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I say, “I’ll tell you that, but first you’ve got to tell me why it’s your lucky number.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you. But you go first.”
This could get complicated. I love her sense of fun.
I tell her, “My mom always said seventeen was her lucky number.”
Giulietta’s eyebrow lifts provocatively. She gets more beautiful the more I see her. The whole of my upper body tingles to hold her. And my cock throbs so hard, I feel like I could impregnate her from here.
“Even when I was young,” I tell her, watching amusement and mischief dance on her lips and in her eyes, “I knew that lucky numbers were like the tooth fairy. Nice, cute, and fun. But numbers are just numbers, right? But Momma said I should find a lucky number. So I told her if seventeen worked for her, it would work for me.” She’s close enough that I can smell her hair. My throat is thick and I don’t trust myself to talk anymore. I manage, “Now you?”
“Similar. I always loved numbers. A math professor told me when you say, ‘Pick a number at random,’ most people say seventeen. I liked that. And,” she looks down and to one side, then back at me. “Something… happened on my seventeenth birthday. That sealed it for me.”
Damn. Whatever it was just spiked a rod of hot, jealous anger through my stomach.
Quickly she goes on. “So. How did you know?”
“That you don’t believe in luck?” I love how much we’re in synch. “Same way you know that I don’t. You’re a numbers person. Though I’m not sure how you knew I was.” She cocks her head to one side. “Oh, wait… yeah!” I’m laughing again. It’s not funny but for some reason, it makes me laugh, how quickly we read each other. “Because I said that thing about statistics.”
“Probability.” She nods.
“Of course. You can’t really believe in luck once you know probability.”
“Except that you do.” Now she laughs.
“And so do you!”
The King Pine is the perfect destination. It’s very much an old Vegas joint. Almost quaint. The sounds are cozier, more jingles and jangles than electronic come-ons. After the gloss and glamor of Spades Royalle, the cowboy images and folksy decor make it feel like a cross between a carnival tent and a Wild West saloon.
Her face has a look of recognition as we walk in. I ask her, “Have you been here before?”
“No. Never,” she smiles up at me, “but I was reading about a casino earlier and I just realized this is the place.”
We head for the roulette wheels. A bar with music playing is off to the side of the casino floor.
Her face lights up. “Can we dance?”
Something was bound to happen to ruin the evening. I’m ready for it to be so soon, though. “I don’t really dance.” It’s a lie, and I correct myself. “Okay, I do dance. But rarely, only when I’m very drunk. And I’m certain it’s a memorably horrible sight.”
“Really?” If anything, she looks even more excited. “Could I dance for you, then?”
Oh my fucking stars, could you… “Mm? Well, if you really want to, I guess that would be all right.”
The bar with the dance floor has low light and almost no customers. Up-tempo jazzy music plays with a raw, insistent beat. I perch on a stool at one of the high, round tables at the edge of the dancing area. The floor is empty apart from a couple who dance close together in the far-off shadows, and Giulietta. My Giulietta. At least until she learns who I am.
I want to put that off as long as I can.
Watching her dance close-up is way more arousing than seeing her at a distance. As I watch her, she looks at me. She looks in my eyes, watches my body as she shakes and turns. She talks with her eyes and her face.
A cocktail waitress asks what I want. I mime, Drink? to Giulietta.
She doesn’t miss a beat, miming back, You choose. It looks like she’s blowing a kiss. She smiles and mimes again. Slow.
I tell the waitress, “Two vodkas with lime.” I could spend the rest of my life watching Giulietta dance. But my body is demanding a lot more.
Giulietta comes back when the drinks are on the table.
She leans close. “That waitress likes you.”
“Does she?”
She nods as she looks at me over her glass. “The croupier in Spades Royalle liked you, too.”
“I didn’t notice either of them.”
“Shame.” She smiles with a sparkle. “They’re both gorgeous.” She puts down her glass. “And they’ve got great taste.”
I need to tell her who I am. Get it done. If it’s the end of this, then that’s how it is, but I want to be open and honest with her. If she can’t deal with that, then I’m sure she won’t stick around after she learns I’ve been stalking her.
