by Myra Scott
“Over the goddamn roof,” Bart said, clapping his hands together. “Shit, Luke, if you’re not pulling numbers out of your ass, this is incredible.”
“Glad you mentioned that,” I said, and I flipped to a few screens over to display a more technical breakdown of the social media marketing campaign I’ve been carrying out the past few months. “Let me give you a rundown of the specifics.”
While I explained the nuts and bolts of all my work, I felt like I was in command of the entire room, despite the fact that I was here standing on the shoulders of these men.
It had been five years since La Torre agreed to a partnership with the Sentry Casino—five years since this place transformed from a promising business to the golden goose of the Strip.
And god, what a five years they were.
Since getting hired at the Sentry, I have watched each of the four men fall madly in love with equally outstanding men. Mick was the first to get married, followed soon after by Gage, then Zane, each a year apart. Bart was the only one of the four owners of the Sentry to still only be engaged. According to him, he was planning to surprise everyone with the date so that the other guys couldn’t put on a big, flashy production.
The old bear wasn’t a fan of the glamor Zane and Gage brought to their weddings, so naturally, they were going out of their way to try to give him the biggest, flashiest wedding possible.
“This is all good,” Zane said, standing up and approaching the screen to narrow his eyes at it judiciously, “but let’s talk events. We have a few minor specials coming up in the next few weeks that should bring in surges of new crowds. Does your strategy adapt to how much the Sentry can handle at one time? We’ve had problems with overextending our reach in the past.”
Since Zane partnered with La Torre, the neighboring casino owned by his husband Diego, the names of our two casinos have traveled together almost constantly. It’s never just The Sentry or La Torre—it’s both together, symbolized by the massive bridge nightclub we built between the two buildings.
Zane used to be the PR face of the company, but since the stunning success over the past few years has just kept expanding, he has had to step back and take up more of an administrative role.
That left an opening in the marketing side of the company that Mick groomed me to fill.
“Of course,” I said cheerfully, swiping over to yet another screen. “Here you can see how the algorithm adjusts our visibility during peak times like Spring Break. Reduce advertising and save costs during times where we’re already going to be full, and we save a little pocket change each month. We want to be at full capacity, not having drunken college students spilling out into the streets each night.”
“I’m hoping you have a plan for staffing in the works?” Mick said, his face hard to read as always. As head of operations at the Sentry, it was Mick’s job to stay on top of this kind of thing. But Mick was my mentor early on—I gave him his share of headaches, and he gave me his. But by the end of everything, I knew how to work with him better than I knew myself.
“There’s a draft in your email inbox,” I said proudly. “I could have sent it before this meeting, but I wanted to be a little dramatic.”
That earned a smile from Mick, which was rare, and I watched him exchange an approving nod with Zane.
Jointly, the two of them helped shape me into the man I was today, and they were hard to work with, but they were the best.
And I needed that, if I wanted to be the best of the best.
“Then let me be the first to say that this is outstanding,” Gage said, grinning ear to ear as he watched me flip through a few more figures on my presentation.
“Oh, come on now, don’t give him a big head,” Bart chuckled. I politely pretended not to hear them, but I allowed myself a smile.
I wasn’t oblivious to my skills. They were something I’d cultivated over the years, fighting tooth and nail to make work. And when I set my sights on something, I never relented.
My job at the Sentry was no different.
“No, this is worth it,” Mick remarked, and I could tell he was running numbers in his head. “If we can sustain profits at this rate, we could start considering that major expansion to the hotel that Zane and I have been talking about.” He raised his eyebrows at me and nodded. “Well done. Very well done.”
“Alright, alright, I’m getting the drinks to celebrate,” Bart said, standing up.
“And yes,” I added to Bart, “there’s an email waiting for you too about the security staff expansion we’ll need.”
Bart gave me a thumbs up as he crossed the room to the bar and started pouring us all some drinks to toast with.
Years ago, when I took this job as an assistant at the casino, I knew I was going to be able to make something good out of my time here. I never expected it would be this much of a success, though.
While the others made their way to the bar, Zane hung back and approached me with a knowing glint in his eye. We smiled at each other in such a way that our smiles only got bigger, because we recognized each other’s skill at handling business, and that was a rare thing in this city.
“You’ve really outdone yourself on this one, Luke,” he said in a lower tone, not so loud as to draw the others’ attention. “Sometimes I still don’t believe you when you say your degree wasn’t in Marketing.”
“I’m not sure how helpful my Business degree was,” I said, laughing, “but a little patience and self-teaching goes a long way, especially with someone like you to work with.”
That was an understatement. Over the past five years, working with Zane and Mick got me access to training and secrets that few people in the city got exposure to, much less mastered. Zane would settle for nothing but the very best person to hand the reins over to, and since doing that, I hadn’t disappointed once.
“Keep it up, and we’ll be losing you to your own casino before we know it,” Zane said.
“What, and abandon you four?” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “I appreciate it, but I’ve been here since we were struggling to stay afloat—I’ve got my stake in the Sentry, and I plan on taking it as far as it’ll go with you.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Because I’m not even sure I could turn around these kinds of numbers.”
“Now you’re just lying,” I said with a grin, and he chuckled.
“You’re right,” he admitted, “but really, La Torre doesn’t have these kinds of numbers. If you’d like, I can talk to Diego and see about loaning you out to do some cross-promotional work.”
I held back a laugh. Even after being married a few years, Zane and Diego took joy in one-upping each other, because business for one of them was good for the other’s business.
“Honestly?” I said, glancing over at the others and then lowering my voice for Zane. “If you liked this, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
Zane raised an eyebrow curiously, and I explained.
“I predicted the budget increase thanks to my marketing campaign, so I laid the groundwork for a surprise that’s going to put us on the front page of the city’s news, and it’ll take care of some of the loose ends all this new income brings with it.”
“You’ve got my attention,” Zane said. “Is this the kind of surprise you plan on telling me anytime soon?”
“When the time’s right,” I said. “Specifically, when I get a few more strings pulled in a way I’m happy with. Wouldn’t want to get your hopes up without being able to deliver.”
“Then I look forward to seeing what you’ve got,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling with interest.
“You two coming, or are you doing another one of those ‘sober cleanse’ things?” Bart grunted at us from across the room, and we exchanged smiles before heading over to him.
“God no, not again,” Zane chuckled. “Let’s
break into some of that gin I’ve been dying to try.”
As we got our drinks, I felt a calm wash over me.
This was what I was good at.
This was where I was strongest.
And with a little more time, this was the year that I was going to make a name for myself in the Sentry in a way they would never forget.
CHAPTER 3 - CASEY
I was walking through the halls of my high school, my arms outstretched on either side of me. My fingertips could just barely graze along the cool metal of the row of lockers to my right. On the opposite wall was a big glass case, constantly polished and re-polished to hide the evidence of fingerprints and nose prints pressed against the panes. Inside the glass case was an impressive collection of trophies in shades of bronze, silver, and gold. They were varying heights and levels of prestige, the little figurines on top of them stretched into poses of youthful athleticism. A soccer player with his cleats colliding with a checkered ball. A swimmer in a diving position. I smiled as my eyes clocked a trophy with a bumble bee on top of it—meant to illustrate the winner of a spelling bee.
One of the trophies bore my name: Casey Harlowe. It was a football trophy, given to the “most valuable player.” It still gave my heart a little jump to see my name spelled out in gold lettering there. I was the most valuable. I could hardly believe it.
Especially because I had never felt particularly valuable before, not even when I was helping my team win the championship. Not even when my mother hugged me and told me what a fantastic son I was. Not even when my high school boyfriend, Todd, told me he thought he was falling in love with me, that he wanted to tell the whole world about us. Whenever good things happened in my life, I tended to downplay them, imagine that it was all an elaborate setup to make me feel good about myself. I just couldn’t imagine a world in which I mattered the way people told me I did. I was always striving, always pushing to be better than I was before. Always hoping to meet some new goal, some lofty dream. I shifted the goal posts so many times I could no longer remember what I had set out to do in the first place. It was all about being the best I could be, now and forever. Selfless and tough, independent and strong.
I moved on along the hallway, confused as to why my footsteps seemed to echo endlessly as I walked across the sticky linoleum. It was not the best school in the state, but it was a safe, quiet suburban high school. A place where the football team was the star of the town. And I, the quarterback, was the apple of everyone’s eye.
Except perhaps for the one person whose opinion mattered to me above all others. His approval was the furthest, most unreachable goal post I had ever set for myself.
My father.
Sure, he came to my games whenever he was free from work. He cheered me on with a solemn expression and a fierce dedication in his eyes that were so similar to my own. He even sat next to my mother in the stands, the two of them putting their divorce aside in order to cheerlead for me, as if our household had never split in half. Like things were exactly as they imagined they would be when I was young, back before they decided they didn’t belong together and went their separate ways. I didn’t hold it against them, of course. They both deserved happiness, even if they couldn’t find that happiness in each other, in the house with me. And besides, I was nearly an adult now, right? I didn’t need my daddy around. I had outgrown that, hadn’t I?
And yet, I thought to myself as I roamed the oddly empty halls of my high school in a daze, I still got a hard lump in my throat when I thought too hard about the divorce. It was silly. It was dumb. I should have been over it a long time ago.
Somewhere across the campus of my high school, I could now hear the distant, faint chants of the cheerleaders. “Go, team! Go, team! Knock ‘em dead, Pirates!”
I smiled softly to myself. Being out on the football field felt like coming home. It was a place where I could leave my worries in the locker room and just run. I could dart through oncoming opponents and zigzag across the field with a football tucked tightly against my side, letting the cries of the crowd egg me on. And when I reached the end zone, I could throw my arms up in triumph, spinning slowly as my teammates rushed over and lifted me up into the air in a mass of sweaty, excitable strength.
Good memories. The kind of good memories that would carry me around and keep my head up even in the darkest days. Somehow, right now, I knew I was dreaming. And still I could feel the swell of pride in my chest as though this were real life. I might as well be out on the field right now surrounded by my teammates, the sensation was that profound.
I dreamed about high school a lot. I didn’t know why, but it didn’t matter. As long as it wasn’t a nightmare, who cared? Maybe it was embarrassing that in my brightest dreams I revisited the “glory days” or whatever, but I didn’t mind.
I kept walking, rounding the corner and stepping into a big auditorium, the double doors magically held open for me. I looked around the massive room with its big wooden stage and stadium seating. And then suddenly a blaring, insistent noise came bellowing out of the speaker system. An alarm, beeping at top volume.
I woke up with a start, feeling sweaty and cramped, like I had been tossing and turning all night. I opened my eyes with a groan and reached out to smack the off button on the alarm clock next to my head. Ah, blissful silence, I thought to myself as I sat up in bed. I rubbed my eyes and yawned, feeling the bright light of dawn streaming in through the window to warm my bed. Across the room on the little kitchenette counter, my time-censored coffee machine started percolating. I stretched my limbs and slid out of bed, padding sleepily into the tiny bathroom to turn on the shower.
I stripped off my t-shirt and boxers, trying pointedly to ignore my reflection in the bathroom mirror. But I glanced over anyway, and as usual, the sight of the pale, jagged scar along my left cheek and jaw gave me a little rush of disdain. I hated it. If not for the scar, I might have been a fairly good-looking guy: sandy blonde hair with the occasional fleck of light gray, sky blue eyes, perpetual stubble along my jaw. I had a powerful frame from years of sports, working out, and of course, being a firefighter. But that scar… I knew that when people looked at me, that was all they saw now. It was about two and a half inches long, and still ever so slightly shiny, like new skin. My mother assured me it was barely noticeable, and my coworkers at the station just told me it looked badass. But I couldn’t believe any of them. I had never really been super confident about my looks anyway, and this scar had just about decimated what little self-esteem I’d built up over the years.
Luckily, in my line of work, nobody really gave a shit what you looked like as long as you were able-bodied, courageous, and a hard worker. Which was why I had thrown myself even more deeply into my job ever since the incident that gave me the scar. As long as I kept my head down and did my work, I could avoid the awkward discomfort of having to dodge people’s judgmental stares and questions. It was just easier this way, even if it was lonely sometimes. Loneliness I could deal with, but pity? That was unbearable for me.
I stepped into the shower and sighed with relief at the sensation of the hot stream of water. I soaped up with one of the many handmade soap bars my mother sent me. She often made her own bathing goods and cosmetic products, experimenting with new essential oils and herbs in the little crafts and utility room I helped build in her house. She’s a nurse, working long shifts at our small, country health clinic, and she loves to make things in her spare time. I supposed maybe I inherited my love of building and baking things from her. This particular soap bar smelled of orange peel and grapefruit, a fresh, zingy scent that woke up my senses. I made a mental note to call and compliment her on it. That would really make her day.
After my shower, I put on my usual plaid flannel shirt over a white tee tucked into my blue jeans. I slipped on my gigantic work boots, poured a thermos of coffee, snagged a home-baked granola bar, and headed downstairs to my truck. As soon as I started up t
he engine, the radio started blasting an old country song—one that I recalled hearing over and over again as a kid. As I turned down the volume and pulled the truck out onto the road, I wracked my brain to remember why I hated the song so much. Then it hit me: it was one of my dad’s favorites. And for all I knew, maybe it still was. Not that he and I talked often enough these days for me to have any real idea what he’s into anymore. Ever since I came out as gay in my senior year of high school, only months after he and Ma divorced, the dynamic between us had been tense. He’d never been an especially warm and fuzzy kind of father to begin with.
I turned off the country song and drove along in silence. I was looking forward to another long, hard twenty-four-hour shift at the station. Nothing cleared one’s mind quite like hard work. I wondered what kind of shift it would be: a quiet one? A hectic one? It was impossible to tell, although I was fairly certain that tonight would be a full moon, and sometimes that did seem to affect how bizarre the shift was. Some people might have dismissed it as just pure superstition, but I was not exactly a gullible guy, and even I saw some truth in the belief. We often got the weirdest emergency calls during the full moon, and my mom experienced the same trend in her full moon shifts at the clinic. I may not have believed in astrology, but you can bet your ass I believed the full moon made people act like idiots somehow.
Speaking of my mother, as I was driving, my phone started ringing and I knew without having to look that it was her. She was the only one who still called me all the time. Maybe that was a sad thing to admit, but I didn’t mind. I kind of hated talking on the phone, but for my mom, I would suck it up. I connected my phone to Bluetooth and answered.
“Hey Ma,” I said.
