by Nell Stark
“Does the governor know about your arrest?”
Finally, Biz cracked. “Shut up!” he bellowed. “Shut the fuck up, all of you!” As the echo of his voice bounced between the tall buildings flanking the street, the officer yanked open the door with one hand and guided Biz’s head inside with the other.
Vesper’s phone buzzed. Her heartbeat accelerated into double-time, and she almost let the call go to voice mail. But after what she had already done tonight, this was no time to lose her courage. “Hello, Steve.”
“My office. Now.” He disconnected the call without waiting for her response.
Resolutely, Vesper turned toward the stairs, but she paused on the outskirts of the lobby. Would this be the last time she saw it through the eyes of a casino host? Under the light of the massive chandeliers, every surface glittered and gleamed, unchanging—the same at two in the morning as it was at two in the afternoon. Time lost all meaning here. Sunrise or sunset, the slot machines sang their Siren songs. Here, yesterday’s bad luck was forgotten, and tomorrow was always bright and hopeful. No wonder it was so easy to lose yourself in Vegas.
She had tried to do exactly that, but even here, the past had returned to haunt her. Someday, she would feel proud of confronting it head-on instead of hiding her head in the sand. First, she had to survive this confrontation with her dignity intact. Turning her back on the lights, she ducked into the stairwell.
This time, Steve didn’t lead her to the conference table. He rose as she entered, passed her without any sign of acknowledgment, and shut the door—which she had deliberately left open—firmly behind her. He turned and pointed to the low chair in front of his desk. As she sat, heart hammering wildly beneath the smooth fabric of her dress, only one thought penetrated the fog of her anxiety. Show no weakness. Show no weakness. Show no weakness.
Photographs of Steve posing with various celebrities adorned his office wall. On his desk, a lacquered business card holder, carved in the shape of a playing card dispenser, caught the light of a lamp made out of horseshoes. The half-smoked cigar in the crystal ashtray was an Opus X BBMF—“Big Bad Motherfucker”—one of the most expensive in the world. When he finally sat, he adjusted his Brioni sleeves and smoothed his Hermès tie. Despite the late hour, he betrayed no sign of fatigue in his movements or appearance. Even the smallest detail of this place telegraphed wealth, power, and prestige. The space between them—only a matter of feet—felt like a chasm.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Taken aback by his conversational tone, Vesper was momentarily speechless. Even as she tried to pull herself together, a detached part of her brain couldn’t help but admire his rhetorical trick. She was completely off-kilter now.
“The right thing,” she finally managed.
He laughed. “The right thing. Having Bizmarck Deloreo marched out of here in handcuffs with those two cunt whores was the ‘right thing.’” He smacked the desk with his open palm. Vesper started in surprise at the sharp sound. So much for showing no weakness. Clamping her mouth shut, she vowed not to speak unless prompted. He would hold whatever she said against her.
“You’ve always seemed like a bright girl, Vesper,” he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands together. The oddly paternal note inflecting his voice gave her goose bumps, but she managed not to shiver. “Dedicated. Ambitious. Driven.”
Forcing herself to meet his eyes, Vesper concentrated on regaining her inner balance as she waited for his judgment. Exhaustion hovered on the horizon of her mind, but for now, adrenaline kept it at bay.
“I thought you were ready for the big leagues,” he continued. “Clearly, I was wrong. Security will escort you back to your office and you will collect your things immediately.”
Even though she had been expecting them, the words were a guillotine slicing through her carefully woven safety net. Ever since she had been old enough to understand what it meant to hold down a job, her mother had reinforced the importance of employment. Work hard and you can make your own choices, she always said. Vesper had taken the mantra to heart, marketing herself as a babysitter at twelve and taking a waitressing job at fifteen. After leaving home, she had worked overtime and weekends to scrape by. And now she was unemployed.
A rush of anger burned away her self-pity. Was she really going to let Steve railroad her out of the casino without a word of protest? If she had decided to be strong, didn’t she need to follow through? Cocking her head, she tried to emulate the casual tone that had so distracted her only moments ago.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Steve.”
“Excuse me?” When he stood, Vesper followed suit, not wanting to give him the chance to loom over her.
“We’re in the middle of the World Series. Valhalla’s resources are already stretched thin. Not only am I handling the Hamiltons—Priscilla Beauregard just told me tonight that she wants to extend her visit with us. Fortunately, we now have a spare Celestial Palace.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, mostly to hide the trembling in her hands. “I’ll stay until the end of the tournament, and then I’ll go without a fight.”
His jaw clenching rhythmically, Steve stared at her as though she were something foul he needed to scrape off the bottom of his shoe. She met his gaze steadily, vowing to make him look away first.
“Fine.” The grudging syllable was practically a growl. “Now get out of here and do your fucking job while you still have it.”
She was almost to the door when he spoke again.
“And if you breathe another word to the police or the press, I will personally see to it you never work in this town again. Are we clear?”
His patronizing attitude was like nails on a chalkboard, but Vesper forced herself to swallow the retort that leapt to her lips. Instead, she glanced back over her shoulder, nodded perfunctorily, and let herself out of the office.
Relief outweighed any sense of triumph she might have felt, but as her adrenaline began to ebb, fatigue rushed in to fill the void. She left Valhalla by the employees’ entrance, beckoned to one of the taxis at the curb, slid inside, and closed her stinging eyes. All she wanted was to climb into bed, burrow into Nova’s embrace, and sleep for a full twenty-four hours. The thought should have been frightening, but she was too tired to be afraid.
The ride was mercifully short at this hour of the night. She found an extra burst of energy as she climbed the stairs but focused on moving quietly once she reached the landing. Nova needed all the sleep she could get, especially after a disappointing day in the tournament. They hadn’t been able to talk at all, but Vesper was sure her early loss in the first event had been unsettling. She eased open the front door and hurried inside, pausing to remove her heels and let her eyes adjust.
When they did, she frowned. Through the kitchen, she could see the outline of the sleeper sofa. Why had Nova gone to the trouble of making it up? Why hadn’t she just slept in the bed? There was only one good answer to that question, and Vesper didn’t like it. Obviously, Nova didn’t feel welcome there without an invitation. The realization made her heart ache. Much of the cocky, self-assuredness of Nova’s public persona was a front, but Vesper wondered whether Nova was also being especially careful not to reopen old wounds. Still, shouldn’t they be past that by now, especially after having spent much of the last two nights making love?
The thought froze her where she stood on the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. Making love? This was a fling. What they shared had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with chemistry. It was sex—fun, no-strings, feel-good sex. She enjoyed Nova’s company and had even come to respect her as a poker player. But there was no room in Vesper’s life for falling in love. She had spent her adult life avoiding risk, not welcoming it into her bed.
Only then did Vesper realize she was staring. Nova had thrown off some of the blankets in her sleep, exposing one muscular thigh and part of her flank. Her skin glowed silver in the moonlight that filter
ed through the window, and Vesper found herself mesmerized by the gentle rise and fall of her rib cage. She wanted to step forward and fit her fingers into the grooves of Nova’s bones—to hold her breaths in the palm of her hand.
Asleep, unwitting, Nova looked so innocent. But she was a player at heart. That much had been obvious at their first meeting, and several times thereafter. Nova didn’t want commitment, either. They were on the same page. In a few weeks, she would leave, and life would return to normal. In the meantime, she could enjoy this, couldn’t she? Nova certainly didn’t seem to be protesting.
Barefoot, Vesper moved quietly across the intervening space and bent to stroke the hair back from Nova’s forehead. “Hey, you,” she said when Nova’s eyelids fluttered. “Come to bed.”
“Aren’t I?”
The sound of her sleepy voice, gritty from lack of use, made Vesper wet. Even so, it wasn’t sex that she craved in that moment. She stepped back and held out her hand. “No. Come with me.”
As Nova dragged herself into a sitting position and laced her fingers with Vesper’s, her eyes cleared of their haze. “What happened with Biz? Are you okay?”
Vesper drank in the planes and curves of her nude body. She had a sudden, insane wish to be a visual artist—to capture and preserve Nova’s beauty. Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, she hurried to speak. “He showed up with prostitutes and drugs. I called the police on him.” With a gentle tug, she led Nova into the bedroom and briskly pulled down the sheets. “He was arrested.” She made a split-second decision not to say anything about Steve’s ultimatum. It would only sour the mood and distract Nova from the World Series. Nova would be far from Vegas before any of the fallout from tonight descended to torpedo her career. There was no use in making her worry.
“Thank God.” Nova helped Vesper out of her suit jacket and draped it over one corner of the dresser. She turned back and gently shooed Vesper’s hands away from her shirtfront. “Let me.”
Vesper let her arms hang loosely at her sides as Nova undid the buttons. The quick, sure movements of Nova’s fingers made her feel both desired and cared for. She couldn’t remember the last time she had allowed someone to undress her. It was such an intimate act—the slow reveal, the peeling away of external defenses.
Nova slipped the shirt down her arms and laid it on top of the jacket. “You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of Vesper’s neck as she leaned in to undo her bra. Once it was gone, she stroked the sides of Vesper’s breasts before sinking to one knee before her.
Pillowing one cheek against her abdomen, Nova reached behind her to unzip the skirt. Vesper closed her eyes and sifted her fingers through Nova’s hair, relaxing into the intimate embrace. She felt the fabric puddle around her feet, but for a long moment, Nova didn’t move. Finally, Vesper felt a soft kiss against her abdomen. When she looked down, Nova was staring back, a wistful expression softening her features. Vesper wanted to ask what she was thinking, but the question caught in her throat when Nova slowly eased her black bikinis down the length of her legs. Then, after another lingering kiss, she stood.
“Let’s get you to bed.” She climbed in first, turned onto her side, and held out one hand.
Vesper slid under the covers and nestled her body into the curve of Nova’s torso, accepting her unspoken invitation to be the big spoon. Nova settled her arm across Vesper’s waist, hand splayed over her stomach, and pulled her even closer.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes. Thank you.” As the words left her mouth, Vesper internally cringed at how formal they sounded.
“Sure?” Nova loosened her grip. “You just got kind of tense.”
Vesper clamped her hand over Nova’s before she could withdraw. “Stay,” she said. “Please.”
Nova’s lips brushed the nape of her neck. “Okay.”
Relaxation was slow in coming. When Vesper closed her eyes, she saw Biz’s crooked grin and heard a mental echo of his sleazy come-ons. I’ll never have to see him again, she reminded herself. It was a familiar thought, taking her back to her adolescence—to sleepless nights on her cousin’s threadbare couch and long, dull shifts in the local casino’s restaurant. In those first lonely months, she’d had too much time to think and to question her own decisions. She’d abandoned her family for their own good but couldn’t even tell them. For a long time, her only comfort had been that she would never have to see Samuel again.
But everything was different now. This time, she hadn’t run from her abuser—she had gone on the offensive. This time, she had fought the battle instead of fleeing from it. So what if she would be out of a job within the week? The years she had spent in the crucible of Valhalla had given her the tools she needed to make it elsewhere. Where once she had only a suitcase to her name, now she wielded comps and credit lines. And she wasn’t crashing on a couch offered out of begrudging charity—she was sleeping in her own bed, in her own apartment.
With Nova.
That was different, too. Isabella was something of a confidante, and Jeremy was as much a friend as a subordinate could be. But this—the closeness, the connectedness—was something she had been subconsciously craving. It felt so good to be held, and Vesper pressed her palm against Nova’s knuckles, hoping to convey the emotion without speaking. In response, Nova slid one leg between hers, increasing the points of contact of their skin.
A warm wave of contentment washed over Vesper, loosening her limbs and soothing her lingering anxiety. Melting into Nova’s embrace, she finally slept.
*
“All in.” Nova felt a jarring sense of déjà vu as she pushed her dwindling stack of chips toward the center of the table. This was the fourth time in the past week that she had found herself with her back to the wall, forced to risk everything for a shot at survival. Her other gambles had ended in failure. At least this time, she was certain to walk away with some money.
The turbo no limit hold ’em event had treated her well. She thrived on its quick pace, and after days of playing tight, careful poker, it was liberating to be more aggressive in her approach. Now, she was one of ten players left standing. If she could just win this hand, she would have a decent shot at surviving long enough to see her first final table at a live event. Only eight other players would stand between her and the coveted bracelet, then.
But she couldn’t get ahead of herself. Glancing around the table, she watched as three of her four opponents folded immediately. The man two seats to her right was equally quick to call, though, and she struggled not to betray her disappointment. The move made sense—he had the second shortest stack at the table next to hers. If she’d been in his position, she probably would have done the same with halfway decent cards.
Her own king and ten of diamonds was more than decent, given the flop: the nine of clubs, seven of diamonds, and king of hearts. She had high pair and a decent kicker. She wouldn’t find better ground than this to make her stand, especially given the whirlwind rate at which the blinds and antes were increasing. With a flick of her wrist, she turned over her cards in near synchrony with her opponent.
Queen of clubs, eight of spades. A weaker hand than her own, and her chance of winning was just under ninety-five percent. Still, he had a few outs that might save him. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, and her palms began to sweat as she waited for the turn.
When the dealer revealed the jack of diamonds, Nova’s head spun. Now, in addition to having top pair, she had a shot at making a flush on the river. Even so, her chance of winning had fallen slightly to ninety-three percent, thanks to the possibility of her opponent drawing to an inside straight. He needed a ten, and fortunately, she was holding one of the four in the deck. She could only hope that the other three had been dealt to the remaining players at the table.
Nova held her breath as the dealer burned a card. She had never been taught to pray, but at moments like these, it came instinctually. Please. The thought was a net, cast indiscriminately. If there was
some higher power out there—God or Luck or Fate—she needed its benevolent intervention more than ever before.
When the ten of clubs materialized on the felt, its cloverleaves mocking her bad fortune, Nova felt as though she’d been punched in the sternum. No. The word ricocheted around her brain like a stray bullet. Ears ringing, she dimly heard the spectators groan. They had been on her side, she realized. Cold comfort.
A smattering of applause broke out as her opponent stood and fist-pumped, acknowledging his victory. After a moment, Nova caught his eye and extended her hand. He shook it perfunctorily and returned to his celebration, swooping up a thin, platinum blonde in his arms. Reporters crowded near the players, eager to interview those who had survived to the final table.
Nova rose stiffly, shaking out her legs as she waited for the tournament staff to sign her paperwork. At least she had made some money. Fifteen thousand dollars—enough to recoup her entry costs over the past few days with a bit of a surplus. It could have been worse. Still, as she walked away, the weight of disappointment rested heavily on her shoulders. Fatigue crept into the crevices of her brain, a gray mist leeching the world of color. All she wanted was to slide beneath Vesper’s sheets and sleep for a week surrounded by the comfort of her scent.
It was too intimate a thought, and Nova shook her head in a futile effort to dislodge it. With each passing hour, the lease on their relationship grew closer to expiring. The start of the main event was only days away, and once it was over, she would have no reason to stay. If she miraculously won a bracelet between now and then, her career would take off in a whirlwind of accolades and appearances. But the odds of finding success were dwindling. And if she didn’t, then what?
The easiest course of action would be to slink back to Palo Alto with her tail between her legs, proof positive that her parents and advisors had been right all along. But she didn’t want to be an object lesson, and she definitely wasn’t going to return to school. That ship had sailed. Even the prospect of going home to the house she shared with her friends wasn’t appealing. She had barely spoken to them in weeks. The thought of returning to her life as it had been made her stomach flip-flop like a dying fish. She didn’t want to play musical relationships anymore.
