by Lux Miller
TWO
Storm
I tug my hood down over my face as I sink down further into the worn upholstery of the chair I’ve dragged over to a quiet, shadowed corner of the casino. The place is abuzz with revelers who are taking on the odds of a win. Some are here with a carefree attitude, throwing money at the one-armed bandits like they’re just here for the thrills. Others are seated at the various card games, sweating bullets as they watch with bated breath to see if the card that turns will win them the pot, or sink their ship. Still more are buzzing around the cage where the bookie is taking bets on events, including mine tonight. It’s always the same in these casinos. Half-hope and half-desperation. It’s a scent one could bottle and sell for millions, but to me, it just reeks.
I’d normally have nothing to do with a place like this, but my chosen profession limits my opportunities to make bank. Even more so lately since I’ve earned a reputation of being difficult to work with. Which I’m not. I just have morals, and I refuse to fight a man half my size just to artificially inflate the odds, especially since they’d want me to lose on purpose. I’d be a sure-win in that kind of fight and I’m not here to throw matches. Yeah, I lose sometimes, but not to an opponent who’s half my weight. That’s not luck… it’s just blatant fuckery, and the spectators would smell the rat a million miles away. Throwing a match like that would be career-suicide.
Now, because I had no interest in their dog and pony show in Las Vegas, I’m stuck in a match against an opponent that nobody cares about in a small casino in Atlantic City. Sure, it ain’t some dumpy hole-in-the-wall place. The hotel room’s fine and the dinner buffet’s pretty nice, but Atlantic City in general is like Las Vegas’s annoying little sister. Trying to reach the impossibly high bar the older sibling sets, but always falling just a tad bit short. It’s a B on a project you know was worth an A, but being thankful you got the project at all. Atlantic City may not pay the big bucks like Las Vegas, but it pays. Six-figures is nothing to shake a stick at, and an empty bank account accepts any and all checks without question.
Just because I’ve agreed to the six-week residency here in order to participate in the Welterweight mixed martial arts tournament doesn’t mean I’m particularly thrilled about it. But work is work and I’m not getting any younger. I’ve still got at least ten years in the ring before I age out, but fighters over thirty have a hard time getting matches, especially when they’re ugly motherfuckers like me. Once your nose gets broken three times, there’s no salvaging a nice profile. It’s always gonna be crooked. My two front teeth are fake, and I think my bottom lip almost always stays busted.
Aside from my perma-injuries that remind me every time I look in the mirror that I’m a fighter, I’m not a bad looking dude, but women tend to shy away from men who make a living fighting. But it’s what comes natural to me. I’ve been fighting my way through life since I was seventeen-years-old. At least I make money doing what I’d be doing anyway.
Tonight’s fight is no different from any other. I’m squaring off against a guy I’ve fought numerous times in the past. I know what his offensive moves are going to be already, so if I can keep my head about me and pay attention to his defense, it should be a fairly easy knock-out. That’s one thing I have on my competitors. While they’ve mostly fallen into a predictable pattern of moves, I have a lengthy list of sparring moves I can pull out in the middle of the match. They might be borderline dirty, but I haven’t been disqualified yet. And until I get DQ’d, I’m gonna keep relying on the moves that have put me at the top of my game.
I checked with the cage this morning. I’m the odds-on favorite, but they keep changing the exact numbers. So, I bet on my opponent for shits and giggles. If I win the match, I get a winning bonus… and if I lose, well, that means I win my bet at four to one odds, so that one thousand dollar wager I dropped, becomes four thousand dollars. Sure, it’s probably not the most ethical thing in the world, but I fight for a living. The etiquette police gave up on me a long time ago, anyway. Besides, it’s not like I put the money down myself. I’m not stupid enough to go against MMA rules and bet on myself to lose. I have guys that do that for me. Either way, though, I’ll walk out of this fight tonight richer.
I hold my hand up to wave down the cocktail waitress that’s weaving in and out of the annoyingly chirping slot machines. I get why people play them. They take no skill whatsoever. Even the table games are more than half pure, dumb luck, but there’s a way to play the system on those too. So many people got good at gaming the house, that they’ve hired plain-clothes security. They may be rent-a-cops, but they won’t hesitate to throw people out on their asses. The pretty, young girl walks over to me and offers me a small smile. It’s fake as hell, but I can’t say I blame her. She’s probably been hit on by half the drunken idiots here, and that’s a shame. No woman should have to deal with that kind of bullshit just to pay the bills.
She taps her foot impatiently as she waits for me to order, and I chuckle at her flippant attitude. She’s wearing a layer of makeup that’s caked on thick enough to make the ugliest broad look presentable. I’m no makeup expert, but even I can see that this girl doesn’t need it. It’s probably just a part of the uniform, which is hardly what I’d call a dress. It’s a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen, but it keeps the pervy older guys happy to watch the girls prance around in skirts short enough to make the old biddies at church blush. It’s like a dinner-show that serves nothing but upskirt views and liquor. Just what the doctor ordered.
I nod and settle back into my chair, keeping my hood pulled around my face. “Club soda, please… and I’ll give you fifty bucks if you can bring me some crushed ice with it.”
She frowns and shakes her head. “The drinks are free here, sir… compliments of the establishment’s owner. Besides, why would you pay for ice? I’ll bring you some without charge. I’m not allowed to take any money from guests.”
I nod again and reach into my pocket, pulling out three twenties. “In that case, consider it your tip. The ice is totally optional, but it would be a nice touch if you could track some down.”
She stares at the bills, and I lean forward, closing her hand around them. “I know the owner of this place wouldn’t dare force an employee to decline a tip.” She stands frozen for a moment, her small hand enclosed in mine. Finally, she jerks her hand back, folding the bills and stuffing them down into the apron tied around her waist. It’s a shame that the skirt of her dress barely shows underneath the bottom of the apron, but I can’t say that I mind the view of her long, lean legs. She clears her throat, which pulls my eyes back up to her face and the myriad of colors swimming around in her eyes. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what color they are, but whatever Crayola may call it, it’s captivating.
She tilts her head to the side. “No alcohol? It’s as free as the sodas.”
I shake my head and let my lips crack into a small smile. “No, thanks. I have to work tonight and alcohol is not my friend when I have to work. Hell, it’s not even my friend on my off days. I doubt that shit is very friendly to anyone and it turns otherwise acceptable gentlemen into grabby fools who do stupid things and stick things in places they shouldn’t. Just the club soda please… and the crushed ice if you’re so inclined. The tip is yours to keep regardless.”
She blinks at me in surprise, one hand brushing across her cheek as a flicker of something flashes across her face. I can’t quite pin down the emotion before she shakes it off and drags her hand over her ear, tucking a stray piece of wavy, dirty blonde hair behind her ear. She nods her head and turns, scurrying away before I can say anything else.
“And another one bites the dust,” I muse to nobody as I pity myself over my complete lack of luck with women. I’m a bruised, and after tonight, bloodied fighter. A woman like that would never find solace in the arms of a brute like me. I shake my head to clear away the thoughts as she returns, a look of concern on her face. I feel the slight weight of the hood slip off my head, but I don’t ma
ke an effort to yank it back up just yet. Maybe I should have. Her expression sets me on edge as she hands me the fizzing glass of club soda with crushed ice, as requested.
She wasn’t overly friendly to begin with, but something is absolutely frigid about her demeanor now, and it has nothing to do with the freezing cup of soda in my hand. She wasn’t gone that long. What or who could possibly have gotten to her that fast and set her on a razor’s edge?
Her voice is soft and reserved, all hints of irritation gone, as she murmurs, “Good luck tonight on your fight, Storm.”
Ah, so she does recognize me. Looks like my reputation precedes me. It’s going to be a long six weeks if all of the employees are going to be on edge every time I walk into a room. I knew I should have kept the hood pulled up tighter, but the security was starting to get antsy, anyway. They don’t like it when people try to hide themselves, but truth be told, this casino is loaded with bullshitters who’re in hiding. I give her a curt nod of my head and hold up the glass, “Cheers…?”
She squirms slightly under my gaze and sighs, relenting with a soft murmur, “Poppy. My name is Poppy, but I can’t stay here and keep up this conversation, even if you are rather charming. I meant it about your fight tonight. I hope you win.”
She turns and scurries away before I can get over the shock of this encounter. People don’t usually root for me to win. They usually want me to lose, because they usually bet against me. Hell, even I bet against me because the payout on a loss is four times the bet. My reputation takes a nasty hit every time I lose, and my manager gets his panties in a twist when he has to explain to my investors why I lost, but it pads my pocket for a while, and it’s way easier to lose than it is to win.
I sip the club soda and people-watch, relaxing as best I can before the fight tonight. I have two hours before I square off against my opponent, and my mind is scattered all over the place. It’d be easy to throw the match, but my manager will likely lay an egg if I throw another match. But I’m getting old. Most fighters my age are looking at retirement and settling down with a woman. I’m not anywhere near close to either goal, so my reputation is really all I have.
As I finish off the drink, I catch the cocktail waitress’ attention. She nods at me and finishes her conversation, then walks over to me. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Storm?”
I know I’m a bit rusty on the charm, but I go for it anyway. The one benefit of having dental implants is that I know they’re straight, and that my smile gives me a boyish allure that most women find irresistible. And hey, irresistible is good enough for one night to work out the kinks in my back and in my personality. This one’s pretty, so I lay it on thick. “I wouldn’t mind your number. It’s not everyday that a man finds himself in the company of a goddess, even if you’re trying to hide it under a layer of makeup so thick, it’s enough to make me look pretty.”
She blanches slightly, then recovers as her cheeks skew a color red that’s noticeable even under the artificial lighting. “You’re sweet, and kinda hot in a tough-guy, I’ll beat your ass if you look at me wrong, way. Even if you’re just trying to get up my incredibly-too short skirt. But, I don’t think my husband would appreciate me hanging out with another man. He can be a bit… territorial.”
My stomach drops when she says she has a husband. She’s not wearing a ring, so I’d no idea she’s married, but I nod and hold both hands up. I’m not about that life. I get into enough scraps as it is. I don’t need to be drawing the negative energy of a gorgeous woman’s jealous husband. “My apologies, miss. Hopefully no harm done, the exception being maybe to my ego. It could apparently stand to get knocked down a peg or two. I had no intentions of flirting with a happily married woman.”
She nods, but her expression remains unchanged. She takes my empty glass from me and turns to go, but pauses for a moment to look over her shoulder at me, offering me a sad, but genuine smile as she replies, “I never said I was happily married, Storm. Just married…happily ever after doesn’t exist in the real world....”
THREE
Poppy
The rest of the night blurs into itself. It’s just another typical Tuesday night in Atlantic City. Not that anything about working in a casino is typical, but spring break is coming. Before long, my nights are going to be slammed with activity. There will be dozens of underage kids trying to sneak in every night. Our security staff is top-notch, but a couple always manage to slip through. The young adults will be here to throw caution to the wind and party like their livers will forgive them the next day. Here’s a hint: your liver never forgives you.
I learned that the hard way on my twenty-first birthday when my husband had to carry me home so I could pray to the porcelain God all night. Of course, that was back when he still somewhat cared if I kept breathing. He’d probably leave me there to choke on my vomit now. Well, maybe not. He’s too proud to leave his property out where others can see it, or God forbid, touch it.
The problem with a place like the Wonderland Casino is that they don’t close. It’s a twenty-four-hour establishment and the wells flow continuously. That means that any Joe Schmo off the street can walk in the front door, plop himself down at a penny slots machine and get himself completely toasted in a couple hours’ time, and all it will cost him is about fifty bucks if he plays the slots well. We’ve been instructed not to serve more than four alcoholic drinks to any guest in an hours’ time, but we can’t all keep an eye on every guest. If they leave our section, their tally basically starts over, and they can shmooze their way to another round of drinks on a fresh clock.
We have the right to refuse to serve anyone for any reason, but a refusal to serve is a guarantee that you’re not getting a tip. We make an okay wage, but the minimum doesn’t jump up to fifteen dollars an hour for another five years. Until then, if I want to escape my personal marriage hell, I’ve got to milk every man that walks in here for everything they’re worth. Most of the clientele that I serve tip a dollar a drink. If I serve twenty guys, two drinks each and every single one of them tips, that’s only about forty dollars an hour. At that rate, it’s gonna take me months to build a nest egg big enough to let me leave Brad.
Which makes me think back to the enormous tip that was generously given to me by the MMA fighter. I don’t know why he tipped me so well, but he was adamant that I take it. He tipped enough for almost thirty people over the course of two hours! And I all I did was bring him a lousy club soda. He was cute too, I won’t lie. A little banged up, sure, but he gets into fights on purpose for a living. A few bruises is just part of the equipment for a job like that. I’ve heard of him, too, but I’ve never seen him fight.
I don’t enjoy watching grown men beat the crap out of each other, but to each their own. He’s not sitting there criticizing me for prancing around in a dress meant for a grade schooler for tips, so I really have no right to judge him for fighting for his supper. Now that he’s fighting here in Atlantic City, maybe I should see if Brad will take me to a fight. Sure, I don’t necessarily like the violence, but a girl could get lost just watching a man like that move.
I don’t know a lot about what Braxton Storm is, but there’s one thing he isn’t and that’s ugly. If the man wasn’t busy knocking other people’s teeth out while trying to keep his own, he’d be downright attractive, and I only saw him close up briefly earlier when taking him his club soda. For most of our encounter, I felt like I was in the presence of a rockstar hiding from his rabid fans. He kept that hoodie pulled so tightly around his face, that at times, all I could see was his smile and his too-perfect teeth. They have to be replacements, because I saw the promotional poster for his round of fights at the casino, and he was definitely missing one of those in the picture they chose. Not that I examined it that closely, but it’s hard to miss a fifty-foot-tall banner with an attractive man on it.
To be fair, that poster didn’t do the man justice. Tonight in the casino, he seemed quiet and reserved, and something about him drew me in like
a moth to a flame. He was kind and overly generous, sure, but he also exuded a masculinity that Brad could only ever hope to achieve. Storm didn’t even have to do anything to make my insides tingle with interest. I guess Brad had that effect on me once too, but the two couldn’t be more different. Brad is tall and lanky, rocking skinny jeans and polos with his perfectly trimmed brown hair framing a face full of chiseled cheekbones and cold, blue eyes.
Storm, on the other hand, isn’t an enormous guy, but he’s big enough to make Brad look like a high schooler. Whereas Brad is clean cut and debonair, Storm is scruffy in every way possible. He has a mustache and a beard and a head full of luscious, black, curly hair that reaches his shoulders, though he had it pulled back tonight into something resembling a man bun. It’d look ridiculous on most men, but it somehow works for him. Apparently, he fights with it down so that it flies wildly around his head. At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were, because I didn’t get close enough to him, but from the promotional posters, I know they’re a shade lighter than honey, almost an amber color just like his skin.
