat proudly amongst the top ten of Las Vegas casinos. Until competitors had bought the new management out after he’d lost a gambling licence for the state of Nevada.

They had shut the casino down and demolished it less than a month later.

That was the official story in the papers, but there was only so much you could fit into a local newspaper column. If you knew the way things worked on The Strip, you could infer quite a lot.

It wasn’t a hard story to figure out. After his father had lost a fight with cancer, Alphonse had inherited everything. Flush with dreams of expanding the family business, he had engaged in a sortie of power grabs, and got torpedoed for it.

That was the way the mob worked in Vegas. They played hardball. You had to accept the status-quo or face the consequences. They didn’t appreciate young upstarts.

So having lost his family business and run out of Las dodge Vegas, the poorer but hopefully wiser Alphonse had moved up to Washington state. An attractive location for any entrepreneur because lucrative tax breaks allowed for businesses that would help bolster the tourist industry. Of course, that didn’t mean they would just give anyone a casino. Even after cashing in all of his assets, Alphonse had had to borrow more, then sought a loan of several hundred thousand from Mr Ritter.

I imagine this was the account that had his partners so on edge. More than a quarter of a million wasn’t cricket, even if they were both played with a hard ball. If I hadn’t been working for a percentage, I might have even refused the job. You didn’t just walk up and ask him to hand over the cash, then threaten to burn down his business if he refused. That only led to a back room with a big skinhead called Dusty who would be keen to give your knees an etiquette lesson. No, there would be banks and lawyers and middlemen to negotiate around.

And that was if you actually got to see the mark in the first place.

Judging by the pictures of The Lion’s Den in the Vegas Reporter the day of its demolition, The Watering Hole was a major step down. More of a building block than high rise casino, it was a three-story rectangle of uniform lime-washed white blocks and blacked-out windows. Anywhere else in America, it would have passed for one of the official government buildings downtown. In this place, surrounded by natural beauty and the backdrop of the Olympic National Park just off route 101, it just looked bloody awful.

And the road leading up to it wasn’t much cop either.

Like all modern sports cars, the sleek, lightweight design of the 911 had been designed for and tested on the Nurburgring. Off the smooth tarmac of the highway, it handled the gravel track with all the poise and comfort of a rhinoceros. It was almost a relief to swing the thing down the ramp into the underground parking.

Unsurprisingly, there were plenty of spots.

This wasn’t Vegas or Monte Carlo. In the middle of Washington State, only the most conscript of professional gamblers played the tables after breakfast.

That thought gave me pause and for a moment, I wondered if the Watering Hole would have a breakfast buffet. I even teased myself with the idea of looking for it, but then thought better of it.

Cluster fucks in the making weren’t the time to be lagging on a full belly. When the shit hit the fan, the contents were likely to end up all over your shoes. Better to be hungry and quick.

Besides, if all went well, in a few hours I’d be enjoying lunch in the Beached Whale and admiring Jane Porter’s fine backside.

I swung the 911 into the bay nearest the elevator. There were two. This one was obviously for the punters. The other was an express elevator at the other end of the garage. There was a ‘Staff Only’ sign next to it and a small cluster of cars gathered around. Making a mental note to keep an eye out for where that came out, I killed the engine and climbed out. I left the NR-40 stashed away in the door pocket. This might not be Vegas, but Casinos the world over had long since learned security was anything but a dirty word. They did not look kindly on anyone trying to sneak in weapons. If they caught me, they’d consider me a thief and take me out back to meet Dusty the Skinhead. They would permit only licenced bodyguards to carry a piece inside, and then only for the most exclusive of guests. No one less than Prince William or Kim Kardashian. Even then, William would have to bring the wife along to make the cut.

So, I was walking into a cluster fuck in the making, armed just with my wits and winning personality. God help me.

It was a small elevator, scarcely big enough to hold four men, but it was fast and only took a few seconds to carry me up to the floor above. The control panel suggested it could also go up to the floors above, but there was a panel of numbered keys beneath it. My guess was you’d need a security key to reach at least one of those. I made a mental note to watch out for any staff punching in codes, then the doors opened with a chime and I walked into Las Vegas. Not the heart of the Strip, mind. The ceiling wasn’t high enough for that, but definitely Vegas, or maybe Atlantic City. Long rows of slot machines lined either side of a plush red runner up to three rings of game tables in the centre of the room. Everything but an Elvis Presley impressionist singing Viva Las Vegas.

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